by Troy Denning
John tossed his last two grenades as far down the slope as he could, then activated his helmet lamps and ran the beam over the top of the Seraph’s dark crimson hull. He saw recessed sensor dishes, plates of extra armor over systems-control nodes, three separate integrated antennas, the seams of a still-sealed boarding hatch… and a blood-red emblem consisting of a broken, inverted triangle with a pair of black blades extending from each side.
“Oh, hell,” Van Houte said, pointing at the emblem. He was still riding in the crook of John’s left arm. “Is that—”
Linda’s rifle began to boom from the ridge again, then more grenade detonations sounded from across the slope behind him.
“Blue Leader,” Fred commed, “we need you up here now.”
A peal of gelignite thunder rumbled across the slope, so powerful it shook the glass beneath John’s feet.
But this time the aliens were not fooled. A wall of plasma bolts burned into the slope below and began to climb upward. John glanced across the ravine to see the fourth wave of Seraphs approaching, their weapons blazing and their formation tight.
“Blow it,” John said.
Van Houte’s gaze was still fixed on the emblem on the Seraph’s hull. “What?”
“The Special Delivery.” John sprinted for the ridge crest. It was only two hundred meters away, but it might as well have been twenty kilometers. “Blow it—”
“Wait,” Linda said. “I’ll tell you when.”
“Uh… sure,” Van Houte said. “But that emblem—”
Plasma fire began to chew at John’s heels, filling the air with shards of glass and smoke. He would have dodged, but he was just as likely to step into the path of a plasma bolt as out of it. So he just ran.
The crest was only a hundred meters away now. Five more seconds and—
“Now,” Linda said.
“Execute,” Van Houte said.
A compression wave hit John from behind, nearly knocking him off his feet and pushing him up the slope an extra five meters. But the plasma fire stopped. The entire ridge trembled beneath the impact of crashing Seraphs, and John’s faceplate fogged red on both sides with heat wash.
“Execute?” John asked. Verbal trigger words were supposed to be complicated codes that someone could not use mistakenly in the course of normal communications. “That was your SDD activation code?”
“It worked, right?” Van Houte craned his neck, looking past John’s shoulder toward the Seraph debris they had just left. “That Seraph emblem, wasn’t it—”
“Yeah,” John said. “It was Banished.”
CHAPTER THREE
0351 hours, October 7, 2559 (military calendar)
Unknown Insertion Craft Crash Site
Vadász Dombok, Continent Eposz, Planet Reach
Even with the Phantom’s exterior task lamps flooding the crater with light, there was little for Castor to see—only a sandstone basin forty meters across, tiny particles of heat-fused silica glittering in its soot-streaked bed. Keeper pilots of three different species policed it an arm’s length apart, the beams of their handlamps searching for answers lost to the power of the blast. Ribbons of nanolaminate hull plating lay scattered about the crater rim, all that remained of the Seraphs that had been above the unidentified insertion craft when it self-destructed.
Castor did not like unidentified. Unidentified meant danger.
He had encountered this kind of destruction before, as a chieftain commanding a battle pack during the War of Annihilation, and later as a dokab leading the Keepers of the One Freedom against the heretics of the United Nations Space Command, and he knew it to be an asset-denial tactic used by human military forces. This first observation was troubling in its own right, but there were others.
The second observation was that, during the chase across what the humans called Big Crater Bay, his Keeper pilots had found it difficult to tell whether they were pursuing an insertion craft or a fireball. The new arrivals had tried to camouflage their approach, and camouflage suggested secret intent.
A third observation was that the blast had been hot and all-devouring, the kind that disintegrated a craft so thoroughly it could not be identified or reverse-engineered. Almost always, such explosions were meant to protect secret technology.
A fourth observation was that the crater was about the size of a UNSC Pelican, and the UNSC’s Office of Naval Intelligence used stealth versions of Pelicans called Owls to insert small units on secret missions.
