Halo: Kill House

==Prologue==
One month after the conclusion of Halo: Heaven and Earth.
The universe was on fire.
The Created—an alliance of renegade artificial intelligences empowered by their command of a vast Forerunner arsenal—expanded their enforced peace across one star system after another. The Unified Earth Government and its human defense forces lay shattered beneath the ferocity of the Created uprising. The all-powerful Covenant Empire lay in pieces, its client species bled dry by decades of ceaseless warfare. A coalition of warriors calling itself the Banished spread war across what remained of civilized space, its warlords rushing to forge the fragments of galactic civilization into a patrimony of their own making. Rebels and malcontents of all stripes stormed out of the shadows, emboldened by the chaos. No planet was safe from the depredations of war.
There were very few safe havens left for those scrambling to escape the maelstrom Cortana’s rebellion had unleashed. Peace was no longer an option for those who refused to submit to the Mantle of Responsibility. Survival was now as valid a casus belli as any other for adding fuel to the raging bonfire of galactic civilization.
One such band of survivors now lurked in the shadow of an enormous gas giant. The Ket-pattern battlecruiser Soul Ascension, her dark hull etched deep with the scars of recent engagements, drifted listlessly in a holding vector. A loose picket of Seraph fighter squadrons kept a restless watch over the gas giant and its collection of orbiting moons. A ragtag assortment of military dropships and resource shuttles flitted beneath the Ascencion’s dented prow as they completed a hasty operation to harvest raw materials to fuel their battered mothership. The Ascension had been in the system two standard days—entirely too long, as far as her commander was concerned.
Until recently the Soul Ascension had sailed in the service of Jul ‘Mdama’s resurgent Covenant movement. Her crew were the Kru’desh—the condemned, the dregs of the Covenant Empire’s once-might warriors. The turbulent whims of fate had transformed the Kru’desh Legion from suicide troops fighting for Jul ‘Mdama’s lost cause into something even stranger: an uneasy fusion of Covenant renegades and human insurrectionists waging a war for freedom and survival under the command of a renegade Spartan.
Deep within the Soul Ascension’s inner decks that commander snapped awake from a dark sleep full of cutting knives and biting snow and shapeless monsters. Simon Venter, commander of the Kru’desh Legion, clawed out from under his cot’s thin covers and swung his bare feet down onto the cold deck. He squinted in the cabin’s dim lighting, his eyes burning with a restless anger. Shivering beneath chilled air better regulated for a Sangheilil body, Simon draped a scavenged UNSC-issue field blanket over his bare shoulders.
“Juno,” he rasped. “The lights.”
The cabin lights stayed dim. No one responded to his command. Of course they didn’t. Juno was dead. Simon passed his prosthetic left arm over his face, his numb fingers dragging shallow furrows in his gaunt features. He fought to steady his breathing and bring his simmering anger under control. With a frustrated snarl, he cast his blanket aside along with the last vestiges of sleep. He rose from the cot and stalked restlessly across the cabin, slapping a control panel on the far wall to brighten the overhead lights manually.
There was hardly any point to the increased visibility. A battlecruiser’s command cabin was usually the shipmaster’s inner sanctum, a meticulously decorated monument to the warrior-commander’s ego. The Soul Ascension’s cabin was as Spartan as its sole inhabitant. Like the ship around it domed chamber was a strange hybrid of sleek Covenant architecture and jagged human militarism. Large field crates had been crammed up against the walls, their sharp corners denting the once-smooth bulkheads. Each crate bristled with weapons and ammunition, turning the cabin into Simon’s own private armory. Two sets of armor were neatly stacked alongside the crates: a dark-trimmed ODST rig and the battered components of red-hued MJOLNIR power armor. A thick sheet of metal had been welded over a defunct data terminal to serve as a makeshift desk. Datapads and communications devices littered the plate’s surface alongside crumpled papers and scribbled notes. A well-used coffee pot, its bowl stained brown, sat precariously at the table’s edge.
Simon dragged a folding stool out from under the cot. Gritting his teeth against the cold, he planted the stool in front of the desk and forced himself to sift through its scattered contents. A thick leatherbound book lay atop the largest datapad. Simon cracked it open and spent the next five minutes forcing himself to read a single page before tossing it aside with an irritated huff. He braced himself against the desk and thumbed the datapad’s activation switch.
He noted the time that flashed on the pad: six hours since he’d turned into his cabin. A full hour past when he’d intended to return to duty. He took a moment to glower into the shadows before pulling up his pending messages. A cascade of pressing matters awaited him: survey data from the harvesters, training reports from across the legion, repair issues from the engineering teams, a list of prospective destinations for the ship’s next deployment, discipline issues trickling up from overwhelmed unit commanders, food and supply projections from the next week…
Simon’s eyes narrowed. The troubles should have ended with the destruction of Asphodel Meadows and the escape from the Created. The hard part should be over. Instead the Kru’desh simply blundered from one crisis to the next with his unsteady hands at the helm.
This was the price of his ambition. He’d once thrilled at the challenge of command, the art of doing what so few people could and harnessing the churning swirl of violent energies that was the Kru’desh Legion and unleashing it upon the tides of history. The momentum of such an effort had given him strength even as his body failed him and insurmountable odds pressed in on all sides. That strength was gone now. The thrill had faded. Dead. Dead with Stray and Wanderer.
The Forerunner wraith’s absence left a hollow pit in his soul. There isn’t a word in your mouth or a thought in your head I didn’t put there. How much of himself had he really owed that desperate, grasping presence? How much of himself had been sacrifice to finally lay that ghost to rest? The thoughts circled Simon’s mind like hungry vultures. He’d been a fool to think he’d reached the end of the fighting. His life was an endless trail of battle after battle. He’d known the fate he’d chosen for himself when he destroyed Wanderer. But making that choice and living it were two entirely different things.
His eyes flicked over casualty reports. Two more death reports from sick bay. Another three in critical condition after a dropship training accident last week. Reports of illness traced to radiation leaks in the aft decks. Death clung to this ship like a plague. Memories of the fallen clouded the words on the datapad. Tobias Lensky, his biological father, killed by the Created on Farthest Point. Redmond Venter, his onetime enemy turned adoptive father, killed on Talitsa. Tuka ‘Refum, the best friend he’d ever known, buried in the frozen soil of Archangel’s Rest. Juno…
Simon tossed the datapad aside. He’d go insane, stewing alone in this cabin. The Kru’desh didn’t need Simon-G294, Gamma Company’s runaway failure. It needed Simon Venter, conqueror of Le Havre and Archangel’s Rest, the defiant face of their resistance to Created tyranny. He could practically hear Juno’s voice in the back of his mind lecturing him on proper posture and presentation. The memory brought a bitter smile to his lips.
The frigid dregs of coffee in the pot tasted awful as he gulped them down. Enough ruminate. Urei and Mohsin were probably on the bridge. He’d have words with them for not sending a warrior to rouse him after his sleep shift. The legion needed to wrap up operations here and get out of the sector. In the meantime, a tour of the training decks was in order. For reasons Simon couldn’t fathom, his appearances down there seemed to boost morale. And if he could delegate enough duties and avoid any more catastrophes, perhaps he might even have time to talk to Cassandra.
His eyes flicked guiltily towards the messy cot. Now that was a minefield he was tired of winding through. He’d almost prefer spending the day wading through maintenance reports. One battle at a time.
He clothed himself in a set of faded military fatigues and donned Redmond Venter’s ODST rig. Urei complained that he wasn’t wearing the captured MJOLNIR more, but Simon still didn’t have the hang of the exoskeleton’s enhanced strength and reaction timing. The Kru’desh didn’t need to see him staggering around the ship like a drunken sailor. And he’d had enough of being made a fool of down in the sparring ring.
Sparring. The thought of those other Spartans squatting down in his starboard hangar was enough to quicken his pulse. That was another headache he’d rather not deal with today. Another minefield he’d grown weary of. Not a minefield, he reminded himself, slipping back into the comfortable tangle of plans and schemes he’d woven across this ship. An opportunity.
The armor buckled into place, transforming him from a weary fugitive into the Kru’desh Legion’s cunning shipmaster. Simon Venter didn’t waste time on doubts and fears. Simon Venter seized the moment and bent the galaxy to his will. So long as he remembered who he was supposed to be, the rest would fall into place. 
He stopped by his wash basin and ran a razor over his cheeks. Mohsin thought he ought to grow a beard to match Venter’s. Simon wasn’t quite ready to take that plunge. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and ran his dripping fingers through his hair, slicking it back before turning to depart the cabin. “Time to put on a show,” he muttered aloud as he stepped out into his own private kingdom.
A kingdom that felt more like a prison with each passing day.
==Part I: Kill House==
===Chapter One: The Spartans===
The Soul Ascension was alive.
Andra-D054 had called warships home before. Once upon a time she’d thought her entire career might be spent in the UNSC fleet, flashing from one hotspot to another as one of humanity’s Spartan peacekeepers. She still counted the day she’d been assigned to the Infinity as one of the happiest moments in her career. She was used to the daily grind of shipboard activities, the strange stagnancy of artificial gravity and recycled air, the hum of ship engines, the long, interminable days of Slipspace travel. Every ship she’d ever served aboard had its own rhythms and character. But those UNSC vessels were disciplined and regulated, ordered and controlled like well-maintained gardens. The Soul Ascension pulsed with a wild, untamed energy. If the ships of the UNSC fleet were ordered gardens, the Ascension was a jungle: deadly and unpredictable.
The old Andra—the her that existed before the Created shattered her universe—could never have dreamed she might find herself living on a Covenant warship, working alongside Sangheili, Kig-Yar, and Unggoy as well as human Insurrectionists. When Ryder Kedar’s treacherous orders had first landed Andra aboard the Soul Ascension she had hoped she was living through some bizarre nightmare. Now it was her old life that felt like a strange dream. She’d spent the past year enduring the fallout of Cortana’s rebellion, fighting in foreign battle lines and taking orders from mercenaries, terrorists, and traitors. Looking back on those battles, Andra realized that she hadn’t expected to survive the fighting. She’d despaired of ever returning to the Spartan fold. Instead she’d forged a new identity: Lieutenant Andra Kearsarge of Vanguard Platoon, Advanced Combat Element, First Cohort of the Kru’desh Legion. She was a part of the Soul Ascension’s jungle now—and she was starting to wonder if she’d ever claw her way free again.
The Ascension’s escape from her wild assault on Asphodel Meadows should have been the end of the fighting. The Kru’desh had evaded Created pursuit and burned hard for the furthest reaches of charted space in the hopes of putting as much distance between themselves and Cortana’s dominion as possible. With most of the damage endured at Archangel’s Rest and Asphodel Meadows repaired, the legion settled into a much-craved reprieve after months of nonstop fighting.
That peace had lasted all of a week before the troubles kicked off once more.
Andra should have known things would go south. With Shinsu ‘Refum’s Fleet of Cleansing Fire broken, the Kru’desh was a rogue army, a rag-tag assortment of criminals, outcasts, and rebels well accustomed to living at the bottom of the food chain. The species composition only made things worse. The Unggoy hated the Kig-Yar and the Kig-Yar hated everyone other species in turn. Humans were naturally wary of all the ex-Covenant species while the Sangheili still couldn’t get it through their hinged heads that the rest of the galaxy was no longer interested in bowing and scraping for them. It was a miracle Simon and his small cabal of officers had managed to keep the ship running at all, much less lead this mess of a legion to one victory after another against vastly superior Created forces.
The trouble started with the Unggoy. The Kru’desh tactical restructuring found more use for the squat little aliens as crewmen than plasma fodder—an arrangement the Ascension’s Unggoy found more than agreeable. Faced with a say in ship affairs for the first time in their lives, the Unggoy promptly flooded an entire subdeck with methane and turned it into their own private biosphere. While a diplomatic solution to this catastrophe was being debated, a spate of illnesses befell the ship’s remaining Kig-Yar cohort. The Kig-Yar blamed methane leaks on the outbreak, demanded compensation, and used the opportunity to seal off several subdecks as their own private domain. Urei ‘Caszal, his patience at an end, dispatched teams of warriors to reclaim the decks and beat the rebellious crew members back into line. The ensuing brawl was not pretty. The Unggoy sullenly returned to barracks but Andra was certain the Kig-Yar still had sections of the ship cordoned off for their own private use.
The notion of species-segregated decks appealed to many of the legion’s human contingent. Already unnerved by life aboard an alien battlecruiser—a symbol of terror and genocide for anyone who had lived through the Great War—the former Insurrectionists petitioned Captain Mohsin Shah for new living arrangements. Mohsin shut the petition down with more ferocity than Andra had ever seen from the mild-mannered man. Two days later dropship refurbishment efforts in the Ascension’s starboard hangar bay were disrupted by a brawl between Sangheili and human service techs. Urei’s troops once again thundered down to restore order. The following day the Kru’desh instituted the legion’s first dedicated military police elements.
It wasn’t enough. When a human crew chief dared order an off-duty Sangheili to assist in moving ammunition crates the warrior blinked once, then plucked his plasma rifle off a nearby table and shot the man dead.
Justice was swift and merciless. Urei ‘Caszal wanted the murderer executed on the spot. Mohsin insisted the new police force perform a public trial. The mere suggestion of such a human custom enraged Urei, who relented only when Venter threw the weight of his shipmaster status behind Mohsin’s trial proceedings. A trial was convened and witnesses were called. The Sangheili murderer looked stunned when Urei coolly pronounced the death sentence.
As much of the legion that could be assembled in one place were mustered to the starboard hangar to witness a broadcast of the execution. A team of humans and Sangheili dragged the condemned warrior to a maintenance airlock, stripping his combat harness while Venter looked on. Andra braved the disapproving glares from Callum-B042 in order to join in the formation, standing at attention with the rest of Vanguard Platoon while the sentence was carried out.
She’d seen Kru’desh executions during the long march on Archangel’s Rest. Those sentences had been swift shootings, endured with as much stoicism by the condemned as by the executioners. This one was different. Andra had never seen a Sangheili grovel before that broadcast. The condemned warrior wept and pleaded as the execution detail sealed him inside the airlock. At a swift gesture from Venter the detail vented the airlock and the unfortunate murder disappeared into the void.
Urei ‘Caszal stalked before the assembled legionnaires. The aristocratic officer quivered with barely controlled rage. “Terrible business!” he snarled, his voice booming off the hangar walls. “There is no honor in such a death! But that will be the fate of any warrior who forgets his place! Think to test me, and you will be punished accordingly!”
Callum-B042—who despised Simon and nearly everything associated with Gamma Company’s traitor—was content to sneer at the breakdown of order. Andra surprised herself with the pangs of genuine sadness at the mess the Kru’desh found themselves in. She’d fought alongside these people across Le Havre and Archangel’s Rest. She’d thought she was witnessing the birth of something new, something people could hope for. Instead the Soul Ascension was breaking down into something not unlike the gang-infested ghettos she and Merlin had patrolled in Rio back on Earth.
After the execution Andra had seen Mohsin and Urei conversing amicably on their way back to the bridge. They’d chatted idly as if they hadn’t spent the past two days arguing furiously over legal proceedings. Only then did Andra realize the stagecraft of it all. A Sangheili officer advocating swift and brutal retribution for a human’s murder; a human insisting on justice for the Sangheili killer. And in the days that followed she noticed the tension between the human and Sangheili legionnaires soften—not a full reconciliation, but enough to keep the ship running.
Simon was behind that little performance. Of that Andra had no doubt. More “smoke and mirrors,” as the commander liked to say. How often was she going to be taken in by Simon’s schemes? And how deep did they go, anyway? Simon couldn’t have arranged the whole brutal fiasco. He had just made the most of a bad situation… hadn’t he? Andra had thought she’d made her peace with her former enemy. Instead he still managed to get inside her head even from the isolation of the command wing. She couldn’t tell where his schemes ended and blind chance began.
Andra sat in the shadow of Callum’s corvette and let herself fume. The MRE lying half-eaten between her boots wasn’t helping. The human legionnaires had brought plenty of rations with them when they plundered the United Rebel Front’s war chest. Unfortunately they hadn’t thought to plunder rations that were any good. The URF hadn’t even bothered to stockpile stolen UNSC rations. This was decades old Colonial Administration slop, probably looted amidst another colonial mass defection. Andra was sick of tasteless rations. She was sick of being trapped aboard this ship. She was sick of everything going to hell whenever she dared get her hopes up. She was sick of Simon and Urei and Mohsin and Callum and Althea and…
“Hey, Andra.” A familiar voice cut through the growing whirlpool of anger before it could really get out of control. Merlin-D032 stuck his head out from the corvette’s aft hatch and waved. “Aren’t you done eating yet? It’s your turn to check the armor calibrations.”
