Retribution

by Troy Denning

  Veta nodded her thanks for the information, then tapped her thruster controls and entered the open bedroom.

  Again, there was no blood spray on the interior walls. But there were spatter patterns across the threshold and near the entrance, all with the wide end of the spray pointing back toward the doorway. So the family had retreated into bedroom, reloaded, and taken down three more intruders. And again, their attackers had not returned fire.

  Without the Donoma’s artificial gravity to keep it anchored to the floor, the room’s large bed had drifted into the corner of the cabin and was hanging there. But Veta could see the indentations in the carpet where its legs had rested.

  “Do we know when the Donoma’s artificial gravity failed?” Veta asked. “Was it during the fight or after?”

  “It would have been after,” Petriv answered. “On a vessel this size, when the bulkheads seal and emergency alarms on the bridge go unanswered for fifteen minutes, nonessential systems shut down to conserve power for basic life-support functions.”

  “And you didn’t reactivate the artificial gravity because . . .”

  “That would require engaging the ship’s AI,” Petriv answered. “We can’t do that until we know how its general-quarters alarm was overridden.”

  “So, preserving evidence,” Veta said. “That, I understand.”

  Now that she was confident of the conditions during the fight, Veta maneuvered over to the area. She used her thrusters to pin herself to the floor in a kneeling position, then clasped her hands as though she were firing a sidearm and extended a finger toward the bullet strikes adjacent to the doorway.

  Veta was pointing at an area about a meter and a half above the floor, about center mass for a human male. There were no bullet strikes higher on the walls, and only three strays below about a meter.

  Osman appeared in the doorway and hung there, studying Veta with an expectant expression.

  Veta lowered her hands and drifted off the floor. “You can recall Blue Team,” she said. “That Banished flotilla had nothing to do with what happened here.”

  Osman cocked her brow. “You expect me to just trust you on that?”

  “The Banished don’t fit the profile we’re seeing,” Veta explained. “They’ve been fighting the Covenant since before the Great Schism, so they’re not religious types.”

  “You’re thinking of the ritual aspect?” Petriv asked.

  “And motive,” Veta said. “As far as we know, the Banished have no reason to hate Admiral Tuwa.”

  “Not as a group,” Osman said. “That doesn’t mean she didn’t dishonor a particular chieftain somewhere along the line.”

  “That’s speculation, Admiral,” Petriv said. “If we start looking at links that weak, we have more reason to suspect the Keepers. At least we know they have reason to hold a grudge.”

  Osman’s face grew cloudy. “So we’re still nowhere,” she said. “We don’t know anything for sure.”

  Veta continued to study the spatter stains around the door. “Is there any intelligence suggesting that the Banished are starting to recruit humans?”

  “It’s possible, but nothing we’ve picked up on,” Osman said. “So far, their only interest in humans seems to be killing us.”

  “Then it really wasn’t the Banished. I’m sure of that much.”

  “Why?” Osman demanded.

  Rather than answer directly, Veta activated her commpad. “Ash, tell me about the blood evidence.”

  “Uh, what do you want to know?” Ash replied. “I just tracked down the right tech.”

  “Tell me about the species,” Veta said. “What did they find?”

  “About what you’d expect from the scene,” Ash said. “A lot of human and Jiralhanae, a few samples of Kig-Yar.”

  “Any Unggoy or Sangheili?” Veta asked. “Any other Banished species?”

  There was a pause, no doubt while Ash consulted the IRI technician, then he replied, “Negative. It’s confirmed: the samples were primarily human, mixed in with Jiralhanae and a little bit of Kig-Yar. Nothing else.”

  “Thanks.” Veta deactivated the commpad, then asked Osman, “Does that answer your question?”

  Osman’s face paled. “It does.” She paused for a moment, then hit her thrusters and spun toward the door. “Ready your team, Lopis. The Ferrets are going active.”