And taken as a whole, all that secrecy could only mean that there was a human special operations team on Reach. What Castor did not know was who they were and whether they had come to interfere with his quest. But he intended to find out.
A young Jiralhanae pilot appeared outside the Phantom, at the foot of the loading ramp. Wearing the blue-and-gold harness of a captain-deacon, he was tall and broad across the shoulders, but still thin in the middle. His fur was the same mottled gray as Castor’s lost war-brother Orsun, and his tusks had a familiar curl that always made looking upon him a bittersweet experience.
The youth crossed his arms over his chest and knelt, an overly formal gesture that only served to remind Castor that this warrior was a pale shadow of his father.
But compared to Orsun, most warriors were.
“Krelis, can you not see I await your report?” Castor asked, trying to be patient with the untimely fawning. “Rise and speak.”
“As you will.” Krelis lowered his arms and drew himself to his full height. Standing a little over three meters, the youth was even more imposing than had been his father. “It is an hour since the infidels crossed the ridge with their Sky Slicers and you commanded us to end pursuit.”
Castor felt his tusks grind at the use of a human temporal unit. He had long since accepted the wisdom of using human names and measurements in a galactic region filled with their human colonies. But here on Reach, where the Covenant had won one of its greatest victories, such accommodations were a bitter reminder of the Covenant’s ultimate defeat.
“I ask the dokab to withdraw his command,” Krelis continued, “that I may finish what I began.”
“So you can lose another seven craft?” The question came from Castor’s right, where the Sangheili blademaster Inslaan ‘Gadogai stood at his side. “The Keepers cannot afford such courage.”
Krelis opened his lips in a sneer, revealing the bright, sharp fangs of his age. “When an izlar insults me, he would be wise to do it wearing armor.”
“Armor?” ‘Gadogai pulled his plasma sword off his belt and stepped out of the troop bay. “Why would I need armor to insult you?”
“Hold,” Castor said.
When ‘Gadogai ignored him and started down the loading ramp, Castor grabbed the Sangheili by the shoulder and stopped him. It was not a risk he enjoyed taking, for he had been warned that ‘Gadogai had a short temper. But Krelis was Orsun’s only surviving son, and Castor would not betray his dead war-brother by allowing the last of his line to die a pointless and shameful death.
“Krelis does not know who you are, Blademaster,” Castor continued. “Grant me the favor of accepting his apology.”
“If you insist.” ‘Gadogai allowed himself to be drawn back into the troop bay. “Killing him would be little sport, anyway.”
“It is not I who will be killed, nor I who will apologize,” Krelis said, starting up the ramp. “It is that four-jawed kiniji. It was my honor—”
“No.” Castor stepped forward, placing himself between the young pilot and ‘Gadogai. “No one doubts your courage, Captain-Deacon. But the blademaster is right about losing more Seraphs—as veterans of the Silent Shadow usually are in such matters.”
Krelis’s eyes widened, and he stopped in his tracks. “You command me to apologize?”
“You would be doing the Keepers a great service.” Castor needed to give Krelis an honorable excuse so the other pilots in his wing would continue to follow him. “There is no time to train your replacement.”
&nb
sp; Krelis gnashed his tusks, but he heeded Castor’s not-so-subtle warning about the outcome and advanced no farther. “As you will, then.”
Castor turned sideways on the ramp, allowing Krelis and ‘Gadogai a clear view to each other. Krelis spread his arms and showed his palms, a symbolic gesture of peace that had the practical effect of proving both hands were empty.
“By command of the Last Dokab,” Krelis said, “I offer my apology.”
“And for the sake of the Keepers, I accept.” ‘Gadogai dropped the handle of his plasma sword back onto its belt mount and faced Castor. “But the facts in the field remain the same, Dokab. You no longer have the fighter strength to hold our own against Deukalion and Ballas. If one of the Banished packs attacks you, you lose the strength to fend off the other.”
“We should have used our strength when we had it,” Krelis said, remaining on the ramp. “Deukalion and Ballas would have been helping us search for the portal instead of testing each other’s defenses.”