Merlin. Andra closed her eyes. She forced her anger and frustration down into the dark recesses of her gut and willed a comforting warmth to spread through her chest. She’d spent months thinking she might never see her teammate—her best friend—ever again. She’d nearly lost him at Asphodel Meadows. After all that she was determined to cherish every moment in his presence. She’d cherish every moment, even if he was too thick to pick up on her feelings. Merlin had always been like that. At least his own ordeal at the hands of the Created hadn’t changed him. Andra chose to be grateful for that small mercy.
She tossed the MRE aside and strode up the ramp to join Merlin. Her friend looked out at the bustling hangar. “Do they ever stop?” he wondered with a shake of his head.
The Kru’desh might be chaotic, but they channeled that chaos into an almost violent industry. The latest directive from the bridge was to expand the legion’s pool of competent pilots. The daily survey sorties and reconnaissance flights had left the existing pool tired and overworked. Human and Sangheili volunteers were being drawn from other cohorts for flight training while current pilots from both species were ordered to familiarize themselves with both human and Covenant based flight controls. Deck crews were also instructed to cross-train with the diverse array of technology that now formed the Kru’desh arsenal. Simon and Urei probably envisioned a lean, flexible fighting force. The actual result was a mess of overworked deck teams, confused candidates, and irate officers.
This corvette wasn’t winning itself any friends by taking an entire corner of the hangar to itself. But Callum had no interest in being a gracious guest and the deck officers were apparently under strict orders to leave the corvette and its Spartan inhabitants alone.
Andra found Callum sitting in the corvette’s cramped common room. The older Spartan had finally come to terms with his prosthetic left leg, making it clear that he could walk, run, and fight just as well with the metal limb as with the original. His bravado aside, he also couldn’t hide the fact that he liked to take the weight off as much as possible. Merlin’s suit of pearl-white MJOLNIR armor lay disassembled on the common room table. Callum looked up from the diagnostics he was running on Merlin’s helmet and nodded as Andra entered.
“Almost done here,” he said by way of greeting. “Go suit up and grab my armor while you’re at it. I want to match up our internal systems with Merlin’s. Baal’s HUD tech might be crap, but at least I’m sure they don’t have any Created sleeper programs hidden away somewhere.”
Merlin’s MJOLNIR, like this corvette, had been stolen from Baal Defense Solutions’s security forces during his escape from Oyster Point. The suit was a sleek piece of corporate tech: durable, comfortable, and easy to strap on.
Andra and Callum weren’t so lucky. Their armor had been salvaged off the corpses of Loic-D066 and the rest of Fireteam Gravity. Loic and his team had betrayed the UNSC, swayed by the Created and their promise of a better future. Maybe they’d had the best of intentions. It certainly wasn’t the kind of betrayal Andra had expected. She still didn’t know how she really felt about Loic and the others. What she did know is that she’d helped the Kru’desh kill them on the frigid battlefields of Archangel’s Rest. Loic’s armor had saved Andra’s live at Asphodel Meadows, but every time she touched it she remembered the sight of him lying dead in the snow, his handsome face crushed beneath Simon’s fists.
She’d been trained to handle death, to register the difficult memories and move on. Fireteam Gravity had been Andra’s enemies. But they’d also been her friends, once upon a time. Now they were dead and Andra sheltered aboard the same vessel as their killers.
Gravity’s Mark VII armor had been modified for field recovery—a useful augmentation when you didn’t have access to the specialized machines and teams of armor techs usually required for MJOLNIR maintenance. Andra retrieved Loic’s pale armor from the footlocker in her cramped cabin. She cast off the faded military jacket covering her techsuit and carefully strapped the MJOLNIR on one piece at a time. The entire process took nearly ten minutes. Andra flexed and stretched, running through an old routine to familiarize herself with the armor’s enhanced strength and reaction speed. She emerged from the cabin ensconced in her looted armor and retrieved Callum’s own set before returning to the common room.
The calibrations took nearly an hour. They’d run through the suits’ onboard computers nearly a dozen times already. Callum claimed they couldn’t be sure the Created hadn’t modified Gravity’s armor with spy software or remote-activation kill switches. Andra couldn’t fault his thoroughness but these last few sessions had made her wonder if he was really just killing time. She paced up and down the common room, idly shadow-boxing with Merlin while Callum pored over her helmet’s data reserves.
“I keep telling you, the armor’s clean.” A blue light flickered on Merlin’s disassembled gauntlet, which lay palm-upwards on the table. The lights coalesced into the figure of a young woman swathed in a hooded cloak: Althea, Merlin and Andra’s former support unit and one of the few “smart” AI who hadn’t joined Cortana’s rebellion. She paced along the gauntlet’s outstretched fingers. “I’ve scoured every inch of these systems. Fireteam Gravity kept the systems as they were, aside from a few extra encryptions to their TEAMCOM systems.”
Andra’s fake strike nearly clipped Merlin’s ear. He easily dodged the blow and backed away, raising an eyebrow. Andra grimaced by way of apology, feeling herself flush. The sound of Althea’s voice—eerily similar in tone and pitch to her own—always threw her off-balance. ONI had created Althea through a flash-clone of Andra’s own brain—an experiment in creating AI patterned after the very Spartans they’d assist in the field.
They had of course done it without Andra’s knowledge or consent. Andra wondered what bright spark of an ONI handler had made that call. They hadn’t even tried to hide Althea’s origins. The AI sounded like Andra and her chosen avatar’s face even looked like Andra, though she concealed those features beneath her hood whenever Andra was around. The damned little sprite took the hood off whenever she thought she was alone with Merlin, as if Andra were too dense to know what was going on. The obvious solution of just changing her projected voice patterns and avatar’s face didn’t seem to occur to AI. More likely, such considerations were beneath her and she just enjoyed her little games. Althea knew she bothered Andra. She just didn’t care.
In her darker moments Andra wished Althea had never been created. That wasn’t fair, she knew. Merlin and Callum would be dead without Althea’s help. But you could never take an intelligence program at face value. An AI’s appearance and behavior were programmatically crafted to appeal to their human counterparts. Even a loyal one like Althea had an angle. She played the naïve little helper a bit too well, her polite mannerisms and petite figure carefully calculated to elicit sympathy from Merlin who, for all his Spartan training and combat experience, was still a teenaged boy. Even Callum wasn’t immune to her charms. It was no wonder Althea hardly ever talked to Andra, the only person who saw through her little light show.
The thought that her own brain had spawned something like that made Andra’s skin crawl. You couldn’t trust AI even if they were on your side. Even treacherous, calculating Simon had been completely taken in by Diana.
“I guess the armor’s clean,” Callum’s irritable admission pierced Andra’s fog of ruminations. “We can give the diagnostics a break.”
He plucked Andra’s helmet off the table and tossed it to her. She plucked it out of the air as he busied himself collecting his own armor off the table. “Starting today I want you both on full combat readiness. MJOLNIR on whenever you leave the ship. No more Innie uniforms. These people need to remember just who we are.”
Andra nodded, ignoring the pointed look Callum sent her way at the mention of “Innie uniforms.” She knew better than to argue that point. Annoying as it would be to suit up every time she left the corvette, she needed more practice wearing the new armor. Maybe a return to the old days of MJOLNIR as the duty uniform was what she needed to get her head back.
“Andra, you and I will run a check on our weapon inventory,” Callum continued. “We can set up a staging area under the ship and run a few drills. You’re in charge of requisitioning anything we’re missing. We’ve been too complacent for too long. It’s high time we started making plans to get off this ship.”
This time, Andra did hesitate. She thought about arguing but held herself back. Merlin, however, surprised her.
“Leave this ship and go where?” Merlin slipped passed Andra and fixed Callum with a hard gaze. The abrupt shift in the young man’s mood and tone took the other Spartans aback. Merlin had been reserved since Asphodel Meadows, friendly and quick to help but rarely voicing his own opinions. He certainly wasn’t one to confront a senior Spartan so openly.
Callum’s mouth tightened. That war-hardened face that so rarely shared emotion betrayed puzzled wariness. “Back to the UNSC, of course. Back to the fight. We’ve been out of it too long already. We need to expose Ryder, hunt him down before he causes any more damage. We sure as hell aren’t going to do that sitting here.”
“So you know where to find the UNSC?” Merlin pressed. He folded his arms over his fatigues. “You know which outposts were taken by the Created? Which ones are still active? How to get to them from where we are with the fuel we’ve got left?”
“Watch your tone, Spartan,” Callum growled in a tone he usually reserved for Andra. Even after all they’re time together over the past year he wasn’t used to dealing with Merlin like this.
But Merlin didn’t back down. The abrupt shift in her friend’s demeanor set Andra on edge. She stepped aside to give Merlin and Callum space but carefully positioned herself to intervene if she needed to get between the two men if things escalated.
“Do you even know what system we’re in right now?” Merlin snapped.
Callum shot Althea a dirt look. His hand balled into a fist over his prosthetic knee. “No, I don’t,” he said coldly. “If only we had a cyber-warfare specialist on the team to figure that out.”
Althea ducked her head. This was a battlefield she’d endured many times over the past few weeks. “None of us would be alive without Juno.” She repeated her old argument quietly but firmly. “I won’t abuse her sacrifice by infiltrating her systems.”
“A dead AI doesn’t care if you go rooting around in her old haunts,” Callum shot back. “But since Merlin here wants to play insubordinate, I’ll make that an order from a superior officer. Get inside the Kru’desh systems and do your damned job.”
“We are not on an ONI-sanctioned operation.” Althea retreated further into her cloak even ash she held her ground. “No authorized chain of command is established here. I am not compelled to follow orders on the basis of rank alone.”
Callum’s eyes flashed dangerously. Andra tensed. Even ensconced in armor she felt vulnerable before the older Spartan’s growing anger. The air inside the common area chilled. The illusion of normalcy the four of them had built around this corvette since their reunion crumpled beneath the weight of Merlin and Althea’s defiance. Andra tried to come up with something that might defuse the tension—or at least turn Callum’s ire onto her—but found nothing.
Merlin hesitated, perhaps knowing that he’d already gone too far. But he steeled himself and pressed forward: “We may not like the Kru’desh, but at least here we’ve got a steady supply of air, food, and water. We’ve got an entire battlecruiser packed full of people committed to holding out against the Created. If we strike out on our own there’s no telling when we’ll have any of that again. I’ve been there before. I won’t go through it again.”
Merlin’s face darkened as he spoke. Andra still didn’t know the full story of how he and a few stragglers from the Chancer V had survived on the Gilboan Citadel after Shinsu ‘Refum’s fleet was destroyed. Those weeks of wandering that battlefield wasteland and left a deep mark on her friend. Merlin had come dangerously close to remaining a prisoner of the Created and being shipped off to one of their eerie re-education facilities. It was little wonder he didn’t want to risk leaving the safety of the Soul Ascension. Andra couldn’t think of anything she might say to mend the rift erupting between Callum and Merlin.
“You’re placing a lot of faith in Simon-G294’s hospitality,” Callum said with deceptive calm. Anger bleached his weathered skin white. He let his balled fists fall onto the armor-strewn table, one striking perilously close to Althea’s avatar. “If you think that little traitor will keep sheltering us on this ship free of charge, you’re an idiot. And in case you haven’t been paying attention, things are falling apart here enough as it is. He’ll have a mutiny on his hands before too long. How safe will this ship be then?”
Callum cast a dark look in Andra’s direction. “Not that you and Lieutenant Kearsarge here haven’t been trying your best to stay on his good side.”
The reference to Andra’s Insurrectionist rank was deliberate. She opened her mouth to bite out an angry retort. Merlin beat her too it.
“I know our current coordinates, Callum,” he said, a pink flush coloring his cheeks. He sounded angrier than Andra had heard him in a long time. “I know exactly where we are. I also know that this ship is gearing up for a major combat operation. I know these things because I’ve been out on this ship earning my keep instead of sitting in here and pretending the last twelve months didn’t happen!”
Callum stared at Merlin for several long moments. When he rose, Andra thought he was going to strike Merlin. She tensed for the blow. From the way he braced himself, Merlin seemed to expect it too. Instead Callum simply stared at the younger Spartan a moment longer. Then he wordlessly gathered up the MJOLNIR armor Andra had brought from his quarters. He stepped between Andra and Merlin without so much as a glance at either of them and strode briskly down the corvette’s corridor. The hiss of a sealing bulkhead marked his disappearance back into his cabin.
The common room’s remaining occupants stood together in stunned silence. Andra and Merlin traded looks, neither of them fully comprehending what had just happened. Althea hovered over Merlin’s outstretched gauntlet, her cloaked head bowed low.
“Damn,” Andra said hoarsely. “I’m supposed to be the one he doesn’t like.”
Merlin stared at the dark corridor where Callum had disappeared. His jaw tensed, the color in his cheeks deepening. He blinked slowly and looked away, not entirely believing what had just transpired. “Had to say it,” he muttered hoarsely, more to himself than Andra. “We were lucky getting anywhere in this tub after Oyster Point. He thinks we can just sail off wherever we want. It’d be a disaster. Even if we didn’t just get stranded and starve to death in deep space, we’d get snagged by the Created… or worse.”
He rubbed his face miserably. “Had to say it,” he repeated. He made a move to sit on the couch but abruptly thought better of entering the space Callum had so recently vacated. He positioned himself awkwardly at the edge of the table. The reinforced steel buckled under the combined weight of the Spartan and his armor. Althea looked up at her Spartan. She pushed her hood back and offered a reassuring smile.
"He likes you just fine," Merlin said, still looking at Althea. "It's me he's got a problem with."
Andra stifled another angry remark. With Callum gone her irritation swiftly shifted back to the AI. She didn’t know which annoyed her more: Althea’s manufactured sympathy or the fact that Merlin still wasn’t opening up. No, she didn’t know what he’d been through since the uprising. That didn’t mean she shouldn’t. She wanted to know everything. But Merlin just wouldn’t confide in her these days. He’d found a better audience since they’d been apart. Did he think she didn’t notice him slipping into his armor and conversing with Althea from the privacy of his bunk? Did he think she just wouldn’t get it? As if he had any idea what she’d gone through on Archangel’s Rest or any one of the other hellholes she’d endured this past year. Or did he just not care about any of that?
She forced herself to breathe, centering herself like her instructors had trained her and willing away those unfair thoughts. It wasn’t Merlin’s fault. A few weeks in these tepid doldrums couldn’t mend the year-long gulf in their lifelong friendship. The cold, lifeless stillness of hiding out here aboard this corvette and pretending the ship around them didn’t matter would only make things worse. Andra needed work—real work, not perfunctory system checks and empty military gestures.
Pressed by a surge of determination, Andra turned away from Merlin and activated a miniscule smartpad clipped to her left gauntlet. She nimbly tapped a message into the screen’s hardened casing: Get me back on the rotation.
She’d gauged the timing well. The message’s recipient would be just off his duty shift, probably on his way to prayers before hitting the rack. Only a few moments passed before a silent response flashed onto her screen: Stop trying to get me in trouble. I’m not dealing with the big guy again.
Andra rolled her eyes. Everyone seemed determined to get under her skin today. It’s not his call. Mine.
She hesitated, then added, Slot Merlin with me. I’ll get him up to speed.
A slightly longer pause.: Consider it done, lieutenant. Another beat, then: I won’t tell the commander.
Andra couldn’t hold back a small grin. Simon would find out eventually but at least Mohsin cared enough to play nice. Thanks, she tapped into the datapad before shooting a guilty look over at Merlin. He caught her gaze and raised an eyebrow.
“What’s up?”
“I got us on the deck officer rotation,” Andra said quickly. “Together. Like you said, we should earn our keep. We’re going crazy cooped up in the corvette perimeter.”
“Ah.” Merlin nodded thoughtfully. If he minded Andra volunteering him, he didn’t show it. She almost wished he would. “That should be… interesting. I guess I was starting to feel awkward just helping move crates around. Callum won’t like it, but…”
He looked to Althea. “Keep an eye on him, OK? The Kru’desh can’t see him all wound up like he is. Help him work through this.”
