Retribution

by Troy Denning

  After a few moments, Castor returned his gaze to Sabara and asked “If this is the right place, why have we not found the Dark Moon Turaco?”

  Sabara turned and studied him for a slow breath, then said, “Hmmm.”

  “What does hmmm mean?”

  “Nothing,” Sabara said. “I just think a dokab should be smart enough to figure this out.”

  A growl arose from the rear of the flight deck. “And a prisoner who speaks such blasphemy should be dead.” Orsun stepped forward. “I will see to—”

  “Wait.” Castor raised a hand to stop Orsun, then turned to Sabara. “You truly have a wish to die?”

  “Not at all.” Sabara’s entire body began to tremble—a sign of her truthfulness, Castor believed. “But if you can’t see something as obvious as this—”

  “Enough!” Orsun said. Like Castor, he wore a translation disc around his neck so that his words would be comprehensible to other species. “Dokab, allow me to end this insolence.”

  “Without learning what she has seen?” Castor waved Orsun back to his post, then laughed and said, “You are too clever for us, Director Sabara. Tell me where to find the Turaco, and you shall have your freedom when the True Light departs.”

  Sabara continued to shake, but her shoulders squared. “I’m sure a Jiralhanae commander would never break his word.”

  “Then you are indeed a fool,” Castor said. “But I am more than a chieftain. I am a Keeper dokab, and I will do as I promise—if you test my patience no further.”

  Sabara swallowed, then looked through the forward canopy again. “The couriers were sent to Pinnacle Station for a reason. Dark Moon must have an asset here—probably one who can keep a small craft out of sight.”

  Castor’s gaze snapped back out to the loading dock. The impostor crew was already fifty meters away, floating over the heads of another column of departing construction workers. Beyond the workers lay more berthing bays, some empty and some occupied by small freighter craft similar to the True Light.

  A quarter of the way around the ring, barely visible in the distance, hung the massive, gray-white cylinder of a cargo transport so large it barely fit into its berthing bay. Castor could not see enough of the vessel to determine its type, but he recognized the company name—LIANG-DORTMUND—written on its hull in human characters.

  Yes . . . the transport’s main hold would be large enough to hide a Turaco.

  Castor watched the impostors as they continued toward the Liang-Dortmund vessel, then asked, “And the impostors—they are here to take delivery of the cryo-jars?”

  “That’s my assumption,” Sabara said. “But until we actually see them with the cryo-jars . . .”

  Though she did not finish the thought, Castor understood. A good scientist never forgot that the universe was full of coincidence. But Castor was not a scientist. He was a war chieftain, and war chieftains were more accustomed to dealing with likelihoods than certainties. He looked over his shoulder toward Orsun.

  “Command the spies to keep watch on the impostor crew,” Castor said. “And ready the pack. Battle is at hand.”

  Orsun touched a fist to his chest. “As it is spoken—”

  “Have one of the spies retrace the impostors’ route,” Sabara interrupted. “Maybe you can identify their craft.”

  Orsun’s eyes bulged, but he remained silent and looked to Castor in disbelief.

  Castor glared at Sabara. “You dare command me?”

  “It’s more of a suggestion,” Sabara said. “But I’m sure you realize how much the impostors’ craft might tell us about their true identities.”

  Castor felt a rare flame of embarrassment rise in his chest. He hadn’t thought of trying to find the impostors’ craft before confronting them—and he should have. Good reconnaissance was important to any assault, and in his rage over the loss of Salvation Base, he had been imagining his vengeance as a massacre rather than a battle.

  And that was a mistake. The enemy was both capable and cunning. If Castor remained blinded by his anger, his foe would remain hidden—and therefore able to strike the Keepers of the One Freedom at will.

  After a moment, Castor turned to Orsun. “Send Panya to retrace their path,” he said. “Have her report what she finds—and warn us if they send reinforcements.”

  “As you command, Dokab.”

  Castor waited for Orsun to relay the order, then said, “Director Sabara’s suggestion was a sensible one. Why did you not offer it?”

  Orsun’s eyes widened, but he merely dipped his chin and said, “I failed you, Dokab. My penance is yours to name.”