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  * * *

  1504 hours, December 12, 2553 (military calendar)

  Ziggy’s Hangar

  New Tyne Airfield, Venezia, Qab System

  Veta didn’t know what she had expected—maybe a large sign that read FAITHFUL ONLY: ALL OTHERS SUBJECT TO SLOW DEATH—but the hangar ahead did not strike her as a likely haunt for the Keepers of the One Freedom. The roof was blanketed in moss, the giant access doors caked in rust, and the clerestory windows either missing or half-filled with jagged panes of glass. The only hint of security was a uniformed human dozing in a chair outside a dilapidated guard shack, and if spacecraft actually used the building, it was not frequently enough to beat down the weeds coming up through the concrete taxiway in front of the doors.

  The minivan’s Kig-Yar driver slammed the heel of her spindly hand against the horn button on the dash and kept it there. The result was more buzzing than blaring, but still loud enough to draw attention from nearby hangars. Veta reached across and pulled the hand away.

  “Are you trying to draw Spartans?” she demanded. The minivan cab was so cramped they were sitting hip-to-hip, and she had no trouble steadying the control yoke with her far hand. “Slow down and act normal.”

  “This is normal,” the Kig-Yar rasped. She called herself Chur’R-Sarch, and she seemed to be the leader of the gang that had plucked the Ferrets off Via Notoli. “Trust us. We bring you this var, yes?”

  “Yes. And the spaceport is the first place they’ll look,” Veta said.

  “So we make deal vast.” Sarch had difficulty pronouncing the letter f with her long beak, so the sound sometimes came out closer to a v. “You need transport, we need pearls. Same deal you gave the Goliath. Done.”

  Sarch hit the horn button again. The security guard opened an eye and looked in their direction. Apparently, he recognized the Kig-Yar’s minivan, because he sprang up and ducked into his hut. A three-meter-by-three-meter panel popped free of the hangar door and began to slide aside. The Kig-Yar sped through the portal into the dim interior and dodged around several craft that Veta could only make out as blocky shapes flying past the van’s windows. The minivan didn’t slow until it approached a sixty-meter transport resting in the back corner on six thick struts.

  As Veta’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw that the exotic-looking transport had a drop-shaped hull with a dorsal plasma turret situated near the stern. The exterior finish was a fractal-camouflage pattern of indigo and black, with a random speckling of off-white pinpoints. A boarding ramp hung open beneath its belly, the front edge resting on the concrete floor just aft of the vessel’s chin.

  Sarch drove the minivan up the ramp into a disc-shaped cargo hold lined with recessed D rings. She swung past half a dozen wary crewmembers and braked to a halt in a parking bay along the starboard wall, then flung open the driver’s door and began screeching orders in the language of her species.

  The transport’s crew moved into action, one pair rushing to secure the minivan while the others raised the boarding ramp or disappeared deeper into the vessel. The two Kig-Yar who had been riding in back with Veta’s team opened the side panel and stepped out. Both were holding plasma pistols, but taking care to keep them pointed at the deck. At least they were being polite.

  Veta looked over her shoulder and flashed a BE READY signal at her Ferret “street punks.” In all likelihood, Sarch was just trying to get everyone concealed before the Spartans tracked their quarry to the airport. But Kig-Yar were known for treachery, and more than a few had a fondness for human flesh.

  Besides, Veta still wasn’t a hundred-percent sur
e that Sarch was associated with the Keepers of the One Freedom. ONI’s Venezian sources had reported that there was a Keeper gunrunning crew in port looking for a cargo, but they hadn’t reported the crew’s species—probably because they didn’t know. Local informants often relied on secondhand accounts and were usually reluctant to endanger themselves by pressing for details, and that could leave operatives like Veta’s Ferret team working with pretty hazy intelligence. In this case, Veta thought they probably had the right targets because intelligence reports suggested that most Kig-Yar on Venezia had at least a casual affiliation with the Keepers of the One Freedom, and this bunch clearly had their own vessel.

  But if she was wrong and there was no connection, the Ferrets would need to extract themselves and start dangling their thermonuclear bait elsewhere—and the sooner the better. While ONI sources had confirmed that the Keepers were hungry for nukes—or anything else they could use against the UNSC—no one had been able to discover the location of their hidden base or their intentions for the Tuwas. And that worried Veta. It suggested the missing trio might not have that much time left.