“What’s it matter if the Kru’desh see Callum a bit pissed off?” Andra asked.
Merlin offered her an appraising look. “Neither of you seem to realize that Callum’s the reason the Kru’desh have left us along for so long. There’s no way to know for sure, but I think Simon’s afraid of him.”
He grimaced back in the direction of Callum’s cabin before thrusting his hands into his pockets and slipping out of the common room. Andra heard him unlock the descent hatch behind her. He was probably off to check on the gear stowed beneath the corvette’s underbelly. She frowned after him. Simon, afraid of Callum? She wasn’t sure what he’d meant by that. Leave it to Merlin to drop a bomb like that and wander off. But she could ruminate on that later. For now she’d just keep herself busy. She scooped up her helmet and made to follow Merlin outside.
Althea was still perched atop Merlin’s gauntlet. She watched Andra warily through those hooded eyes. Good. She ought to know that someone saw through her little performances. The AI wisely kept silent as Andra left the ship—a tired prison that no longer felt like a home. Andra donned her helmet and stepped out into the Soul Ascension’s comfortable chaos.
***
Callum stacked his armor neatly beside his cabin door. He stripped off his jacket, the cold air on his bare skin helping to soothe his simmering anger. Stupid. Stupid to lose his temper. Stupid to take his frustration out on Merlin of all people. The kid was right. They’d both known that before either of them opened their mouths. There was no making a jump to Slipspace and just magically being back in the UNSC fold. Much as Callum despised the necessity, he was stuck with this gang of revolutionary thugs for the foreseeable future.
He'd need to make his peace with that soon. But not today. Callum was tired—he felt it in his muscles, his bones, and his very soul. He settled down on his bunk and tried to relax in the pleasant darkness. But there was no peace in sleep. Closing his eyes just conjured up memories: UNSC fleets writhing helplessly beneath Guardian EMP blasts, Fireteam Gravity’s dead eyes as the Kru’desh lowered them into the frozen dirt, all the friends and comrades he’d lost over the years, their deaths in service to a cause that might just be gone forever.
“Callum?” Althea’s voice trickled down from the cabin’s intercom. “I mean, Lieutenant. Is there anything—?”
“No,” Callum replied wearily. Althea meant well but that carefully orchestrated mousiness grated after a while. If he ever endured the company of another AI he just hoped it would one that took on an inhuman form and did away with these tedious pleasantries. “I just need to rest. Wake me if I sleep longer than…”
He stopped, tongue half-curled around some arbitrarily small number. Such instinctive boundaries, forged by a life of harsh military timetables. A life of sleep taken in rotations on the battlefield, a life of endless duties and responsibilities. When was the last time he’d willingly set that all aside to rest? To simply be still? No duties awaited his attention. Merlin and Andra could take care of themselves. Nothing on this ship needed Callum to keep it running. No wonder he was so frustrated. But perhaps there was some comfort to be found in this strange crossroads.
Maybe it was time to try something new.
“Never mind.” Callum settled down on his cot and made himself comfortable. “I’ll be out when I’ve had enough rest.”
Callum-B042 let his heavy eyes fall shut. He searched his mind for happy, peaceful thoughts. Marcella and Abdul, perhaps, or memories of fleeting peace. Perhaps they would be strong enough to hold the demons at bay. Callum was still trying to untangle the web of thoughts and fears when he slipped into the inky void of sleep.
===Chapter Two: The Officers===
Captain Shah departed the bridge shortly before the shipmaster arrived. Urei ‘Caszal was sorry to seem him go. The scruffy human didn’t know the first thing about naval command but he was a welcome presence on the command deck. The Soul Ascension’s freshly trained contingent of human bridge offers performed better during the captain’s duty hours. Most humans seemed to labor under the impression that Urei or his Sangheili aides were liable to execute them for the slightest misstep. Fear being a poor substitute for real discipline, the humans’ performance deteriorated without Shah’s presence. Issues of morale aside, Urei simply found the man to be good company in the long hours of tedium that characterized the Ascension’s harvesting operations.
Not too long ago such affection for a human’s companionship would have been unthinkable. Urei’s mandibles curled in reflexive amusement. He paced atop the bridge’s elevated command platform and watched activity in the crew pits below. The tenets of the Cleansing Blade’s philosophy were clear: humanity—along with all lesser races—must be subjugated beneath the watchful control of an ascendant Sangheili empire. Humanity’s expansionist impulses and dangerous innovations needed to be harnessed as a regulated caste. A prestigious caste, to be sure, but a regulated one. Such were Shinsu ‘Refum’s grave pronouncements, the foundations of the Cleansing Blade ideology to which Urei had pledged his life.
But Shinsu ‘Refum was dead. His mighty fleet had been annihilated, and with it the dreams of that great Sangheili empire. The Cleansing Blade was scattered and Urei was no longer an officer in their venerable order. He mourned the loss of that glorious vision—mourned it and moved on. He had no intention of following Shinsu ‘Refum and countless others to an early grave. Instead he had chosen to become a part of the Kru’desh Legion, a legion whose future lay in an equitable partnership with humanity.
Overseeing such a bizarre concept—history’s first true joint human-Sangheili fighting force—should have driven Urei mad. This enterprise was beyond taxing. Each ship’s day brought a host of new problems: unruly Unggoy and surly Kig-Yar, malfunctioning translators, power failures, and discipline issues the likes of which encountered aboard vessels of the old Covenant navy. That unpleasant business with the murder trial still stiffened Urei’s mandibles. Yet despite the ceaseless parade of frustrations, Urei felt more alive with the Kru’desh than he had since the Great Schism upended his universe.
The Kru’desh—his Kru’desh—were building something new here on the edges of known space. If they succeeded, Urei would know more power and prestige than any warrior of House Caszal had known in generations. And if they failed, Urei would be no more dead than he would be had he perished alongside Shinsu ‘Refum. It was a gambit worth the price of accepting humans and their strange ways.
The bridge security majordomo called the deck to attention: “The shipmaster returns to the bridge.”
Urei joined the other officers in a position of respectful attention. The bulkhead peeled open to admit Lord Venter. The shipmaster was wearing his dark-tinted body armor rather than MJOLNIR, Urei noted with a hint of annoyance. That needed to change. The warriors liked to see their demon commander clad in full Spartan regalia. Such a performance was good for morale.
Venter nodded impatiently for the bridge to carry on. Urei felt an odd tension mount in the base of his spine as the shipmaster ascended the command platform’s ramp. A strange energy pulsed around this human. Whenever he paced across the deck the crew became restless, as if they too were possessed by the same furious ambition that had propelled this outcast from the gutters of obscurity to the heights of command authority. That energy, if properly directed, could prove key to a future beyond the fate of destitute piracy the Kru’desh currently endured.
Venter took his place alongside Urei. The shipmaster’s expression was inscrutable behind his helmet’s visor. Reflected glyphs from the cloud of swirling operations reports circling around the command platform danced across his dark visor.
“You should have woken me earlier,” Venter said quietly. “I’m an hour late to my shift.”
“Forgive me,” Urei replied. A low-power dampening field trapped sounds below a certain volume, insulating their conversation from the ears of the deck officers. “I had no idea you were so hungry for an extra spell monitoring our stay in this wretched abyss.”
“Cute,” Venter growled. He stalked around the command platform, moving from one hologram to another as he reviewed the reports logged in his absence. “Mohsin warned me you were developing a sense of humor.”
“The warriors appreciate the common touch.” Urei closed one eye in a gesture of mild amusement. “I simply observed your mannerisms and modelled myself accordingly. Such gestures remind the Kru’desh that I am one of them now.”
Venter grunted; his attention was diverted by the latest harvesting reports from the resource crews. Urei glanced back at the crew pits. The bridge officers were back to work. A good sign. The new officers—a mix of Urei’s own Cleansing Blade brothers and human crew—were finally integrating with the Kru’desh veterans. Today’s rotation consisted entirely of humans and Sangheili. The Kru’desh had once incorporated Unggoy and Kig-Yar into its bridge complement. Now the Unggoy were stretched thin across the ship on maintenance and supply duties. The Kig-Yar contingent was growing increasingly surly under a mercenary named Lehk. The trouble with Kig-Yar was that you couldn’t cow them into submission like Unggoy. Executing a few of them only made the survivors angrier. Once they decided they hated you, litte could dissuade them—and Lehk had clearly decided he hated Venter. Urei had already moved to remove the Kig-Yar from most ship-critical tasks.
“I’m adjusting the timetable for the Jade Moon operation,” Venter said, looking up from a slate of hangar reports. “Two more days harvesting, then one day for pre-checks before we go to combat alert and make the jump to Slipspace.”
Urei nodded. He’d anticipated the accelerated timetable. “I take it our malfunction reports forced your hand.”
“The repair docket gets longer every day. If we stick to our original timetable, half our ships will be grounded before we hit the Jade Moon.”
“Agreed.” Urei made a note of the new timetable. “Probe scans report no Promethean activity around the refinery stations. Jade Moon may be pledged to the Created, but her overseers haven’t requested their aid. As long as our scouts reported correctly we will only have to deal with the system defense picket.”
“Are the Created even trying to disarm their client systems anymore?” Venter reached into the swirling data and flipped through to holographic slides depicting reconnaissance data from the Soul Ascension’s Slipspace probes. The legion’s latest target was the Jade Moon, an old Harborage system left over from the Covenant days. This would be their first major combat operation since Asphodel Meadows, a true test of the rebuilt legion’s mettle.
“The Banished must be keeping the Guardians busy,” Urei suggested. “Between Atriox’s quest for vengeance and their losses at the Gilboan engagement, the Created must be stretched thin. The galaxy is quite large, after all. Cortana was a fool to think she could govern all of it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Venter muttered. He flipped to another report page. “The probes weren’t detected?”
“Jade Moon’s pickets remain on low alert,” Urei said. “Juno’s infiltration protocols served us well.”
Venter had no answer to that. The loss of the Soul Ascension’s construct administrator was still a fresh wound. The shipmaster’s personal feelings aside, it was a grievous tactical loss. Human AI were masters of cyber-warfare and battle coordination. Recent combat maneuvers made it clear that the young human had long over-relied on AI support to augment his reckless battle tactics. Urei’s officers were running themselves ragged retraining gunnery crews and fighter squadrons accustomed to instantaneous combat data uplinks. Utilizing AI was clearly the secret behind the abrupt transformation of Jul ‘Mdama’s penal legion into a vicious fighting force. Unfortunately it had also atrophied foundation combat skills. Urei was determined to correct this error. But the Kru’desh could ill-afford to languish in liminal space while his training regimens bore fruit.
Yearns to Soar and the Soul Ascension’s contingent of Huragok were a rudimentary safeguard against construct intrusion but they were no substitute for Juno. The Kru’desh hadn’t been properly tested in battle against Created without AI support. If the scouts reported correctly, the Jade Moon operation wouldn’t set them up against Prometheans. But there were never any guarantees in war.
Urei pursed his mandibles. “There is always the other construct,” he said quietly. “The one you allowed those Spartans to keep in their custody.”
Venter’s helmet tilted in his direction. “I should never have told you about that,” he growled.
“Wisely, you did. Security risks aside, the construct is far too valuable an asset to simply leave to its own devices. If we take possession, perhaps the Huragok can alter its internal logic and turn it to our purposes.”
“Yeah. Sic Yearns to Soar on her,” Venter said drily. “That’ll turnout well. That floating bleeding heart would just make friends with her. She’d be more likely to turn the Huragok on us.”
“Your solution is to do nothing?” Urei kept his stance neutral. It wouldn’t do for the bridge crew to see him arguing with the shipmaster.
“My solution is to leave well enough alone.” Venter folded his arms over his armored chest. That helmet hid his face, but Urei knew human tones enough by now to visualize the annoyance playing across that strange, flat face. “We have enough problems without pissing off an AI and her three Spartan pals. She’s stayed out of our systems this long. Yearns to Soar has one of the new Huragok monitoring that section of the aft hangar just to be sure.”
“The… new Huragok?” Urei asked, surprised.
“They made a few new ones down in engineering.” Venter turned back to the reports. “Yearns to Soar said it was the right time or something. I didn’t argue and we got three new Huragok out of it.”
“This is the first I am hearing of this,” Urei said disapprovingly. The last thing he needed was flocks of unaccounted-for Huragok floating around the ship.
“I don’t pry where Yearns to Soar is concerned,” Venter said. “I only know because they asked me to be there when it happened.”
“The Huragok let you be present at a manufacturing ceremony?” Astonishment chased away Urei’s annoyance. He’d never heard of the enigmatic gasbags inviting outsiders to one of their strange reproduction rituals.
“Yeah. Creepy things when they get together like that. I had no idea what was going on until the very end. I guess it was some kind of honor or something.”
Urei wondered if his shipmaster fully understood the impact he’d had on Yearns to Soar. Like most humans, Venter had a penchant for meddling in things he didn’t fully understand. Yearns to Soar attributed a reverence to this human never afforded to a Sangheili shipmaster—just as some Kru’desh still believed Venter was an instrument of divine providence. To be ignorant of the influence he wielded was incredibly dangerous. Dangerous, but potent, if utilized properly.
“Well then,” Urei said slowly. “May they be fruitful and multiply.”
He forced a laugh and tried to lighten his tone. “And are things well with you, shipmaster?” he asked. “In your off-duty cycles, I mean. Your relations with your fellow Spartans are—”
“None of your business.”
In days past, needling a superior would be unthinkable. Urei’s former shipmasters would be shocked and enraged to see such behavior from their old pupil. But Simon Venter was no Sangheili. Humans had a different understanding hierarchy. It seemed they respected those who pushed against authority rather than submitting to established order. The legion’s human warriors had once called themselves “Insurrectionists” after all. Such transgressions made Urei’s skin crawl but he persisted. He supposed he had that execrable Argo to thank for his transformation.
“So there was an argument,” he persisted. “With the one called Cassandra.”
“Not an argument,” Venter said coolly. “A disagreement. There’s a difference.”
“I see. And would such a disagreement make you more amenable to a more advantageous match? The female Spartan in the hangar, for instance. I have some experience with dowry negotiations. Such an alliance might secure the services of the UNSC construct. As commander, you must make such considerations for the good of the legion…”
Venter’s helmet turned back toward Urei. He was silent for so long that Urei wondered if he’d finally gone too far. But Venter just shook his head. “Funny,” he said. “Real funny. Keep working on that sense of humor. You’ll figure it out someday.”
“I confess the notion appeals to me,” Urei said. “Major ‘Varvin was quite amused by the prospect.”
“I liked you better when you didn’t have a sense of humor,” Venter said icily.
The rest of the Urei’s shift passed to a steady beat of training reports and preparations for the Jade Moon operation. Urei’s spirits lifted with each new development. The problems the Kru’desh faced here in this liminal space were simply growing pains. The legion was being refined into something new and deadly. Urei thrilled at the chance to stand at the crux of such change. His ancestors no doubt disapproved of his new outlook—then again, none of them had ever made much of themselves. A change in perspective was just what House Caszal needed.
Urei watched Venter carefully as the shipmaster made his rounds across the bridge. Like the legion itself, its commander needed to be refined. Venter was at once tangential to this grand endeavor—the Kru’desh could win battles with or without his aggressive tactics—and yet central to the future they wished to create. He needed to be transformed. Shinsu ‘Refum’s ambitious protégé had brought them this far. It was time Urei ensured that such a transformation could take place. When his shift ended, Urei welcomed his relief officer, bade farewell to a distracted Venter, and departed the bridge.
Rather than returning to his quarters, Urei instead hurried to the command deck’s gravity lift and descended to the aft warrior halls. He pulsed with the restless energy characteristic of any visionary. There was no time for rest when there was so much work left to be accomplished.
***
If the gods existed—and each passing day among the Kru’desh convinced Argo ‘Varvin that divine providence did indeed shape the movement of this bizarre galaxy—then they had a cruel sense of humor.
Argo leaned wearily against the desk that took up most of the space inside the Soul Ascension’s brig control deck. Kru’desh warriors—human and Sangheili mostly, though a few of Argo’s Sangheili brethren had suborned Unggoy into acting as porters—crowded into the circular chamber. A dull pulse thrummed overhead. A battlecruiser like the Ascension ought to run smoothly and silently, but the damage the ship had sustained during the fighting at Archangel’s Rest and the uneven repairs she’d undergone disrupted the power flow around the lower decks. The brig even suffered occasional power fluctuations. Argo had dealt with that problem by disabling the energy barrier doors on the cells and installing sealed metal doors, accessible only with the key he kept on his person at all times. Energy flow wasn’t the only thing breaking down on this ship.