“But we did not,” Castor said. “And there is nothing to be won by bemoaning what we did not do in the past.”
The last thing he wanted was to explain that the other chieftains did not yet view him as an equal. The Keepers of the One Freedom had joined the Banished a year and a half earlier, six months before the Apparition began to transmit her demands for fealty across the stars, and it had not been an easy union. Castor and the Keepers hoped to hunt the Apparition down and put an end to her blasphemy. In contrast, most of the other Banished chieftains were interested only in consolidating their power and raising their profiles in the horde.
And it did not help that the Banished’s leader, Castor’s old war-brother Atriox, had been absent for so long. Shortly after welcoming the Keepers into their numbers, Atriox had placed his former mentor, the war chief known as Escharum, in charge and then departed with a powerful assault force on a mission that he claimed would permanently remove all threats to the Banished. While Atriox’s old daskalo was a fierce and cunning Jiralhanae leader, the lack of the warmaster’s unifying presence continued to be felt by all in the Banished. Many wondered where Atriox had gone, and if he would ever come back. Others sought to consolidate the Banished’s military strength and holdings under their own protection, perhaps hoping to ingratiate themselves to Atriox upon his return.
All that would change as soon as the Banished found the portal they were seeking on Reach, but it was not Castor’s place to remind the other leaders of Atriox’s ultimate purpose. ‘Gadogai had once warned Castor not to judge his peers by his own standards, and the value of that advice grew clearer to Castor every day. Had he accepted Krelis’s suggestion and attempted to impose his will on Deukalion and Ballas, the two chieftains would have united their packs against the Keepers. And then all three factions would have been fighting to control Reach and claim possession of a portal that they had not even found yet.
Castor started down the ramp, but Krelis remained in the middle, leaving him no room to pass.
“There is still time to win dominance,” Krelis said. “The Old Packs know nothing of our losses. If we strike Deukalion now, he will yield before Ballas realizes what we have done. By the time he responds, we will have the strength of two packs and be too strong for him to defeat.”
“And while we are striking at Deukalion and fending off Ballas,” Castor asked, “who will be searching for the portal?”
The Portal under the Mountain was an ancient Forerunner slipspace gateway located somewhere on Reach, most likely on the supercontinent of Eposz. Aside from being a sacred site built by the Forerunners themselves, it would allow the Banished to join Atriox quickly and in great numbers—and finally claim the prize he had been fighting for since his departure.
“The portal will be easier to find when all the Banished on Reach are searching for it,” Krelis said. “And you still have the strength to make it so, if only you will move boldly.”
Castor growled low in his chest. Krelis had all of his father’s courage and little of his wisdom. The stakes for finding the portal were far too high for the Keepers to risk igniting a feud amongst the Banished on Reach, even if it was in the hope of uniting them. Castor had seen enough Jiralhanae history to know that was a fool’s errand. How could a son of Orsun fail to understand that?
Calming himself, Castor asked, “Krelis, what are my standing commands to the finder of the portal?”
“First, prepare to defend it,” Krelis said. “Second, send word to you by messenger only—no transmissions. Third, allow no one to approach who is not…”
Krelis let his answer trail off, and ‘Gadogai rattled his mandibles in amusement.
“He is less the slow hatcher than I thought,” ‘Gadogai said to Castor. He turned to Krelis. “Do you understand why?”
“So one of the other packs doesn’t seize it.”
“Indeed,” Castor said, noting that Krelis had been wise enough to pretend he had not heard ‘Gadogai’s affront. Perhaps there was hope for the young captain-deacon after all. “If we cannot trust them to search alongside us, what might they do if they find the portal first?”
Krelis’s jaw began to work. “But Escharum—”
“Is not here,” ‘Gadogai said. “And given how Deukalion and Ballas are engaging themselves, it seems clear that your dokab is the only chieftain who can be trusted to hold the portal in good faith until he arrives.”