  Castor dismissed the offer with a flick of his hand. “All I wish is for better counsel,” he said. “I cannot think of everything. You must speak freely—like the prisoner does.”

  “It shall be done.” Orsun’s eyes flicked toward Sabara, and his lip curled. “And my first counsel is to be wary of helpful prisoners. This human lost her compound and her people to our raid. Why does she aid us now?”

  “Because I know what those cryo-jars mean,” Sabara said. “And it makes me fear for us all.”

  “Yet you are willing to see us take them,” Castor said, heeding Orsun’s advice to be wary. “You do not think the jars are dangerous in our hands?”

  Sabara smiled. “Your hands are the safest place they could be,” she said. “The Keepers don’t have the expertise to utilize them—and by the time that changes, the tissue will be too cryo-damaged to do you any good.”

  Castor did not understand Sabara’s sudden concern with the jars. When he had interrogated her in the New Leaf laboratory, she had told him only that the cryo-jars contained the organs taken from Admiral Tuwa’s family, then noted they could be used to implicate the Keepers even deeper in the assassination plot. The prospect had angered him so much that in his rush to destroy the facility and depart Gao, he had accepted her suggestion as a given.

  After a moment, Orsun said, “We are searching for hidden enemies, not cryo-jars. If the jars are no good to us, why should we care about recovering them?”

  “Because your enemy cares,” Sabara said. “Whoever they are, they’ve already pinned the blame for killing the Tuwas on you and your Keeper cell. Do you think they’ll hesitate to use the weapon they’re developing against the rest of the Keepers?”

  “What are they developing?” Castor asked.

  “An exploitable strain of asteroidea merozoite,” Sabara said. “I know just a few of the details because our lab was only culturing a thalassemia mutation for protection against—”

  “She is lying,” Orsun said. “How could she know they are developing a weapon if she knows ‘just a few of the details’?”

  “Because I understand what they’re trying to defend against,” Sabara said. She fixed her attention on Castor. “The enemy will need a vaccine to protect themselves against their own agent. It’s like their armor. And the key to developing that armor is in those cryo-jars. If you control them, you deny them their weapon. Because no matter who your hidden enemy is, nobody would be crazy enough to deploy a weaponized asteroidea strain—not unless they had a vaccine. Even the Covenant wouldn’t be that crazy.”

  Orsun growled, perhaps trying to figure out whether Sabara’s words were an insult, then finally said, “Now she hopes to use us to protect Gao.”

  “And the Keepers,” Castor said. “Our hidden enemy has destroyed our most important base. It would be foolish to believe they will not try to finish what they started.”

  Orsun dropped his chin. “I yield to your wisdom.”

  “Yielding is not accord,” Castor observed. “You still have reservations?”

  “Only one,” Orsun said. “If we have the jars, the enemy must come to us. That tactic is sound.”

  “And yet?”

  “And yet, we could be overlooking the obvious,” Orsun said. “The lab was on Gao, and Arlo Casille has been our sworn enemy for some time. Perhaps, Dokab, this is not as complicated as it appears.”

&nb
sp; Castor looked to Sabara.

  The director spread her hands. “President Casille is involved, yes—but only because Dark Moon drew him in.” She locked eyes with Castor, then asked, “Do you really think he wanted trouble with the UNSC? The Tuwas were a setup.”

  Castor had already reached the same conclusion. The Dark Moon operatives captured at Salvation Base had confessed many things before their deaths, but they had never suggested that the plan was Arlo Casille’s. In fact, the more Castor considered it, the more he agreed with Sabara. Arlo Casille was just a weapon in someone else’s hand.

  Castor rose and turned to Orsun. “It is wise to question our conclusions. In this, you have done me a great service, Orsun.”

  “That is all I desire.” Orsun glanced at Sabara. “But you believe the infidel.”

  “I believe she is right about Arlo Casille,” Castor said. He turned to leave, but paused next to Sabara’s seat. “We will capture the cryo-jars and dispose of them as you wish.”

  Sabara’s face showed her astonishment. “Um . . . thank you.”

  “I do not wish your thanks,” Castor said. “I wish your service. I have promised you your freedom, and you shall have it if you wish. But if you desire our help with the cryo-jars, know that the price for that is service.”