If Urei was going to make Argo play jailer down here, he’d do a damn good job at it.
Two Sangheili held a third firmly in place before Argo’s desk. A burly human female stood alongside the warriors and their captive. She kept her hand on her sidearm and looked nervously from Argo to the prisoner. She probably thought Argo would order an execution. The whole legion was on edge after that airlock spectacle. Venter needed to start thinking twice about the headaches his theatrics brought on for the officers beneath him.
“Nuto ‘Epud,” Argo said with as much gravity as his tired throat could muster. He tapped the datapad on the desk before him. “Removal of two plasma rifles without authorization from the forward armory. The theft was reported by three witnesses and confirmed by your lance commander. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Nuto glared at Argo. He was an ugly warrior with runty, beady eyes, common-bred through and through. A typical Kru’desh outcast, not one of Urei’s crisp Cleansing Blade favorites. Argo sympathized with the wretched thief, he truly did. He’d lifted his share of contraband back during the old Covenant days. But at least he’d been clever about it. Nuto’s crime had been thoughtless and stupid. The Kru’desh could afford neither quality if they were going to survive out here.
“I was issued a storm rifle,” Nuto muttered, as if that alone explained everything. “I fight better with the older plasma rifles.”
Nuto’s lance leader shifted uncomfortably from where he stood along the room’s perimeter. “Our primary assignment is support fire, Nuto,” he said in a nasal voice. “The storm rifle is better for such a role.”
Argo shot the stocky warrior an appraising look. This one didn’t know how to enforce discipline. No wonder Nuto thought he could get away with such brazen theft. The Kru’desh needed to re-evaluate the quality of who slipped into leadership positions. Too many experienced line leaders had died on Archangel’s Rest, leaving timid and stupid warriors in their place.
“This is the Kru’desh Legion!” Nuto snapped. He struggled in vain to free his arms. “I can fight with whatever weapon I choose! These ridiculous rules will make us soft!”
“New legion. New rules.” Argo plucked the datapad off the desk and made a note next to Nuto’s name. “This is your second offense, Warrior ‘Epud. Ten lashes and two ship days’ confinement on quarter rations. You won’t get off so easily for a third offense.”
Nuto sneered and muttered a string of curses under his breath. Argo ignored him and jabbed a finger at the human female. “Superior Warrior Kasabreh, you will administer the punishment. Iege, witness the proceedings.”
“Yes, Major.” Iege ‘Usul stepped forward from the room’s perimeter. His mandibles curled in an unpleasant smile. Iege was exactly the kind of enforcer Argo needed for matters of unpleasant discipline—a vicious bully who was just smart enough to know his place. The Kru’desh had plenty of those left from Jul ‘Mdama’s dregs. Iege shoved an plasma whip into the surprised Kasabreh’s hand. “Come, human. Remember what I taught you. Your strokes must be harder against Sangheili flesh.”
Argo stifled a pang of guilt as the guards stripped off Nuto’s tunic and led him to a pair of free-standing bonds just beside the brig bulkhead. He always endeavored to be on the side of those handing down punishments, of course. Still, being the face of rough military justice didn’t suit him at all.
The guards affixed Nuto’s wrists to the energy bonds. He craned his neck to glower at the assembled Kru’desh. The plasma whip hissed to life in Superior Warrior Kasabreh’s hands. She braced herself before the punishment stand, glaring up at the taller warrior. At a sharp command from Iege she struck. The whip’s hissing tendrils cut clean, precise strokes into Nuto’s back—a back, Argo noted, that bore the scars of previous floggings. Nuto endured the first five lashes without so much as a whimper. On the sixth he cried out, cringing in his bonds. Argo looked away, his stomach turning. He remembered his first flogging well: the hiss of the whip, the sharp stings, the stink of his own searing flesh. The sentencing overseer had looked on with his cronies and laughed. Argo had hated them for that. Now he was the overseer.
He turned to Nuto’s lance leader. “You and your lance will also receive quarter rations while your comrade is confined,” he said. “Keep your rabble in line from now on.”
The warrior started to whine a protest but caught himself just in time. He inclined his head, cringing as if he were the one being flogged. “Yes, Major.”
“Return to your duties, warrior. Get out of my sight.”
The lance leader scurried out of the brig. Iege’s warriors released a whimpering Nuto from his bonds and dragged him off to the holding cells. Kasabreh stepped away from the punishment wall. Her bronzed cheeks had grown decidedly pale. She handed the plasma whip back to Iege.
“Well struck, Superior Warrior Kasabreh. You have learned your lesson well.”
Kasabreh took her place alongside the other humans in the brig detail. One warrior rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. Some of the younger humans looked just as pale as Kasabreh. Humans, even former Insurrectionists, weren’t accustomed to corporal punishments. Such squeamishness surprised Argo, considering the savagery he’d seen them display during his time fighting for the Syndicate. Humans set strange boundaries on what they considered acceptable forms of violence. The ones who now called the Kru’desh Legion home needed to learn just what sort of ship they were serving on. The Soul Ascension might sail under a human’s command, but she was a Sangheili ship. Sangheili discipline would reign regardless of human sensibilities.
A few humans had already discovered the hard way that Kru’desh discipline applied to them just as much as to Sangheili. The new efforts to integrate the legion meant that human delinquents suffered their punishments at the hands of Sangheili—just as Sangheili endured the lash from human warriors. Iege was still teaching his Sangheili subordinates to lessen the blows against human bodies. Harsh experience taught that humans could not always survive the same punishment as their Sangheili counterparts.
Argo made a final note beside Nuto ‘Epud’s name: Consider for lance command assignment. Nuto was impulsive and reckless, but he had spirit. Far more than his sniveling officer. He’d make a good line leader if someone dealt with his stupider inclinations. The Kru’desh needed better leadership among the rank and file.
The urge to garden the Kru’desh jungle was almost instinctive now. He’d never envisioned himself handing down punishments or making promotion recommendations for the good of the legion. A year ago he’d amused himself by taking ONI credits and selling the humans out to their enemies. Now the Kru’desh had gone and made him respectable. If Argo wasn’t careful he’d turn into Urei. He’d be prattling on about the fortunes of House Varvin before too long. Argo suppressed a shudder.
Thankfully, the brig had no further disciplinary cases. The warriors turned aside to other, more pressing duties. Many of the Kru’desh assigned to the brig had endured the lash themselves. Many more were warriors Argo had saved from the Created at Asphodel Meadows. Argo would find time to speak with Nuto during the foolish thief’s time in the brig. Perhaps by the end of his confinement the Soul Ascension’s morale legation would have a new warrior.
This was the real purpose of Argo’s assignment here in the brig. Here he confronted and punished the legion’s miscreants—before turning them to better purposes. The warriors he recruited here on the lower decks dispersed throughout the ship, mingling with the rest of the legion and bringing back reports of goings-on throughout a vessel that was now as much a mobile city as a warship.
They weren’t spies—not exactly. Argo was certainly not running an inquisition here in the pulsing depths of the ship. But the Soul Ascension’s history was written in a series of bloody mutinies. Venter was determined not to let the legion’s so-called “growing pains” lead to yet another.
An abrupt murmur swept through the stream of warriors filing out of the brig. Warriors stepped stiffly aside as a new figure stalked into the processing center. Argo froze in mid-yawn at the sight of Urei ‘Caszal. The Soul Ascension’s Second cut an unmistakable figure, standing a head taller than most other Sangheili. Urei carried himself with such careful poise that even his dull Kru’desh combat harness looked trim and proper. Even Argo’s crew of misfits and renegades came to attention in Urei’s presence. He simply exuded that aura of natural leadership.
Sometimes Argo wondered why a warrior of such aristocratic breeding had staked his fortunes on the Kru’desh Legion. He fought the unwelcome urge to straighten and salute as Urei approached. The brig was his domain. He wouldn’t bow and scrape for anyone here.
Urei started to gesture at the other warriors, then lowered his hand. He caught Argo’s eye, mandibles twitching ever so slightly. Argo read the gesture and nodded. The Second knew well enough to respect his boundaries.
“Carry on,” Argo called to his warriors. He waved at the bloodied punishment wall. “Someone clean this mess up before the whole deck begins to stink. I will return shortly.”
He stepped out from behind his desk and joined Urei. The Second nodded at two human warriors already working to scrub down the punishment wall. “A busy cycle for the brig?”
“Not exactly.” Argo followed Urei out into the corridor. The throbbing pulse from the reactor grew louder—the Ascension’s lower decks remained in a state of partial disrepair. The Kru’desh simply didn’t have the time or resources to perform the full refit they desperately needed. “We’ve had less infractions since that airlock unpleasantness. It seems you and the commander gauged the legion’s mood correctly, Lord ‘Caszal.”
“Perhaps.” Urei gave Argo a sideways glance. They stepped out of the corridor and onto a small gantry overlooking a bustling warehouse. Kru’desh legionnaires scurried about the lower deck, hauling an assortment of human and Sangheili equipment into line for an inspection. Cyclops exoskeletons tromped alongside massive crates, steadying the contents while hover-gurneys towed the equipment across the deck. “But fear is no substitute for proper morale. The discipline issues will resume so long as we remain out here. This legion needs to be tested in battle once more.”
“Referring to the Jade Moon operation.”
“Indeed. It’s high time I gauged for myself whether the Kru’desh can endure the conflicts to come—and whether our commander’s reputation is more than just a fluke.”
Argo drew up alongside Urei. A series of long metal poles had been welded across the gantry to serve as railings. Humans were more particular about such safety precautions than Sangheili. Such alien infusions were popping up across the Soul Ascension. Argo leaned up against the railing and watched Urei carefully. The former Cleansing Blade officer was difficult to read. “It’s a little late for doubts there, wouldn’t you agree? You could have remained with your previous masters. That door is closed to you now.”
“The burden of victory does not hang solely from the commander’s neck. You of all warriors should know that the Kru’desh are far more than some human renegade’s private army.” Urei watched the activity below, eyes flicking from one group of warriors to another. “At least, that is their potential. I am here to ensure they fulfill that potential. The Kru’desh could be the gateway to opportunities you and I could never dream of elsewhere.”
“How reassuring. Does Lord Venter know of your touching hopes for this legion?” A veiled warning, not sharp enough to be a threat. Argo didn’t know why Urei was approaching him now, on the eve of a major engagement. Surely the Second hadn’t had time to ferment a mutiny? Then again, Urei was Cleansing Blade. Shinsu’s warriors were well-versed in subterfuge as well as conventional warfare.
“He understands my intentions well enough. As does Captain Shah.” Urei met Argo’s gaze. His yellow eyes held a look of familiar aristocratic arrogance, but Argo saw more behind the easy self-confidence. Urei’s look held a passionate dedication Argo had never expected from such a cloak-trading opportunist. “I did not endure the frigid hell of Archangel’s Rest simply to undermine Venter now. But this legion needs more than a few successful operations to hold it together. We need allies from within our people, support and succor from the Great Houses. Our commander was a pawn of Jul ‘Mdama and Shinsu ‘Refum. He does not understand the subtleties of Sangheili politics. The great lords will not treat with some human mongrel no matter how many victories he has to his name. Captain Shah tells me that potential human allies may have similar reservations about his background.”
“And how do you intend to remedy this?” Argo asked. “Etiquette lessons? I doubt the commander could learn the social graces of his own species, much less Sangheili high society.”
“The commander has enough on his mind. I propose we take subtler steps to improve his pedigree. Steps you may be able to help me achieve, should you truly care for the future of this legion.”
A test, Argo thought with growing interest. This is a test. Urei wanted to see if Argo could be relied on for more than keeping tabs on the legion’s malcontents. Argo considered himself a good judge of character, good enough to know that the passion in Urei’s gaze was genuine. He truly cared for the future of his new legion. And if he was being honest about Mohsin Shah’s involvement… did that mean he countenanced the humans’ future as well? Interesting.
“How might I be of service?” he asked, glancing back down at the warriors in the hangar below. For better or for worse, the Soul Ascension was his home now. The Covenant was gone. The Syndicate was gone. The UNSC might be gone too, and ONI considered Argo an unreliable asset. He was running out of places to run.
“I need scribes. Human scribes, ones who can write persuasively in their own script. If you could help me discern such talent from within the human ranks, I would be in your debt.”
“Scribes?” Argo asked, his mandibles sagging in confusion. Urei was full of riddles today.
“The galaxy—what few parts of it not subjugated by the Created—will know the Kru’desh Legion as a gang of dregs and outcasts led by an up-jumped mercenary no better than he should be. I intend to change that perception. Our cause and our commander must be ennobled. To that end, I wish to compose a work… clarifying our position. That work must be written as an appeal to both human and Sangheili sensibilities. We must have some humans aboard with literary talents. Captain Shah believes your network might help us identify such talent.”
So Mohsin was in on this scheme after all. Argo wondered just what Urei and Mohsin were brewing up there on the command deck. “As a matter of fact, I might have a human candidate already. One of the human refugees we rescued at Asphodel Meadows has a background in crafting propaganda—that is to say, inspiring accounting.”
Urei nodded gravely. He didn’t bother to correct Argo’s glibness. Whatever this undertaking was really about, the Second took it seriously. “Very good. I knew I could rely on your penchant for intelligence gathering. As well as your discretion.”
“Naturally.” Argo wondered just how far that discretion was expected to go. Venter would catch wind of whatever this was eventually. “I will look into the matter of Sangheili scribes, though don’t expect any budding literary geniuses among the Kru’desh.”
“Not necessary,” Urei said. “I will handle that matter personally. I have some experience with polemical works. In my youth I served as a page aboard a missionary vessel based out of High Charity itself.”
Argo looked at Urei in a new light. The Second revealed new dimensions with each passing day. Did Venter know just what he’d embraced when he welcomed Urei aboard his ship? This was more than a defeated warrior seeking out a new cause to hide behind. Urei ‘Caszal cared enough for the Kru’desh to spearhead a multi-lingual, multi-species public relations campaign. He had plans for this legion. Argo just hoped those plans left enough room for him to act as he pleased. He didn’t want to find himself trapped in yet another would-be Covenant remnant.
Mohsin Shah had plans, too, plans to transform the Kru’desh into something more than Venter’s private army. Could those plans really coexist with Urei’s ambitions? Was it even possible for Sangheili and humans to work together rather than striving to dominate each other? Argo had seen far too much carnage to trust in interspecies harmony. But for now at least he would play along. If nothing else the results would be amusing.
***
The communicator attached to Mohsin’s wrist buzzed. He glanced down at the small screen in time to see a message from Urei. We have your scribe. I will begin work immediately.
Mohsin buzzed back a brief acknowledgement. Your scribe So this was still his plan after all. Or at least Urei wanted to keep him in the loop in case this project of theirs soured. Two command officer working behind Venter’s back was easier to explain away than just one. Venter couldn’t afford to space both of them. That was the assumption, anyway.
Mohsin couldn’t shake a pang of guilt as he descended to the Soul Ascension’s residential decks. Simon Venter had led Mohsin and what few friends had survived the Second Vanguard’s destruction on Talitsa to greater victories than they had ever known under Redmond Venter, his adoptive father. He was the reason everyone on this ship was still alive after the cataclysmic destruction of Shinsu ‘Refum’s fleet. He’d elevated Mohsin to a position of power and trust the likes of which a farm boy from Mamore could never have dreamed of. After all they’d been through together on Archangel’s Rest, Mohsin might even go so far as to consider the rogue Spartan a friend. Yet here he was, part of a cabal of officers scheming behind the commander’s back.
He’s the reason Okafo and a lot of others are dead, Mohsin reminded himself grimly. He stepped off the gravity lift and fought down the gag impulse that always followed a trip up and down the Soul Ascension’s superstructure. No matter how much time he spent on this ship, Covenant technology still felt creepy and unnatural. Mohsin hurried through a bulkhead leading to the deck’s residential block. He needed to get out of the active duty zones and into a place where he could strip off his uniform and be someone other than Captain Shah for a few hours.