  Veta waited for the acknowledging finger flick from each of her team members, then exited the minivan and glanced around the interior of the cargo hold. With its curving lines and flowing architecture, it looked more like a cave gallery than a freight compartment, and despite the abundance of ambient light, it had a gloomy, confined feeling. She looked across the cab of the minivan at Sarch.

  “This doesn’t look like a Kig-Yar craft, Chur’R-Sarch,” Veta said. The transport was actually the first nonhuman space vessel she had ever set foot on, but her ONI training had included plenty of simulator time in Covenant vessels. “Whose is it?”

  “It is ours.” The Kig-Yar’s neck scales ruffled in what Veta took to be irritation. “Why else am I called Chur’R?”

  “No offense.” Veta stepped around the front of the minivan. “I just want to be sure I know who I’m dealing with.”

  “We are of the Rach clan. Now you know.” Sarch extended her hand. “Pearls, please.”

  “We haven’t agreed to anything,” Veta said. The Intelligence reports had made no mention of Sarch or the Rach clan, and Veta was still hoping to confirm that the Kig-Yar could lead them to the Keeper base. “I’m not even sure this tub can get us to Shamsa.”

  “Shamsa?” Sarch’s cheek scales fluttered. “You are not selling Havoks to Banished, no.”

  “What business is that of yours?” Veta was actually pleased by the resentment in the Kig-Yar’s tone—resentment suggested rivalry, and rivalry suggested Keepers. “Who are you?”

  Sarch turned her head aside. “Only smugglers,” she said. “But some of the best—smart enough to know Atriox has no like for competition.”

  Veta snorted. “You think Atriox considers the Rach clan his competition?” Atriox, the reputed leader of the Banished and a brilliant Jiralhanae warlord, never showed mercy to his victims. “Seriously?”

  “Better to be safe.” Sarch continued to hold her head sidelong, watching Veta out of a single bulbous eye. “We can get another buyer—one who can be trusted.”

  Now they were getting somewhere.

  “Not interested,” Veta said. She had to appear reluctant, or Sarch would sense a trap and back away from the bait. “You don’t double-cross the Banished.”

  Sarch turned away, then circled around the back of the minivan and began to hiss back and forth with her crew. Veta moved around to the front and made eye contact with her team. Mark, Ash, and Olivia had emerged from the interior of the van. Mark and Olivia were leaning against the side, letting their weapons hang and generally showing the effects of being shot. Ash had a Comet tucked into his waistband and was using a ripped shirttail to bandage their wounds. The trio did not look ready for a fight, but their appearance was deceptive. Veta’s Ferrets only grew tougher and more dangerous when they were injured, and she knew they were alert and ready to spring into action.

  Veta flashed them a look of approval, then said, “Look, Chur’R, thanks for the ride, but we’ve got to get moving again before those Spartans catch up.” She removed the sack of phase pearls from her shirt pocket, then pulled out a small one. “This should be enough for your trouble.”

  Sarch ended her conversation in a flurry of squawks, then turned and stepped toward Veta.

  “We take you and cargo to Shamsa.” She extended her tri-fingered hand. “For same price you offered the Goliath.”

  Veta pulled the sack back. “The Goliath had a Razor. You have a . . .” She paused and glanced around the cargo hold with a sneer. “I don’t even know what this is.”

  “It is Mudoat starsloop, made by the best shipyard in Urs system.” Sarch continued to hold her hand out. “It get you to Shamsa, no problem.”

  “A Mudoat starsloop is no stealth corvette,” Veta said. She was just trying to figure out whether the Kig-Yar were more interested in being paid or in stealing the cargo. “We’ll pay half.”

  Sarch pretended to hesitate, then said, “Deal.”

  Olivia pushed herself away from the minivan. “Five pearls once the cargo is aboard, the rest when we deliver.” She shot Veta a glance that suggested they had reached the same conclusion—that the Kig-Yar intended to skip Shamsa and take the Havoks straight to the Keeper base—then added, “And don’t even think about trying to double-cross us after we’re loaded. We can handle ourselves.”