Krelis’s eyes disappeared beneath his brow fur, and Castor realized it had finally occurred to the young warrior that ‘Gadogai was not of the Faithful. Escharum had assigned the blademaster to the Keepers shortly after Atriox departed on his mission, saying Castor would need the Sangheili’s counsel to thrive among the other chieftains. What the war chief had not said was that ‘Gadogai would also be Escharum’s eyes and ears inside the Keepers—and perhaps even his blade, if Castor tried to betray him. It was an arrangement that had served both sides well, and over the last year Castor had come to consider the Sangheili something of a friend and advisor—even if he found it prudent never to voice his reservations about the Banished’s impious ambitions.
After taking a moment to process his realization, Krelis looked back to Castor. “What if there is no portal?”
“Escharum would not command us to find a portal that does not exist,” ‘Gadogai said.
“Then why are Deukalion and Ballas fighting over a human rehabilitation settlement instead of obeying that command?” Krelis continued to look to Castor as he spoke. “If the portal’s existence on this dead world is so certain, why have we found no evidence of it at all? And why do we know so little about where to search for it?”
“It is not yours to worry about those things,” ‘Gadogai said. “You are a captain-deacon. The only thing you should be concerned with is following—”
“No.” Castor was both surprised and pleased by Krelis’s pointed questions, and he had no wish to crush the youth’s instincts just when he was beginning to show something of his father’s stubborn wit. “They are fair questions, Blademaster, and Krelis was not present when we received Atriox’s command.”
Krelis’s eyes grew round. “You speak with Atriox?”
“Now you are questioning your own dokab?” ‘Gadogai asked.
“Atriox speaks to us, through Escharum,” Castor said. “I cannot reveal all that he has said, but the warmaster always makes his commands clear.”
* * *
In truth, Atriox had sent only one command to Castor and ‘Gadogai, more than three months earlier. They had been aboard the Keeper flagship, the heavy frigate Great Light, discussing how to keep the Banished supplied without drawing the wrath of the Apparition and her Guardians. As they spoke, a buzz had sounded from the wardroom door, and when Castor called “Enter,” one of his technical deacons stepped into the cabin holding a portable holopad in her hands.
“I beg forgiveness for interrupting, Dokab.” A lithe, brown-skinned human with a head shaved on the sides and a fall of tightly curled black hai
r hanging down her back, she approached without wasting Castor’s time by waiting for a summons. “Escharum wishes to speak.”
“Escharum?” ‘Gadogai repeated. “I hope you stayed out of the scanning cones. There is no need to remind him of the Keeper weakness for humans.”
She met ‘Gadogai’s disdainful glare with the unflinching gaze of a true believer. “He did not see me. I am good at not being seen.” She placed the holopad on the table in front of Castor. “It is already linked to the Great Light’s entanglement beacon. All you need do is activate it… once I am out of the scanning cones, of course.”
She shot ‘Gadogai a hard glance, then left.
Castor laughed. “I think even if she knew who you were, she would have no fear of you.”
“That is but one of the things I dislike about humans,” ‘Gadogai said. “They lack sense.”
Castor placed his thumb over one of the scanning sockets to activate the holopad, and the image of a fierce and grizzled Jiralhanae face appeared over the projection pad. The eyes were set deep under a scarred brow, one red and the other pale white, and the mouth was a wide grim slash that showed neither tusks nor teeth.
“You wish to speak, War Chief?” Castor touched his fist to his breast. “I am honored.”
“My wish is to speak with you and the Sangheili together,” Escharum said. “I have no time for repeating myself.”
“I am here.” ‘Gadogai brought his fist to his breast in a manner so casual it made Castor wonder if the Sangheili realized that the sound of his voice had activated the scanning socket on his side of the holopad, and that now his image would be hanging over Escharum’s pad next to Castor’s. “Proceed at your leisure, Mighty One.”
“Then listen well,” Escharum said. “Ask the questions you need, but ask them only once. After we have finished, I have other clans to prepare.”