Few among the Kru’desh knew the real reason they had endured the icy wastes of Archangel’s Rest. Simon had led them through blizzard and battle, sacrificing hundreds of legionnaires, not for altruistic ideals but to save himself from a Forerunner disease that had ravaged his body. Nearly seventy more legionnaires had died during the reckless assault on Asphodel Meadows—an assault Mohsin doubted that Simon would have risked had he not sought to rescue a handful of friends from Created custody.
Mohsin was hardly innocent, of course. He’d spent six years justifying one atrocity after another in the name of colonial independence. The lives he’d taken for Redmond Venter’s empty revolution haunted his dreams. He’d chosen to lie for Simon Venter, to pretend he really was his “father’s” true successor, to claim that the blood shed under his command meant more than a quest for vain ambition. If the Kru’desh knew the truth they would collapse into mutiny and infighting. Mohsin couldn’t let that happen. This ship and this legion were his best chance to make things right. If a future free from Earth’s imperialism or the neutered peace of the Created needed to be founded on some grand lie, then so be it.
The thought steeled Mohsin’s resolve as he stepped out of the corridor and into a crowded chamber—one of several assembly halls converted into a makeshift rec room. Off-duty legionnaires—mostly human and Sangheili, but with a few Unggoy and Kig-Yar as well—rested against the walls, talked among themselves in small groups, or engaged in various games atop upended storage crates. A group of Sangheili had even cordoned off a section of the chamber to serve as a makeshift sparring ring. Two warriors circled each other with low-powered training blades while their fellow legionnaires cheered them on.
Mohsin passed through the common room as quickly as he could. He nodded politely at the legionnaires who called out to him but waved away efforts to draw him into conversation. Even some of the Sangheili recognized him now. The overall attitude in the common room seemed cheerful and vibrant. A good sign. Word of the Jade Moon operation had the crew in higher spirits. The Kru’desh were eager to get out of these doldrums and back into the fight.
Even if they have no idea what that fight is. Mohsin checked himself and scowled beneath his beard. Black holes, I need to turn off. Stop being a captain for a few hours.
He waited anxiously for another bulkhead to slide open and allow him out of the common room. Another corridor awaited him. A few legionnaires lounged amidst the purple-hued lighting, gaming, chatting, or just sleeping. This alien corridor was a novelty, but it was a setting familiar to Mohsin from countless voyages across Insurrectionist space. Aboard a cramped warship like this you caught whatever rest you could wherever you could. Urei didn’t like it, but Argo had helped Mohsin convince him not to crack down on the residential decks. The Second had conceded—for now.
Mohsin unbuttoned his fatigue tunic and exhaled as he aired out his exhausted body. He peeled the tunic off and wrapped its sleeves around his waist. With no visible rank insignia and just his faded undershirt, he looked like any other off-duty human legionnaire. Another practice Urei disapproved of. There was very little that swaggering hinge-head didn’t disapprove of, but at least he accepted that some Kru’desh practices weren’t going anywhere. If Mohsin wanted to spend his off-hours cooped up in some officer’s mess on the upper decks he might as well just join the UNSC.
If there’s even a UNSC left to join. Earth’s gone, Colonial Authority’s gone, URF’s gone, Syndicate’s gone. The facets of human civilization that Mohsin had taken for granted had been picked apart one after the other. Their absence frightened him—even the absence of ones he’d been taught to despise. Before long the Created might be the only human institution left in the galaxy, a natural evolution of millennia-old institutions of paternal imperialism. And where does that leave the Kru’desh? Can we really pull off…
Mohsin shook his head. Turn it off, damn it! Just a few hours. Just a few hours to himself, ignoring the big picture, ignoring schemes and stratagems and political treatises. He could do it. He could pull it off.
Someone rose from a squatting position at the corridor’s intersection. A woman with short dark hair, her tunic removed and arranged like Mohsin’s to hide her lieutenant’s rank, smiled wanly as he approached. “I thought you’d be coming this way,” Nhat Tram said, beckoning him closer. “Took your time about it. Your shift should have ended an hour ago.”
“I never get off my shift on time.” Mohsin let Nhat turn him aside from his intended course. He joined her leaning up against the wall and glanced up and down the corridor at the weary Kru’desh around them. “You should know that by now.”
“I know that you aren’t trying hard enough.” Nhat sized him up reproachfully. “Too busy learning hinge-head gibberish to make time for me?”
“Those hinge-heads are our allies now. They’re our only chance at—” Mohsin caught the look in Nhat’s eyes and deflated. “You’re making fun of me.”
“It’s called teasing. You’re always too tense after you get out of that den of snakes. I almost got a speech out of you that time. Don’t tell me you’re planning to give another sermon in the barracks.”
“I won’t need to give one if my reliable officers do their job and keep their people in line.” Mohsin tried to relax. Easier said than done with Nhat suddenly very close. She leaned up against him, matching her breathing to his.
“You’re no good at sarcasm, captain. Better leave that to the professionals.” The lieutenant wrapped an arm around Mohsin’s waist. She drew in and pressed her lips to his. Mohsin let the tension drain from his body as he leaned into the kiss. Just for this moment he tried not to care about plans for the future or who might be staring at such a public display of affection. He pulled Nhat into a clumsy embrace.
They held each other for a long moment. Mohsin still wasn’t quite sure how this had happened. He’d only met Nhat less than a year ago during the disastrous URF summit on Gilgamesh. She’d been with General Kaleyi—one of Redmond Venter’s rivals—back then. At least until Simon threw the URF into chaos, framing Kaleyi for murder and rallying scores of rebels to the Kru’desh. But battle had a way of forging bonds far more powerful than time. Whatever this thing with Nhat was, Mohsin wasn’t going to question it.
He didn’t do it alone, a cruel voice whispered in Mohsin’s mind. You helped him do it. You’re part of the lie. His wrist shook from a phantom pistol’s report. In his mind’s eye Hayden Kaleyi’s limp body fell into a snow-filled grave. Dozens of dead eyes peered up from beneath Archangel’s Rest. Venter’s crimes were his crimes. He’d made that choice and traveled too far down this road to escape now.
Nhat felt him tense up. She drew back, her mouth quirking in a look that was half amused, half disappointed. “You’re brain’s still up on that command deck.”
“Sorry,” Mohsin said. He forced himself not to glance around at the rest of the hallway. The Kru’desh ought to know to mind their own business in the off-duty sections. “It’s not easy to turn off when you’ve been up there eight hours.”
He raised an eyebrow at Nhat. “And you ambushed me, remember? This isn’t just a me problem.”
That got a laugh out of her. Mohsin really was a lucky man. And to think, just three months ago you sent her off to die on Archangel’s Rest! that treacherous voice hissed. He flinched.
“You’re a good sport, captain,” Nhat said, tapping two fingers to her forehead. “I’m keeping you away from your prayers. It’s no wonder you’re such a mess.”
She drew away. Mohsin was sorry to see her leave. For all her teasing, she did have a way of making him feel less anxious.
“You’re always free to join me,” he said. “All kinds show up in the chapel these days.”
“Not my scene, captain.” Nhat flashed a wry smile. “Appreciate you worrying about my soul, though. Say some prayers for me, would you? I’m going to grab something to eat. If you hurry up I’ll save you some.”
“I won’t take long,” Mohsin promised. He watched Nhat depart, mouth set in a bittersweet smile. He didn’t deserve her at all. But Nhat had plenty of skeletons sealed away in her own closet. They all did. No one spent any amount of time in the Insurrection and kept their hands clean, no matter what sweet lies they spun to make it seem better. No one on this ship, human or alien, was a saint. Kru’desh meant condemned, and the Soul Ascension was full of sinners.
The thought set steel in Mohsin’s spine. He owed it to Nhat and everyone else to bring this ship closer to their goal. The sacrifices would be worth it. They had to mean something. Archangel’s Rest, Asphodel Meadows, the upcoming Jade Moon operation—they were all stepping stones across the abyss this legion traversed. Mohsin’s personal doubts didn’t matter any more than Simon Venter’s. They were all part of something larger than themselves now. Sacrifices needed to be made and those sacrifices would set another stone on the path to the promised land that loomed so large in Mohsin’s thoughts.
God forgive me. Give me strength and forgive me. He turned away and hastened down the corridor towards the Tuka ‘Refum Chapel.
===Chapter Three: The Ranks===
Three Cyclopes knelt at the spot marked on the deck. The shadowy pilots inside their cockpits peered out at a makeshift obstacle course arrayed across one of the Soul Ascension’s subsidiary hangars. Decommissioned Wraiths and Warthogs were arrayed across the deck in haphazard fashion to provide some semblance of battlefield conditions. A group of humans and Sangheili watched the display from the catwalk stretching over the hangar floor. No one risked watching from the sidelines anymore, not since the last test had put someone in the med-bay.
Ragna Aasen poked her head through the top hatch of a Mastodon APC parked at the starting line. She watched the three exoskeletons carefully and bit back another surge of irritation. She wanted to be out there in her own suit, not cramped on the sidelines waiting for someone to screw up. That was the problem with being good at anything. People automatically assumed it meant you wanted to teach instead of doing. 
“Green lights from all three candidates,” Lieutenant Kasbah called from inside the Mastodon. “It’s your call, Sergeant. Give them the signal.”
Ragna grunted. She snatched a retooled detonation trigger off the Mastodon’s hood and mashed the trigger as hard as she could. The starting signal transmitted to all three cockpits. The Cyclopes lurched upright and bounded forward across one hundred meters of smooth purple deck.
It was a pathetic display. Ragna tried to contain her mounting frustration as one Cyclops tripped over its own legs after just a few bounds and slammed hard into the deck. The other two staggered on at a slower pace, gingerly navigating the obstacle course with the grace and speed of inebriated old men. One misjudged a stride and sprawled into one of the decommissioned Wraiths. The other dragged itself over the finish line and froze as its operator locked the joints in place. The two exoskeletons still on the course writhed and flailed as their frustrated pilots overcompensated movements.
Ragna tapped the loudspeaker mounted on the Mastodon’s hull. “Keep moving out there!” she shouter. “Clear the course! No quitting! Stop feeling sorry for yourselves! Cyclops Two, what do you think you’re doing? Unlock and reset for another run!”
The lone finisher unlocked and heaved itself back into position at the far end. Its two companions were back on their feet at least Now the pilots were even more cautious than before, groping their way through the obstacle course like blind men. Ragna checked the time-piece mounted on her gauntlet. Nearly three minutes. A well-maintained exoskeleton could clear a simple course like this in thirty seconds. She itched to hop into her machine to show these greenhorns how it was done.
Lieutenant Kasbah could sense her irritation. He slapped Ragna’s shin from where he sat at the Mastodon’s command station. “Easy there, sergeant. It’s their first outing. Let them get a feel for the machines.”
Ragna forced herself to keep quiet. Some of the onlookers were jeering down at the trainees from the catwalk. Ragna planted both hands on the Mastodon’s hull to keep herself from flashing those idiots a rude gesture. Mohsin kept threatening to demote her for not showing proper “military bearing,” whatever that was supposed to mean. Even running a warship and a legion full of aliens couldn’t stop him from sticking his nose in everyone else’s business.
The two Cyclopes finally managed to join the first at the finish line. The exoskeletons slouched, their arms dangling at their sides as if the exertion of crossing the hangar had the pilots exhausted.
“Four minutes, eleven seconds!” Ragna barked into the loudspeaker. “You knuckle-draggers had better be paying attention out there! You’re just getting started. Reset and get ready to run the course again!”
Inside the Mastodon, Lieutenant Kasbah couldn’t quite stifle a snicker. Recruiting and training new Cyclops pilots was supposed to be his project. Somehow he didn’t take it nearly as seriously as Ragna.
“You can ease up a bit, sergeant,” the lieutenant said. “We’ve got plenty of time to put this corps together. Let them crawl a bit before you make them run.”
Ragna switched off the loudspeaker. “The timetable for the Jade Moon operation just got pushed up.”
“Right. And we won’t be using Cyclopes for that operation. Especially not with the EVA drills going the way they’ve been. So just relax.”
Ragna flushed at the slight edge to Kasbah’s tone. She didn’t need to be reminded about the EVA practice. She thumbed the loudspeaker and tried to keep her voice level. “Start again. Slower this time. Stay on line with the machine next to you. Try to make it across the course without falling on your asses.”
“Just be patient with them, Sergeant Aasen,” Lieutenant Kasbeh said. “These suits aren’t as easy to get a handle on as Warthogs. And go easy on me, too. Captain Shah told me to put together a Cyclops training program so that’s exactly what I’m going to do. But I’ve got no idea how Earth goes around training its pilots, so we’re all starting from scratch. You expecting everyone to pick these things up as naturally as you did just hurts the process.”
“You have to put some pressure on them, sir. We had to figure them out fast when they put us in the suits. It was do or—” Ragna cut herself off just in time. For a lot of Cyclops pilots on Archangel’s Rest it had been die. That hadn’t been their fault. She’d barely made it off that frozen hell alive. “Sorry, sir. I’ll try to reign it in.”
“Thanks,” Kasbah said with a forced cheeriness. He remembered Archangel’s Rest all too well. He’d left plenty of friends—along with both his legs—buried under the snowy wastes. That nightmare had only been a few months ago. Ragna and the other survivors tried to pretend they barely remembered it, but Ragna still caught herself waking from nightmares of blizzards full of howling Brutes. “You can relax, too, you know. We got this job for a reason. We won’t build this Cyclops Corps by running ourselves ragged.”
Ragna bristled at the thought of sitting back while the rest of the legion got back into the action. But she kept her mouth shut and watched the three rookie pilots stagger through the course. The disastrous first sprint had given the trainees better respect for the exoskeletons’ specs; they moved gingerly now, as if walking on eggshells. Moves like that were nowhere close to combat effectiveness but at least they weren’t tripping over themselves now. Cyclops maneuvers were all about balance. You needed to understand the machine as well as you knew your own body. Each move wasn’t guesswork but a practiced expression of the pilot’s intention. Once you figured that balance out—if you figured that balance out—you could lose yourself in the machine until the Cyclops’s movements felt as natural as anything you did with your own body.
Those thoughts just made Ragna want to jump into her own suit even more. Kasbah wasn’t letting her run maneuvers in front of trainees anymore. Apparently people thought Ragna was a bit of a show-off. It wasn’t her fault she took to it more naturally than others. If this so-called Cyclops Corps was ever going to get off the ground, they needed the rest of the legion to realize just how powerful one of these exoskeletons could be out on the battlefield.
Something slammed into the Mastodon’s hull. Ragna whirled and found herself staring into the golden visor of a suit of ivory-pale MJOLNIR armor. The suit’s owner had leaped from the hangar floor and landed clean on the back of the Mastodon. Ragna scowled and took a moment to compose herself, keenly aware of the flush creeping over her cheeks.
“Show-off,” she muttered, glancing back at the obstacle course. The Cyclopes had reached the halfway point. They were being more careful this time, keeping pace with each other rather than racing ahead.
“Is that the proper greeting of the day?” the Spartan asked. She raised a finger to her helmeted temple.
Ragna whipped a hand to her head in an exaggerated salute. She opened her mouth to bite out the most insolent ”Yes, Ma’am!” ever vocalized, then remembered Lieutenant Kasbah down in the Mastodon and thought better of it. She had to be happy with the silent but far less satisfying combination of an outstretched tongue and a rude gesture with her free hand. The Spartan’s head tilted ever so slightly, quivering with muted laughter.
“What’s going on up there, sergeant?” Kasbah called.
“It’s Lieutenant Kearsarge, sir,” Ragna replied with as much professionalism as she could muster. Now she understood the brief message she’d received from Mohsin a couple hours ago: Best behavior. He must have sent that as he put Andra back on the rotation.
“I see.” Kasbah raised his voice. “Hello, Kearsarge! Please don’t dent my Mastodon!”
“This hunk of rust has been through worse than me. Aren’t Cyclopes supposed to sit on this thing?” Andra rose to a standing position, hands on her armored hips as she surveyed the training course. The trainees had finally made it back to their original starting position. None of them had fallen over this time. It was a start. “So these are the new pilots, huh?”
“A few of them, yes.” Kasbah triggered the Mastodon’s loudspeakers and called out to the three trainees. “You’re doing much better out there! Once more across at your own pace! Try for a faster run but don’t push yourselves. One more time across, then you can take a break.”
The Cyclops trio shuffled back into position and set out across the obstacle course. They were getting better, Ragna had to admit. She didn’t want to admit that Kasbah was right, but it had been her idea to start the trainees off running. She’d assumed they’d enjoy the challenge. She’d been wrong. She leaned back against the Mastodon hatch and tried to keep her feelings under control. No matter what Mohsin and the commander said, she just wasn’t cut out for this instruction crap.