  “For how long?”

  “For as long as you are needed,” Castor said.

  Sabara’s face paled, but she nodded. “Okay. Fair enough.”

  “Then it is decided,” Castor said, trying to hide his alarm. The condition had been a test, and her lack of hesitation proved her words were sincere. He touched his fingertips to his brow. “Your enemy is my enemy.”

  Sabara did not seem to know the appropriate reply, but she mimicked his gesture and said, “I guess that makes us friends.”

  “Close enough,” Castor said. He started toward the back of the flight deck. “Come along, then. Stay at my side until the battle begins, then hide and do nothing that might get you killed.”

  They retreated to the boarding vestibule, where Castor and Orsun donned their power armor and thruster harnesses. Sabara was given a helmet and armored vest, with a little M6 sidearm for personal protection. Since she had no experience using a thruster harness, she was given shoe-steels that would allow her to use the station’s temporary maglanes.

  Waiting in the rear of the vestibule were five more Jiralhanae in power armor and eight Kig-Yar in their customary combat harness. There were no humans among them; all of the humans had been dispatched to reconnoiter and search for the Dark Moon Turaco. Castor was still checking his band’s weaponry—a mix of battle rifles and death lobbers, which infidels called Brute shots—when Panya’s excited voice sounded over the battlenet.

  “Dokab, I have found the impostors’ shuttle,” she said. “You won’t believe who they are!”

  “No commentary!” Castor snapped. He had established a regimen to build military discipline in his Keepers, but it was a losing battle. Most non-Jiralhanae Faithful were pirates at heart and looked upon any sort of procedures training as an assault on their individualism. “Just report—and quickly.”

  “Check a display,” Panya replied. “It’s already on the True Light data net.”

  Castor turned to the security station and checked the display cluster. The center screen showed the image of a small utility skiff, tethered in a Pinnacle Station berthing bay. Shaped more or less like a bullet, the craft had a dirty gray finish and a Pinnacle Station identification number on its nose. The boarding ramp was down, and a thin man in a khaki service uniform was pacing back and forth on the maglane outside. He wore a double-bar rank insignia on his collars and a name tag over his right pocket that was too small to read, but no ribbons, insignia, or unit patches. It seemed apparent that the utility skiff had ferried the officer aboard from a nearby vessel, but Castor did not understand why he was pacing back and forth in the open. Only a fool would show himself unnecessarily during an operation.

  Sabara, who had heard Panya’s report over the battlenet headset built into her helmet, was already at Castor’s side.“I’m no soldier,” she said. “But doesn’t that look like a UNSC uniform?”

  “Not just UNSC,” Castor said. “The officer displays only his name and rank. That means ONI.”

  “ONI?” Sabara’s face went pale again. “That’s not good.”

  “So you have lured us into an ambush, human,” Orsun said. “With the dokab’s leave, I will rip your arms off—”

  “This is no ambush,” Sabara said. “We’ve been here an hour, and no one has touched us. This is something worse.”

  “Worse how?” Castor asked.

  “If ONI is here to take delivery of those cryo-jars, it means they’re the ones developing the bioweapon. And ONI definitely has the expertise to do it.”

  “That does not make any sense,” Castor said. “Admiral Tuwa served in the UNSC . . . and is ONI not part of the UNSC? If they wanted her family for their bioweapon, why would they not command her to surrender them?”

  Sabara looked up at him and shook her head. “You really don’t understand humans, do you?”

  Castor looked to Orsun, who merely tipped his head and appeared as puzzled as Castor was.

  “The order would be a terrible betrayal,” Sabara explained. “In fact, the person issuing it would probably be permanently dismissed . . . or committed to a mental institution.”

  “Why?” Orsun’s tone was more mystified than doubtful. “Soldiers are often sent to die. It is what soldiers are for.”

  “Not their families,” Sabara said. “And certainly not in support of a highly illegal—and therefore secret—program.”

  Castor did not know what to think. Jiralhanae lacked such arbitrary restrictions. A chieftain commanded his pack in full, and a follower who disliked his orders had only one remedy—a death challenge.