  Sarch turned to Olivia. “So I hear.” She parted her beak in a sort of sly grin, then dipped her head in acceptance. “You drive hard bargain, young one. Five pearls once the Havoks are aboard, the rest when at Shamsa. Done.”

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  * * *

  1714 hours, December 12, 2553 (military calendar)

  ONI Sahara-class Prowler Silent Joe

  High Equatorial Orbit, Planet Venezia, Qab System

  It was never good to step out of an insertion craft and see an ONI rear admiral waiting on the hangar deck. Usually, it meant you had made a boneheaded move and were going to hear about it. And if that wasn’t the case, then someone else had made a boneheaded move, and you were being sent to fix it.

  But that was the life of a Spartan, and Fred-104 was okay with it. Any way he looked at it, his job had to be pretty important if an admiral wanted to discuss it with him, and he did like to feel needed. He checked the systems status on the heads-up display inside his helmet and confirmed that his Mjolnir power armor was still battle-ready.

  The suit’s AI—a fifth-generation “dumb” Class-L military AI who called itself Damon—anticipated Fred’s next inquiry and brought up the readouts for his Blue Team subordinates.

  “Linda-058’s Mjolnir is battle-ready.” Damon’s voice was androgynous, and the AI presented itself as a ghostly, hairless face that appeared to be neither male nor female—or both. It was hard to decide which. “But if there is time, Kelly-087 should stop by the support module for some minor patchwork.”

  Damon highlighted a dozen pits on Kelly’s chest-plate where the titanium alloy had been spawled off by the ridiculous hand-cannons that Nyeto and his thugs had been carrying.

  “Don’t do that,” Fred said.

  “Do what?”

  “Read my mind,” Fred replied. “It’s creepy.”

  “I thought it was efficient.”

  “Creepy.”

  Fred was probably being a little harsh, but it had only been six months since a Forerunner Archeon-class AI named Intrepid Eye had seized control of his Mjolnir on a mission to Gao. The incident had nearly resulted in the death of Veta Lopis and the failure of the entire operation, so he had been less than thrilled when he received orders instructing him to upgrade his neural lace and have an enhanced AI installed in his armor.

  “Let’s just take it slow,” Fred said. “At least until we’ve known each other for more than two weeks.”

  “Two weeks is seventy-three-point-two percent of my sentience,” Damon said. “But as you like. I’m
as eager as Admiral Osman is to make this experiment a success.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Lieutenant, I can tell when you’re lying,” Damon said. “You should keep that in mind.”

  Fred sighed but didn’t respond to the AI. Before starting across the hangar to report, he activated his helmet mic and spoke over TEAMCOM. “Linda, secure Nyeto and deliver him to Interrogation. Kelly, stick close. If Baby Dragon is sending us out again right away, you’ll handle load-outs and resupply.”

  Their status lights flashed green on Fred’s HUD, and he and Kelly started across the deck toward Rear Admiral Serin Osman, the magnalum surface thudding gently beneath the sound-dampening traction soles on their sabatons. Dressed in a plain gray duty uniform, Osman was standing with two other officers, Piers Ewen and Anki Hersh. Ewen’s presence was to be expected. He was the Silent Joe’s captain, and his input would be needed if Blue Team was about to be dispatched again. But Fred found Hersh’s presence puzzling. She was the Silent Joe’s senior intelligence analyst, and she spent most of her time monitoring intercepts in the Signals Intelligence Suite.

  Osman scowled as Fred and Kelly approached. What the admiral didn’t seem to realize was that Fred had long since learned not to worry about that scowl: Serin Osman was Serin-019, and he had spent nearly a decade training with her in the SPARTAN-II program, until more than half their class was lost during the augmentation phase. Serin was one of those casualties. ONI had somehow pieced her back together and used her anyway. Evidently nothing ever went to waste with them.

  Then, as Fred and Kelly drew within five paces, Osman’s scowl deepened, and he wondered if she had heard him use her new nickname. TEAMCOM was supposedly open only to personnel he designated, but Osman was ONI’s de facto second-in-command and the heir apparent to the current commander-in-chief. If she wanted to eavesdrop on an encrypted channel, Hersh was going to accommodate her.