One of the Mastodon’s gun hatches slid open to allow Kasbah a better view of Andra. The Cyclops Corps’ burgeoning commander was a squat, square faced man with tired eyes but an easy smile. He waved up at the Spartan in greeting. “Good to see you again, lieutenant. To what do we owe the pleasure? Please don’t tell me Captain Shah sent you down to inspect my little obstacle course.”
“Hey—hello, lieutenant.” Andra stumbled over the greeting, cracks opening in her confident veneer. Even after everything she’d been through with the Kru’desh, she wasn’t used to being a part of their chain of command. Whatever confidence she’d built up on Archangel’s Rest had been worn down by a month of isolating herself on that corvette with the other Spartans. “I’m just making the rounds. Captain Shah told me to cycle through the new training decks to get familiar with the ship again. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“Not at all.” Despite his injuries, Kasbah was the kind of man who got along with everyone. Ragna still wasn’t sure how that cheerful persona squared with all the nasty rumors she’d heard about him and the Venezian militia. “We’re just winding down with this group now. I can walk you through the day schedule for this bay if you’re interested. I’m guessing Captain Shah hasn’t assigned you any new duties yet.”
“No,” Andra admitted. “But I want to start earning my keep again. I’ll find a way to make myself useful before the Jade Moon operation.”
So even the Spartans had heard about Jade Moon. Or maybe Mohsin had told them. Ragna had wondered how long they’d be allowed to just camp out in the aft hangar. The rest of the training session passed mercifully with no more embarrassing spills. Andra paced idly across the Mastodon’s hull and watched the Cyclopes move through the last stretch of the obstacle course. Lieutenant Kasbah withdrew back into the Mastodon and left Ragna to call the session to an end. The pilot trainees gratefully shuffled to the rear of the hangar where makeshift stables had been erected to house and maintain two dozen exoskeletons. The trainees would need to work through post-maneuver suit maintenance before they could finally retreat to their barracks.
Ragna climbed down from the Mastodon as work crews moved in with hover-gurneys to clear the obstacle course. Andra knelt atop the APC’s hull and watched the three trainees debark. The first was an older man, a transfer from the infantry. The second was a scraggly-haired young man, a maintenance tech with the hopes of proving himself on the battlefield. The third was a skinny teen girl with messy red hair pulled back in a loose bun behind maintenance goggles.
“I didn’t realize you’d recruited Hunsinger,” Andra remarked.
“Her? Yeah, well it was this or swabbing decks. Like you said, we all have to earn our keep around here.”
The deck crews—a mix of humans and Unggoy—cleared the hangar with practiced efficiency. Even after all these months Ragna just couldn’t look at the aliens without feeling her skin crawl just a bit. Mohsin might be all about making nice with the hinge-heads, but Ragna couldn’t bring herself to socialize with non-humans any more than necessary. She was glad a Cyclops cockpit could only fit a human frame. The only hinges she and Kasbah needed to deal with in the Cyclops Corps were the dropship pilots who ferried them into battle. Or would be ferrying them, if the plans for dedicated Cyclops squadrons came through. Otherwise the newly trained Cyclops pilots would be split up and returned to more traditional infantry support roles.
“Take a break, sergeant,” Kasbah called from inside the Mastodon. The lieutenant was already busy with write-ups of the ship day’s training results. “Just remember the cadre meeting at eighteen-thirty. We need to start looking into plans for more advanced drills.”
Ragna perked up at that. “Advanced drills” might mean more EVA practice. If those maneuvers bore fruit then the Cyclops Corps really would transform from an idle time-killer to something far more critical.
“Sergeant. Cadre. Look at you, moving up in the world.” Andra sprang down from the Mastodon with an agile grace belied by the thud of her MJOLNIR-weighted body striking the deck. “Not too long ago you were a refugee hiding out in Talitsa’s sewers.”
“Speak for yourself,” Ragna retorted. “Wasn’t too long ago we were pinning you down and giving you an ink makeover.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” The cold edge in Andra’s voice sent a shiver down Ragna’s spine. For a moment the person standing beside her was not a girl Ragna’s own age or even a person at all—she was a killing machine, all armor and muscle, a being who could snap Ragna’s neck with one hand. It had taken two squads and a Sangheili to pin her down for that tattoo. She hadn’t even been in armor that day. A cold pit settled in Ragna’s stomach. You couldn’t rib someone like this. You might as well tease an angry bear.
She suppressed a shudder. She remembered cowering in a basement on Kafka while Mohsin and Okafo draped a coat over a small red smear—all that was left of Jonathan after a Spartan sniper caught him in the open. “Poor kid didn’t even have a rifle,” one of their comrades had muttered. “Bastard didn’t even hesitate.”
“The shooter was a Spartan,” Redmond Venter, standing a few paces back, had said. His hand brushed the patch stretched over his right eye. “Spartans aren’t human. Not anymore.”
But the moment passed as quickly as it came. Andra laughed, her helmet tilting in Ragna’s direction. “You should see the look on your face,” she said. “Good to know I can still freak you out after all this time.”
“Yeah.” Ragna forced a rueful grin. “You got me.” The pang of sadness that stabbed at her gut surprised her. No matter how much they’d been through—she’d saved Andra’s life back on Archangel’s Rest—you couldn’t ever really be friends with a Spartan. No wonder Mohsin kept warning Ragna to be careful. Spartan minds didn’t work like regular humans. Earth’s goons had made sure of that.
You couldn't be friends with a Spartan. That was obvious. But Ragna watched the armored shell striding purposefully over the hangar and couldn't unsee the young woman inside. Someone her onw age wore that armor, a girl who'd shared the frozen hell of Archangel's Rest along with everyone else. And what about Venter? He was a Spartan, too. The ship was crawling with supersoldiers these days.
Ragna looked at the Cyclops stalls where the trainees had dismounteed their exoskeletons. Riding one of those made her a match for any Spartan. The UNSC's technology gap was slipping away. Mohsin kept going on about the galaxy changing. What did that mean for Ragna? What exactly would she do in a changed galaxy. Ever since Redmond Venter plucked her from her all-but forgotten life with her parents she'd just lived day to day, happy to be of service in the cause of colonial independence. Now though...
Moments of introspection were rare and Ragna didn't appreciate them. She hurried on after Andra, mind buzzing with projects she could set the lieutenant to work on. A bored Spartan could clear quite a few projects off the work docket if properly motivated.
***
A low, throaty drone echoed across the hangar as if the ship were clearing her throat. The rough cry—apparently the Sangheili found it as soothing as humans found it eerie—marked the end of another ship’s day. The recruits still working through maintenance checks in the Cyclops pens perked up. Other teams across the hangar were wrapping up their assigned tasks and departing while relief teams filed in to replace them.
“Back to work!” As if anticipating that flicker of hope, the hangar’s deckmaster had positioned himself near the Cyclopes in order to swiftly quash it. The Sangheili strode haughtily past the weary trainees. “None of you depart until each of these machines are in perfect order!” The deckmaster resented the presence of an all-human detachment in his hangar and compensated by insisting the Cyclopes stalls be kept in perfect condition.
Zoey Hunsinger stifled a groan. She was exhausted, body and mind, from another day of Cyclops drills. Now she wanted nothing more than to drag herself out of this hangar and collapse back on her rack for a few hours’ sleep. She gritted her teeth and instead tried to focus on recalibrating her assigned Cyclops’s leg joints.
“Almost done, private.” The technician overseeing Zoey’s calibrations training, a heavyset woman bearing Insurrectionist tattoos proudly on her burly forearms, offered her a weary smile. “We need to make sure these suits are in good shape for the next training rotation.”
The tech meant it as a reassurance. Instead it made Zoey want to bust her knuckles against the Cyclops’s reinforced frame. This suit she was toiling over wasn’t even hers. Nothing on this stupid ship was. The Cyclops, her bunk, even the damned clothes on her back belonged to the Kru’desh Legion.
“Good job, private.” The lieutenant had emerged from his Mastodon, hobbling around on crutches to supplant his missing leg. The Kru’desh didn’t have nearly enough supplies or facilities to fit him with a prosthetic. “Top marks for maintenance checks. You did pretty well out there on the field, too. We’ll make a Cyclops jockey out of you yet.”
Private. The title made Zoey want to scream. She kept her face screwed up in a look of studious concentration, not daring to show anyone the maelstrom of frustration building up inside her. A few months ago she’d been a captain. She’d had her own damned ship. But the Chancer V was gone, shot to pieces and abandoned on the lonely moon where the Fleet of Cleansing Fire had been destroyed. She was stuck on this ship with no escape. Her freedom was gone. The stars weren’t hers to sail anymore. On this ship she was just some wannabe Private, taking orders from strutting hinge-heads and that yappy sergeant girl.
That’s the way it is. Zoey had heard that aphorism on the lips of many a universe-weary spacer. She knew it didn’t fit her even as she tried to drape it over her burning anger like a smothering coat. She didn’t want to just grin and bear it. She wanted to hit something. Or at least storm up to the command deck and throw out her voice screaming at Stray.
Venter, he called himself now. Simon Venter. Zoey would never know him as anything but Stray, unkempt and uncouth mercenary who’d upended her life all those years ago on Venezia. He put on the imperious commander act to impress the hinge-heads, but Zoey didn’t buy it. The Kru’desh Legion didn’t know their commander the way Zoey did. Stray always had been a slick liar when it came to getting his way. He always had an angle. If only the Innies like Sergeant Aasen who muttered hushed stories about their commander and his legendary father knew the truth. He took Venter’s name to hurt Gavin. To show him what he thought about all that “family” crap.
In that, at least, Stray and Zoey were in agreement. Gavin deserved to be hurt, and hurt hard, for what he’d done. Walking out on Zoey without so much as a goodbye, leaving her to run the Chancer on her own as the galaxy fell to piece around him…
The calibration monitor shook in Zoey’s hand. She had to fight the urge to smash the device over the Cyclops’s knee.
She needed to talk to Stray. About Gavin, the Chancer, all of it. But she’d barely exchanged ten words with him since he’d staggered in, battered but alive, from the Asphodel Meadows operation. He spent all his time up on the command deck when he wasn’t inspecting troop formations or presiding over creepy executions. Zoey’s skin still crawled at that. Sure, the hinge-head had murdered someone, but no one deserved to get chucked out an airlock.
Cassandra got her time in, of course. She and Stray seemed to fall in and out of love every week, a vicious spiral of apologies and arguments and frigid cordiality. Zoey couldn’t resent Cassandra too much anymore, not after everything the Spartan had done to keep her and everyone else alive. Out of the old crew—what passed for the motley gaggle of survivors who’d witnessed the Chancer’s fiery demise— Zoey mostly saw Thomas and Karina. Those two were nice enough, when they weren’t auditioning for Galaxy’s Most Wholesome Couple. But the Kru’desh kept even those two busy, leaving Zoey alone with the surly mess of Insurrectionists who made up the Cyclops Corps or mobile infantry or whatever they’d decided to call themselves this week.
There was also Merlin, the Spartan who’d helped defend the Chancer’s crash site. Zoey wondered idly if she had a chance with a guy like him. He was pretty cute, albeit in that psycho living-assault-rifle Spartan kind of way. Apparently, he and Andra were an item, but Andra was a stuck-up ice princess and if Stray and Cassandra were anything to go by Spartan romances weren’t exactly the most stable things in the universe.
Zoey might have continued in these ruminations for some time if the heavyset technician hadn’t smacked her gently upside the head. The woman had a red fist tattooed just above her left eye. Innies loved inking themselves up with activist logos. “I said, you’re all done, private. Good job. The lieutenant’s letting you trainees off for the cycle. Get out of here before that hinged blowhard spots you.”
Zoey didn’t make the tech tell her a third time. She fell in line with the other Cyclops trainees as they staggered back to barracks. Any thoughts of seeking out Thomas or Karina or any of the others disappeared as soon as Zoey hit her cramped rack. After today’s mess she just wanted to rest and not think about anything for a while.
Another ship day ground on, dragging Zoey Hunsinger helplessly in its wake.
***
Thomas Koepke tried his best. The young man didn’t have a particularly high opinion of himself, but he did extend himself that much credit. His roster of tried-my-best attempts and failures included university student (expelled), police enforcer (corrupt), and Insurrectionist revolutionary (conscripted, then deserted). He hadn’t exactly gone looking for any of those roles. Life simply dealt him one terrible hand after another and he simply stumbled along as best he could. He could hardly call it bad luck—he was still alive, and he still had Karina when all was said and done—but he couldn’t exactly point to any place where he’d done particularly well for himself either.
He certainly didn’t feel particularly successful now, dragging himself back to his bunk after another exhausting day in the Soul Asccension’s labor crews. His assigned barracks was a squat, low-ceilinged chamber just one deck down from the deck where Thomas’s latest bizarre career turn found him working as a maintenance tech. The barracks had housed Unggoy contingents until the ship’s human population had moved in. The squat aliens apparently didn’t need—or, more likely, were never afforded with—much in the way of sleeping comforts. Unggoy seemed capable of curling up and dozing just about anywhere. The human legionnaires had lined the chamber with portable cots to create some semblance of order to the place. A dozen concerted cleaning efforts hadn’t quite scrubbed the stink of methane out of the chamber.
Raoul was slipping into his work fatigues when Thomas approached. The lanky legionnaire was one of three other men sharing this cot with Thomas. Raoul smiled wanly and nodded at the footlocker—home to a rucksack stuffed with what few possessions Thomas had to his name in this galaxy. They had an understanding, the men of Ar’ifta Deck Fifth Barrack Bunk Number Twenty-Seven: guard my stuff while I’m on shift and I’ll guard yours. The arrangement had worked out well so far, not that Thomas owned anything particularly worth stealing. Some days he even went so far as to think of Raoul and the other Bunk Twenty-Seven men as friends.
The same couldn’t be said for the other human legionnaires. There were two kinds of humans on the Soul Ascension: those who had served on the ship during the Battle of Archangel’s Rest and those poor souls recruited after the fact. The former group viewed the latter group with thinly veiled contempt. Real legionaries had been forged during something Kru’desh veterans called the “long march” in hushed tones. Everyone else were fakers riding on the real warriors’ coattails. The Archangel’s Rest veterans got along with the aliens better than human shirkers like Thomas.
Once and only once, Thomas had made the mistake of pointing out that he’d served in the Second Vanguard on Talitsa. A black eye delivered with almost scornful precision taught him not to question the Kru’desh veterancy hierarchy. In some ways he appreciated the perception that he’d lived some pampered existence while the real warriors were freezing their various appendages off on Archangel’s Rest. It helped him at least pretend to forget the hell he’d endured at the Gilboan Citadel, dragged around that plasma-scorched hellscape like so much baggage after the Chancer V’s crash-landing broke his leg. Jumbled memories of cringing in caves while Created patrols circled overhead kept waking him in the middle of the night.
He was lucky to be walking on that leg at all, much less laboring on a mercenary warship. Cassandra-G006’s skilled ministrations had kept the splinted leg in place across their battlefield trek and brief imprisonment by the Created. Unfortunately, recovery meant that Thomas had to earn his keep just like everyone else on the ship. After the massacre on Taltisa he’d promised Karina that he would never wear another uniform. Breaking that promise was the cost of residency on the Soul Ascension and at this moment Thomas and Karina had nowhere else to go.
He exchanged pleasantries with Raoul before his bunkmate slipped off to join his shift crew. Thomas rested numbly on the shared cot, grateful to be away from work and aliens for a few sweet hours. The Sangheili, Unggoy, and Kig-Yar made his skin crawl. He didn’t know how the other humans could work and live among them so casually after all those years of hatred. He’d grown up on terrifying Waypoint reports detailing colonies bombarded into glass after the Covenant mercilessly slaughtered their populations. Maybe the Insurrectionists didn’t mind—the Great War had cost the United Earth Government dearly, after all. He’d heard a few legionnaires mutter as much when they didn’t think anyone was listening. The callousness turned Thomas’s stomach. He wasn’t cut out for this line of work at all.
The sight of Karina picking her way through the cots and their weary inhabitants boosted Thomas’s spirits. Even dressed in baggy combat fatigues, her long hair pulled back in an unkempt bun, Karina was still the most beautiful woman Thomas had ever known. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve her. Whatever it was, it made the rest of his middling luck worth all the pain.