  But humans had strange customs and soft emotions. As young warriors, Castor and Orsun had been part of the Bloodstars, a special band of stalkers charged with hunting down the demon Spartans. Their leader had been a member of the Sangheili Silent Shadow, a First Blade of exceptional skill and devotion who had once led Castor, Orsun, and their war-brother Atriox on a raid that resulted in the capture of an entire squad of Orbital Drop Shock Troopers. The three-day interrogation that followed had revealed many things, but the most surprising had been a rumor that the UNSC had to steal exceptional children from their homes to develop them into the demon Spartans. That had surprised Castor more than anything, for on Doisac, a family would have been honored to surrender a child for the glory of the tribe.

  He would never understand why it shamed humans to demand such sacrifice, but understanding was not needed. It was enough that their folly made them weak.

  Castor studied the display for a moment, then said, “Panya, you will detain the ONI officer outside the skiff until Orsun arrives.”

  “As you command, Dokab,” Panya answered, speaking over the battlenet. “Uh . . . how?”

  “Do what you must,” Castor said. “But I want him alive.”

  Panya hesitated before replying, and the voice of a male spy filled the battlenet.

  “Dokab, the impostors have boarded the Liang-Dortmund transport!” The man was breathless with excitement. “And it sounds like there is small-arms fire inside!”

  Castor had no idea who was speaking—save for gender, human voices sounded much the same to him. “Remember your training,” he commanded. “Identify yourself—and report details.”

  “I’m Tabor,” the man said. “And the small-arms fire is automatic, not very loud.”

  “The weapons are sound-suppressed?” Castor asked.

  “That’s hard to tell, Dokab.” Tabor paused a moment, then said, “I’ve got my ear pressed to the hull, and it’s kind of a muffled banging.”

  “Yes, sound-suppressed,” Castor concluded. He turned to Sabara. “That means the imposters came ready to kill. Perhaps ONI is here to stop the cryo-jar delivery?”

 
; “Maybe.” Sabara replied. “Or maybe they’re covering their tracks. It’s hard to know which.”

  “No, not so difficult,” Orsun said. “Tabor, tell us when the firing ends.”

  “Uh, it’s over now,” Tabor said. “No, wait. I’m hearing double-taps, still barely audible.”

  Orsun caught Castor’s attention. “They are making certain there are no survivors,” he said. “They are covering their tracks.”

  Castor was unsurprised. ONI’s treachery was as boundless as the stars, and he could easily see them executing a team whom they had hired to perform a task.

  Speaking over the battlenet, Castor said. “Tabor, you have done well. Fall back and hide. When the infidels—”

  The command was interrupted by a wet gasp. A heartbeat later, the battlenet filled with the unmistakable gurgle of someone drowning in his own blood, and the transmission ended in the pop of a deactivating comm unit.

  Of course. An ONI hit team would have set an overwatch. And the officer pacing in front of the utility skiff? Had he been a fool . . . or bait?

  “Tabor? Report status.” When no reply came, Castor looked to Orsun. “Who were the spies with—”

  “Neola and Vankus,” Orsun said. He was speaking over the battlenet. “Report.”

  There was no response.

  “Panya?” Orsun’s tone was worried. “Report.”

  Again, no reply. The pacing officer had been no fool, and Panya had no doubt paid with her life for Castor’s mistake.

  Castor deactivated his comm and turned to his companions. “Shut off your communications,” he ordered. “Our battlenet has been compromised.”

  As the Keepers obeyed, he studied the security station display cluster. The True Light’s external cameras offered spherical coverage of the surrounding area, and he could see that there was no one approaching the vessel. But the berthing bay was not a great deal larger than the freighter itself, and beyond it were dozens of partitions and tethered equipment nets that could hide an enemy.

  “Dokab,” Orsun said, “we await your command. If the infidels know we are watching—”

  “They will move quickly,” Castor finished.

  Castor turned toward the boarding ramp. Now that he knew that it had been ONI who framed the Keepers for the Tuwa murders, the wise thing would have been to withdraw and develop a plan for taking vengeance. But he doubted ONI would give him—or his fellow dokabs—time. They had dealt the Keepers a terrible blow by destroying Salvation Base, and they would move swiftly to exploit their victory.