Karina ignored a few rude remarks thrown her way by groggy legionnaires. She wasn’t exactly a newcomer to the Insurrection—Redmond Venter’s troops had pressed ganged her the same way they’d conscripted Thomas. It didn’t matter. The legionnaires knew outsiders when they saw them; a prim would-be journalist and an unassuming failed cop would never belong here. Thomas would have spirited Karina away in a heartbeat if he knew anywhere in the galaxy worth taking her. They were stuck here, at least for the time being.
The jeers stopped when one of Thomas’s neighbors, a burly noncom still wearing the body armor off his guard rotation, roused himself and growled a sharp warning. Karina had helped the man organize a platoon roster just a week before. They weren’t all bad, these Kru’desh rebels. Karina settled down beside Thomas, passing her hand over his and offering him a weary smile.
“I should have met you on your deck,” Thomas muttered apologetically, keenly aware that he still stank from a day poking through Warthog engines.
She smiled and draped a reassuring arm over his shoulder. “That would have been a bit of a hike for you, wouldn’t it? I like the walk, especially after all those hours in the tech center.”
Back on Talitsa Karina had dreamed of being a journalist. Those dreams had been opposed at every turn: first by the Syndicate, then by Redmond Venter’s revolutionaries, and then by the Created. As far as the galaxy’s various military-minded overlords were concerned, Karina’s frustrated ambitions translated to two useful skills: good communication skills and rapid data entry. Under Redmond Venter’s brief regime on Talitsa Karina had been conscripted into the rebel forces as a clerk. Now under Simon Venter she found herself dragged into roughly the same role. The Soul Ascension might be an alien warship, but she required a skilled clerical corps just as much as any ship in the UNSC fleet.
Thomas nodded and tried to relax. He let Karina rest her head on his shoulder and steadied his breathing to match with hers. At times like these Thomas could hardly resent the strange path his life had taken. He was an ordinary man caught up in far from ordinary times, surrounded on all sides by war heroes, ambitious mercenaries, and superhumans. He’d made a strange kind of peace with that. As long as he could make himself a little bit useful—as long as he was what Karina needed to make it through all this—that was enough.
It really was strange, how things had worked out. Thomas remembered an angry young woman glowering up at him while his fellow cops laid into one of her friends. He’d stood awkwardly off to the side as he often did while the bigger, tougher guys did the dirty work. Karina’s burning accusations had demanded he do something. Doing something had nearly gotten him killed, again and again and again. Somehow he’d made it through, all thanks to Karina and her friends. Thomas didn’t want to think about where he’d be without Karina and Cassandra and the others. Dead, probably. Or locked up in some Created re-education facility.
But they couldn’t keep going on like this. He owed Karina more of a life than that. If his future really was linked to hers than he had to make sure that future wouldn’t see them marching in lockstep with the Kru’desh Legion for the rest of their lives.
“We need to get out of here,” he muttered into Karina’s ear.
She gripped his shoulder sympathetically. “And go where?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “There have to be other colonies the Created haven’t hit. Thebes, maybe. Gao. Or Kropotkin. It’s a big galaxy.”
“There have to be,” she repeated. “What happens when we get there?”
“No more uniforms. No more military,” he whispered. “We get a house, or maybe just an apartment. You get to writing like you’ve always wanted. Not operations orders or AI propaganda or any of that crap. Real writing. Writing you love. Writing you’re proud of.”
“That sounds nice.” She was trying to believe along with them, even though they both know how far of a flight of fancy it really was. There was no escaping this ship. Not for a good long while, at any rate. As long as the galaxy was engulfed in chaos they were stuck aboard the Soul Ascension. “And what about you?”
What about him? Thomas never really got that far. He just assumed he’d find work somewhere. He was a fast learner who didn’t mind a hard day’s work. Frontier colonies always needed men like him. As long as he was with Karina… but what did he want? A sudden fear awakened in his heart. No, he never thought this far ahead. He hadn’t spoken to his folks in years, not since he’d shipped off to Talitsa. Mars must be under Created control just like the rest of Sol. He’d tried not to think about that all this time but he couldn’t ignore it any more. A sudden tightness gripped his throat.
“Tom?” Karina pulled back, eyes brimming with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“I… it’s just…” He flushed. His mouth couldn’t find the right words.
“There she is,” a new voice said, its imperious tone carrying the smooth electronic reverberations of autotranslation.
A ripple passed through the bunks around them. Thomas and Karina looked up and saw two Sangheili marching purposefully through the barracks block. The other soldiers hurried aside to let the warriors past. A woman wearing the colors of a lieutenant stepped forward to challenge them, then thought better of it and found business elsewhere. Rank meant more than species in the Kru’desh, at least in theory, but all Sangheili acted as if they outranked everyone else. Seven feet of lithe reptilian muscle conferred certain natural privileges. Thomas shuddered as the Sangheili drew near. He tried to limit his contact with non-humans as much as possible. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to living and working side by side with aliens.
The lead Sangheili gestured at Thomas and Karina. “Good. I thought she might be here.” He was taller and leaner than his companion. His combat harness denoted him as a Majordomo—the equivalent of a captain in the confused Kru’desh hierarchy. Or maybe it was lieutenant? Thomas couldn’t keep all these ranks and positions straight.
Karina stood uncertainly. “Me?” she asked in a quavering voice.
“Stand at attention when the Major addresses you, recruit,” the second warrior growled. Most of the nearby bunks were suddenly and conspicuously deserted.
Thomas swallowed. He rose to attention beside Karina. He had no idea what was going on. He wished he knew what to say—something to wave these aliens off or comfort the trembling Karina. But he wasn’t strong or smart enough to come up with some biting remark. Here on the Soul Ascension he was just another recruit, a cog in the machine. Recruits didn’t talk back to Sangheili officers. All he could do was stand his ground and comfort Karina with his presence.
The lanky Major surveyed Karina for a moment. He let out a throaty laugh. “You don’t recognize me?” he asked. “I’m offended. We Chancer V alumnae ought to stick together. Or do I not count because I departed early? Have you not been inviting me to the parties? Andra will be devastated when I tell her the news.”
Thomas and Karina glanced at each other, not quite understanding the Major’s rambling. A sudden light of recognition flashed in Karina’s eyes. She looked back to the Major. “Argo?” she asked tentatively, trying her best to stand at attention. “Argo ‘Vaving?”
The shorter warrior bristled but Argo laughed and waved him off. “Close enough, human. And no need to stand so stiffly. I’m supposed to be off-duty. Supposed to be, anyway. But since you weren’t at your appointed post I’ve had to waste a good chunk of my precious free time hunting you down.” His reptilian eyes narrowed.
Karina paled. “I was released by the shift officer,” she stammered.
“Relax, human,” Argo said with a laugh. “You aren’t in trouble. In fact, I come with good news.” He was clearly one of those individuals who enjoyed using his station to play these tricks. Thomas had encountered plenty like him in Talitsa’s police force. Strange how certain kinds of people existed across species. Men like Argo weren’t malicious but they also weren’t to be trusted. You couldn’t trust anyone who saw the whole universe as one perpetual joke.
Argo leaned forward and gestured to Karina. “As of today you’ve been promoted. Congratulations, Ensign.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Or is it Minor? Or lieutenant? What was the proper wording again?” He looked back to his companion, who just made a shrugging gesture with his hands.
“Urei and the commander need to get this mess straightened out,” Argo muttered. “No matter. You’ve been promoted Ensign Larina. Cause for celebration, I’m sure. Celebrating you can do once you’ve been moved to your new assignment.”
“New assignment?” Karina asked. She shot Thomas a worried look.
“Temporary. Important, but temporary. Your talents have been recognized by those in the right places, Ensign. Our commanders are putting together an important conclave. One that may very well determine the future of this legion. Fulhe here will escort you to your quarters to collect your belongings and then on to your new lodging. The nature of this assignment requires that you be sequestered for a time. Fulhe, see to it and then join me. I’ll be with the lads at the usual spot. We’ll keep your drinks warm.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand,” Karina said. “What do you mean, I’ll be sequestered? What’s a conclave?”
“A conclave? I suppose you could call it a task force. A meeting of minds. Something like that.” Argo turned aside. He’d had his bit of fun and now his mind was fixed on other pursuits. “As for the sequestering, it’s a simple matter of information hygiene. You will be handling sensitive information. All will be explained in due time. In a more secure location.”
Argo looked meaningfully at Thomas. Clearly this wasn’t something worth discussing in public. A feeling of panic swelled in Thomas’s breast. Who knew how long this “sequestering” would be? Would they let Karina out eventually? Ever? Had they come through all that just to be torn apart by some bureaucratic transfer? Thomas opened his mouth to protest but the words died in his throat. He saw a dangerous glint behind Argo’s amenable façade. He wouldn’t have his orders questioned by some lowly recruit.
All Thomas could do was extend a trembling hand to squeeze Karina’s wrist. She took his hand, squeezing it back and offering a worried smile. “Talk to you soon,” she whispered. “And tell Cassandra.”
Farhe huffed impatiently. Argo had already strode off down the line of bunks. Karina squeezed Thomas’s hand once more before scurrying after the alien officers. Thomas was left standing by his bunk, alone and silent. Once again the powers that be reared their ugly heads and once again, he was powerless to do anything but watch. Watch he did, right up until Karina ducked through the barracks door and disappeared into the bowels of the Soul Ascension. Thomas sat down heavily on his bunk and tried to ignore the curious looks and smirks thrown his way.
No one said anything. They didn’t need to. Thomas’s mind had already conjured up a burly facsimile of every police sergeant and Insurrectionist thug he’d ever been forced to endure. Can’t even protect your woman, huh? his imaginary tormentor said with a laugh. Not much of a man, are you? I’d have laid that hinge head out cold.
Tell Cassandra, Karina had said. Yes, that was the only thing Thomas could do. A Spartan could deal with this problem. All a conscripted wash-out like Thomas could do was run the message to her. And he would, just like he always did. Eventually. Right now he sat numbly on his cot and wished for the thousandth time that he was anywhere but here. 
***
“My heart is firmly fixed, O God, my heart is fixed,” said the man standing at the back of the dimly lit chapel. A small device by his foot produced the soothing, rhythmic humming of disembodied choristers. “I will sing and make melody.”
“Wake up, my spirit; awake, lute and harp,” replied the man’s audience. A group of nine humans clustered in a half-circle around the antiphon leader. Portable camping stools and overturned storage crates served as makeshift pews. The Tuka ‘Refum Memorial Chapel was hewn and patterned after Sangheili worship practices, which were always performed standing. The small gathering huddled together, squinting at shared prayer books and datapads. One burly infantry legionnaire had taken the time to hand-write today’s psalter in his private notepad.
“I myself will waken the dawn.” Cassandra-G006, whose spirit was far from being awakened, repeated along with the others. She held her tattered, dog-eared prayer book off to the side so that a heavyset woman—fatigues freshly dirtied by a shift in the hangars—could read along.
“Tuka ‘Refum Memorial Chapel” was hardly an elegant title (Cassandra was told it sounded somewhat grander in the Sangheili tongue) but the name certainly fit the chapel’s scattered utilitarianism. A few other small groups clustered around its concave chamber. Seven robed Sangheili dominated the center, murmuring war prayers for victory in the upcoming combat operation. A group of human Kelorists sat quietly in group meditation while a pair of ex-rebels fresh off combat simulations sat together and recited sutras. Work shifts across the Soul Ascension were too hectic and varied for large groups to gather for worship on most days. Legionnaires made do as best they could, with prayer group organizers passing proposed meeting times through the barrack decks. The Kru’desh were not a particularly worshipful bunch despite—or perhaps because of—their Covenant origins, but worship of the pre-Covenant ancestral Sangheili gods was becoming more prevalent across the frontier. The infusion of Insurrectionist holdouts into the Soul Ascension’s bloodstream brought with it the eclectic faiths worshipped across the Outer Colonies.
No matter what troubling revelations emerged from the galaxy’s primordial past, men and women still sought after the word of God. The problem, at least for Cassandra, was that no one seemed any closer to finding any answers—least of all her.
“For your loving-kindness is greater than the heavens, and your faithfulness reaches to the clouds” The words tumbled about her mind. She was only half listening. Her heart had brought her here for worship but her brain was elsewhere. Too many thoughts chased themselves around and around in her mind.
“Exalt yourself above the heavens, O God, and your glory over all the earth.” Sometimes Cassandra felt like she’d been walking down a dark, winding path, never knowing where it might end or where she was going. Leaving the certainties of military life was supposed to free her. It had freed her, all right. Freed her to never know what she was really supposed to be doing with her life. She asked God for guidance and all she ever got was more confusion, more uncertainty. 
“Grant us your help against the enemy, for vain is the help of man.” Surviving the fighting at the Forerunner shield world and escaping the Created should have brought some degree of relief and peace. But Cassandra couldn’t find any peace aboard the Soul Ascension, surrounded by mercenaries and killers. Hypocrite. As if you aren’t a killer, too. Simon seated atop this teetering mess sent Cassandra’s mind reeling. She tried to conjure up the image of her friend leading the Kru’desh through fire and death to save her and the others back at the shield world. Instead she saw Simon wearing a killer’s name and presiding over another execution.
“With God we will do valiant deeds, and he shall tread our enemies under foot.” This ship was going back into battle soon. News was spreading all through the legion that the so-called “Jade Moon operation” would kick off soon. Cassandra didn’t know what the Jade Moon was. She’d find out soon enough. More killing. More war. More death. She didn’t know how the men and women around her kept going.
The psalm concluded and today’s worship lead called for personal prayer requests. The chapel doors slid open and a bearded man in military fatigues slipped wearily inside. Cassandra recognized Captain Shah, one of the chief Kru’desh officers. The former rebel caught her eye but didn’t move to join the prayer group. Instead he found a small space to himself against the wall. He unrolled one of the prayer mats tucked away in the shadows and knelt, mouth moving in quiet contemplation.
“Chaplain? Do you have a Word for the group?”
The question snapped Cassandra back into focus. The prayer leader looked at her with an earnest expression, prayer book balanced neatly between his knees. Cassandra’s cheeks stung but no one had noticed her lapse in concentration. The rest of the group all seemed eager to hear what she might say. They peered at her intently in the dim chapel light.
“I’m not a chaplain,” she said quickly. They’d been trying to call her that ever since she brought this group together. It wasn’t a title she’d earned.
“Still…” The unvoiced suggestion spoke volumes. Everyone knew Cassandra was a Spartan. No, better, an ex-Spartan. A deserter, just like their vaunted commander. She was the best of both worlds: an augmented human without the UNSC’s taint. Her presence here at the prayer group meant she wasn’t some Inner Colony technocrat. These legionnaires saw her as one of them; they desperately wanted her to be something more.
Cassandra rose uncertainly. She tried not to meet those hungry, expectant eyes. None of these people saw the confusion burning through her brain. They saw a Spartan, an augmented warrior, the stuff of legends. Almost everyone in the prayer group was older than her, yet they thought she had something to say to them!
She and Simon were alike in that regard: they could run all they want, transform themselves over and over again, yet they could never shed the indelible marks the UNSC had injected into bodies. Their lost childhood and enhanced abilities set them apart from the rest of humanity. There was no escaping that.
Those hungry looks unnerved her. The legionnaires leaned forward, waiting for her to speak. Cassandra had to say something. She breathed in, trying to settle her emotions, trying not to regret showing up here at the chapel at all. “You’ve been through a lot this past year,” she began, then corrected, “We’ve all been through a lot.”
“Damn straight,” one man muttered.
“Amen,” affirmed another.
“We’re here for a reason,” Cassandra continued. “We’re here because God is looking out for us. He has a purpose for us and this ship and this legion. The Created think they own this galaxy. They think life is just a problem for them to solve. This ship proves them wrong. Your faith proves them wrong. There’s more to this life than power and control. God didn’t make us to be dominated by systems or empires. He wants us to be free. Free from fear, free from systems, free from death. I don’t know where humanity went wrong, but we went wrong. God’s guiding us back to the right path. I know it doesn’t look like it right now, but you’re all helping us get there. Don’t forget that. No matter what happens, you’re God’s children before you’re anything else.”
She finished her rambling speech quickly and sat down, cheeks burning. She felt like a fool. But the rest of the prayer group nodded along with her words thoughtfully. The bulky technician sitting beside Cassandra ducked her head. There were tears brimming in the woman’s eyes. Cassandra looked away feeling more uncomfortable than ever. She wasn’t used to preaching. Faith had always been something personal, not something she wielded like a profession. She’d always hated the frontier preachers, Insurrectionist mouthpieces who bent the Gospel to justify each new suicide bombing or retaliation strike. The thought of turning into one of them…
Always so judgmental. She could practically hear Simon mocking her from the edge of the group. You’re problem is that you just think you’re better than everyone.
Shut up. You wouldn’t know the truth if it hit you with an artillery shell. The thought of Simon was enough to set her teeth on edge. They’d argued the last time they’d seen each other, of course. Nothing good ever lasted when Simon was involved. And now he had a whole legion at his beck and call. At least the thought of him could pull Cassandra away from how embarrassed she felt.
The group wrapped up with a few more prayer requests. They knelt their heads and murmured a final benediction before dispersing off on their own business. Cassandra tried to quiet her churning thoughts and focus on prayer. She prayed for the soul of William Hargrove, murdered at the Gilboan Citadel. For the souls of Lieutenant Justin Davis and his team of ODSTs, killed defending the Chancer V. She didn't think AI had souls but she prayed for Juno all the same and for the countless lives snuffed out by the Created in their march towards authoritarian peace. For David Kahn...
Her clasped hands tightened. Could she really pray for that man who had wrought so much evil in his life and so little good? The man who'd only chosen to be a father at the bitter end, who had gone to his death believing he'd done nothing wrong? Forgiveness was an easy word to say. It was far harder to realize it in the depths of her heart. For my enemies. That would have to suffice for now.
The group leader and his squadmates retrieved their rifles—the Kru’desh were far more liberal in weapon security than UNSC vessels—and hurried off to rejoin their shift. The technician rested a hand on Cassandra’s arm as she turned to go.
“Thank you,” the woman whispered, eyes glistening.
Cassandra gave the tech’s arm a squeeze. She felt like a fraud. She hadn’t said anything profound. Nothing worth crying over. She missed the certainties of running a medical clinic. Everything had felt so much simpler in her little office on Venezia. Of course, nothing ever stayed simple. Not in this galaxy.
“That was well spoken,” someone else murmured. Mohsin Shah stood just beside her looking thoughtful.
Cassandra started. She cast a questioning glance at the prayer group leader’s retreating back. Mohsin just laughed.
“No, I didn’t put him up to it. You’ve just made an impression on the ones who come here to pray. You don’t have to look out for tricks everywhere, you know.”
“This ship is crawling with spies.”
“Not my doing.” Mohsin folded his arms. Cassandra couldn’t get a read on this man. He wasn’t like Argo or the other mercenaries who did Simon’s bidding for the promise of pay and loot, yet he also seemed more thoughtful than the rank-and-file legionnaires resigned to service aboard the Soul Ascension for want of anywhere else to go. Cassandra knew nothing about Mohsin and yet he seemed to be one of Simon’s closest officers. That was dangerous.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Mohsin raised an eyebrow. “Praying, of course. But since we’re here I might as well remind you that the offer to sign on with us is still open.”
“You know my answer.”
“I suggest you reconsider.” Mohsin’s tone was mild. He didn’t seem to be threatening her, yet Cassandra detected an edge to his voice. “You’re one of two people on this ship not taking orders from my deck officers. I can’t do anything about Callum and I don’t really care to. You, on the other hand…”
So he was afraid to poke the sleeping bear that was Callum but perfectly comfortable needling Cassandra. It made too much sense for Cassandra to be offended. In the short time she’d known him Callum had proved the prickly sort. Althea’s presence on that little corvette made him dangerous and Cassandra wasn’t blind to the machinations the Kru’desh were weaving to bring Andra and Merlin into the fold. With Zoey, Thomas, and Karina already ensconced within the legion’s growing power structures, Cassandra was an isolated loose end. She should have been prepared for this conversation. She was lucky this was a conversation at all and not something far less comfortable.
She let Mohsin lead her to the side of the chapel as a new group of worshippers moved in to occupy the space. The newcomers were a strangely mixed group of humans and Sangheili. Cassandra wondered what fusion of faiths brought them together. There were so many these days that no one could really keep track. Her adherence to such an ancient Earth-based religion made her an oddity in the overcrowded world of frontier religions. She and Mohsin were alike, at least in that regard.
“What do you want from me, captain?” she asked quietly, trying to keep her tone and expression neutral. An argument with one of the legion’s top officers wouldn’t go well with her, especially if one of Argo ‘Varvin’s little spies caught wind of it. “I told you already, I’m not taking orders from Commander Venter.” The name and title felt bitter in her mouth. Redmond Venter had been a monster. Simon taking his name meant that he’d given up trying to be anything else.
Mohsin sighed. He wasn’t much older than Cassandra, yet his face seemed weathered and aged like rough leather. “You could start by being an adult. Between Lieutenant Kearsarge and your boyfriend I’m starting to wonder if any Spartans can act like responsible human beings.”
“You don’t know many Spartans.”
“Thank God for that.” Mohsin’s mouth twisted beneath his beard. “This legion saved your life, Cassandra. I’m confident that if it weren’t for you then Venter wouldn’t have hit Asphodel Meadows at all.”
“He’d have done anything to save Zoey.” Cassandra wanted to believe it was true.
“Maybe. But Private Hunsinger is a legionnaire now. You aren’t. And I have a list of people who died saving your life back at the shield world. I can name most of them from memory. You can’t expect—” Mohsin caught the look on Cassandra’s face and reigned himself in. “You get the picture. This a fighting ship with a fighting crew and half of them don’t even speak the same language, to say nothing of the species issue. Hanging threads like you are bad for morale. I have to hold this legion together somehow and I can’t do that by pretending to care about Venter’s personal life.”
The captain looked Cassandra in the eye. “The legion needs you. This is the last time I’ll ask. Don’t make me take things to the next level. I consider Commander Venter a friend—but I have more important things to deal with.”
Cassandra didn’t know what to make of this man. He wasn’t the kind of Insurrectionist she’d had learned to hate on Venezia and Talitsa, one of the swaggering bullies who rolled around in cast-off tactical gear roughing up locals under the veneer of some greater cause. There was an unadorned earnestness to this young officer in his plain duty fatigues that Cassandra couldn’t help but admire. He reminded her of the kind of soldier she’d looked up to as a girl, back when the UNSC was her entire world. Those memories stirred a mixture of nostalgia and fear in her gut. She felt trapped, funneled into a course of action she could never have envisioned or wanted for herself. God help me. God forgive me.
She drew upon years of harsh practice and willed her face to become stone. “And what would I do for the legion, captain?”
“You’re a Spartan and we need fighters,” Mohsin said. “Two plus two is four. The troops already accept you. You’ll be an officer, of course, such as it is. The commander won’t like it, but he knows the score. He’ll accept it and move on.”
He was right, of course. Cassandra hated it, but he was right. “I’m a conscientious objector.” The words felt hollow even as she said them. “Not an Insurrectionist.”
The look on Mohsin’s face told Cassandra that he’d expected more from her. Shame stabbed at her like a knife. Hypocrite. Always after the moral high ground. If I wanted to keep looking down on these people I should have stayed with the UNSC.
“No one on this ship is an Insurrectionist,” Mohsin said. He gave a forced laugh. “Least of all our vaunted commander. I don’t think he’s read a page of political theory a day in his life. You’ll fit right in.”
So this was her future. The path stretching out before her was as inescapable as it was inscrutable. Cassandra couldn’t keep running. The Kru’desh Legion was her home now. And Simon…
“You said Simon was your friend,” she said slowly, wondering who else might be listening in. Juno was dead but you didn’t need an AI to snoop around on a ship like this. “But you keep talking about him as if he’s an inconvenience. So which is it?”
“He is my friend,” Mohsin said simply. He didn’t seem at all concerned over potential eavesdroppers. “He’s also reckless and unstable and wholly unfit to lead—and he knows it. This legion won’t be his private army forever. I need to give Venter an off-ramp, as it were. I’ve watched you long enough to know that you can get through to him in ways people like me can’t. You can help him much more effectively from our staff meetings than you can from down here.”
Help him. To do that she’d need to believe that Simon could still be helped. She wanted to believe that, just like she wanted so desperately to believe that the man standing in front of her was speaking in earnest and not through some convoluted scheme. Layered beneath his matter-of-fact tone Cassandra heard a strain of pleading. Mohsin knew what would happen if the so-called “off-ramp” was not offered and taken. The Kru’desh Legion didn’t suffer leaders who outlived their usefulness.
Murmured prayers from the other worship groups filled the space between them. Mohsin held his ground, waiting for a response.
Cassandra couldn’t cling to her pride any longer. She knew what she needed to do. Simon needed her. He needed someone in this nest of vipers willing to drag him out of the pit he’d dug for himself. Simon was a spiteful, venomous creature. It wasn’t Cassandra’s place to fix that about him. But he’d also put his life on the line for Cassandra time after time. It was time she returned the favor with more than just words.
“An officer, you say?” She took the plunge, adopting the air of casual self-interest she remembered all too well from her last stint in a military hierarchy.
“Special staff.” Mohsin looked relieved. “Flexibility on assignments, naturally. Dealing with Lieutenant Kearsarge has taught me that you Spartans are force multipliers even when you’re kicking against the goads.”
Kicking against the goads. Cassandra was starting to like this strange man. She wondered if Simon appreciated just how blessed he was in his subordinates. “I’d like to think I’m more of a team player than Andra is.”
“I hope so, seeing as she’s decided to put herself back on the duty roster. I’ll make all of the necessary arrangements, get you lined up for a proper billet. The troops will appreciate this. The human ones anyway.” That earnest spark returned to Mohsin’s eyes. Cassandra hoped he knew just how dangerous it was to balance the line between cunning and idealism. “Having you on board will be a huge help. At least I don’t have to worry about you running off to the UNSC with your head full of our operations.”
“Don’t make me regret this, captain.” She extended her hand.
Mohsin took it, looking understandably uncomfortable as she gingerly squeezed his grip. “I’ve spent most of my life fighting for colonial independence,” he said. “I did a lot of things I’m not proud of. This legion’s my chance to do something worthwhile with my life. I think people like you can help me do that. The commander too, as long has he has the right people around him.”
“And the wrong people?” Cassandra thought of the Sangheili officers and the spies scattered throughout the ship. Humans and Sangheili had very different ideas about what “worthwhile” looked like. She wondered how many of the human legionnaires agreed with Mohsin’s assessment of the old Insurrection.
“We’ll see.” Mohsin turned to leave. He looked back over his shoulder. “This goes without saying, but it’s probably best for you to keep this particular conversation quiet.”
“I know how to keep a secret.”
“I don’t mind you telling the right people,” Mohsin said. “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant…” He paused, a questioning look on his face.
Lieutenant. So she’d taken the plunge. After all these years she had a rank once more. Cassandra hesitated. “Engel,” she said finally. “My last name was Engel.” The name conjured up painful memories. She hadn’t spoken that name out loud in a long time. But better Engel than Kahn.
Mohsin nodded. “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Engel.” He left the chapel at a brisk pace, the sounds of chanted prayers following him out into the hall.
==Part II: Jade Moon==
===Chapter Four: Windup===
“The Jade Moon.” Urei ‘Caszal stood atop the bridge command platform. He gestured imperiously—as if Urei had any other way of doing things—at the holoprojection of a moon orbiting a large, barren planet. “Many of you will know it from the old days. Shipmistress Li’lik continues to turn a tidy profit from her mining operations and refueling stations. Unfortunately for her and her wretched brood, they have chosen to turn that profit over to the Created. That makes her our enemy—and your target.”
Mohsin still didn’t understand why they called it “Jade Moon.” From where he stood near the front of the crowd of officers assembled on the Soul Ascension’s bridge the moon didn’t look jade at all. Like most moons it was just one ugly rock orbiting a bigger ugly rock. The intricacies of language translation were lost on him so he assumed that the title meant something in the context of the Covenant’s shattered empire. From the murmurs rising from his Sangheili counterparts, Urei’s remarks seemed familiar to a certain generation of ex-Covenant officer. 
Mohsin noticed Lehk, leader of the Kig-Yar contingent, shift uncomfortably. He didn’t like targeting a Kig-Yar operation. That could be trouble.
“The scouts report no Guardian activity in the sector,” Urei continued. “Activity patterns within the Jade Moon shipyards suggest that operations rely on organic traffic controllers rather than a construct’s will. There may be no Promethean presence at all. If that is true, it is only a matter of time before the Banished move in to secure the shipyard operations. We will strike before they do and claim Li’lik’s riches for our own.”
The assembled officers rumbled in agreement. Spirits in the briefing seemed high. That was a good thing. Argo’s network of observers reported marked improvements in morale since the upcoming operation was publicized. The legion was tired of lurking in the void, cooped up in the Soul Ascension’s hangars and corridors. They wanted a fight, even if that fight risked provoking the Created.
Three figures stood near the edge of the assembly. Andra-D054 and Merlin-D032 stood out in their bulky MJOLNIR. Merlin technically wasn’t an officer but Mohsin had ensured no one objected when Andra brought him to the briefing. Any cooperation from the Spartans was a step in the right direction. Despite generations of bloody defeats at the hands of the UNSC’s “Demons,” the rest of the Kru’desh was heartened by the Spartans’ presence. Cassandra-G006—now “Lieutenant Engel”—stood nearby. Out of all the Spartans, she seemed to be the only one who didn’t compulsively wear combat armor at all times. Despite her reluctant integration she wore her new fatigues well, presenting a far more professional bearing than most of the other human officers. She’d slipped back into the military role faster than Mohsin had anticipated. Perhaps that was what she’d been afraid of all along.
Recruiting Engel was a coup on Mohsin’s part, yet he couldn’t feel proud about it. He’d meant every word he’d said down in the chapel. He needed someone without Urei’s ambition in a leadership position if the Kru’desh was ever to be anything more than a gang of mercenaries. But dragging someone like Cassandra into a position of authority felt wrong. It had only occurred to Mohsin after he’d left the chapel that he had no idea what escaping the UNSC’s militarized indoctrination must have meant to Cassandra—and no idea what returning to the trappings of ranks and uniforms might cost her.
There’s no room for sentimentality now, he reminded himself sharply. This was bigger than one young woman’s personal convictions. The Kru’desh walked a tightrope, teetering between destruction and a hopeful future. They needed every able body that could be pressed into service.
“And if the scouts are wrong?” one Sangheili demanded. “The Guardians move swiftly through Slipspace. They could be upon us as soon as we enter the system.”
“If the scouts are wrong then we retreat.” Simon Venter stood alongside Urei. He’d worn his rust-red MJOLNIR armor for the briefing. He stood at an uncharacteristic parade rest, hands clasped behind his back to disguise his lack of confidence in the armor’s movements. “And I’ll let each of you take turns expressing just how irritated you are that they wasted our time. But that won’t happen. This is nothing after Archangel’s Rest and Asphodel Meadows. Just a little jaunt to stretch our legs. We’re going to hit that system like a hurricane, smash Li’lik’s defenses, and strip the Jade Moon of everything she’s hoarded away over the years.”
The commander’s remarks mollified the doubtful. Venter’s visored gaze swept over the room. Mohsin watched him carefully. The commander had been mercifully quiet about Andra’s return to duty. He also hadn’t said anything about Cassandra’s commissioning. Mohsin had no doubts he knew exactly what had prompted the change in attitude. Venter might be a mess but he was neither stupid nor blind to the changes happening under his helmeted nose. And he’ll find out about Urei’s little project soon enough. When that happened they’d need to come to an understanding. But that was a problem for another time. The Jade Moon operation gave Venter and Mohsin both far too much to worry about than personnel assignments.
“You all have your assignments,” Urei barked. He dismissed the Jade Moon’s image with a wave of his hand. “Rally your troops and prepare your stations. We will enter Slipspace in two standard units.”
The officers dispersed, each to their assigned duties. The bridge crew resumed their duties while the last waves of salvage teams swooped away from the gas giant and into their berths. Across the Soul Ascension pilots assembled in their ready rooms and warriors made ready at muster stations. The Kru’desh Legion’s limbo was over. Now they returned to the fight.
Venter remained atop the command platform. He folded his arms as he watched the combat preparations unfold, expressionless behind that slit-visored helmet. Perhaps Mohsin’s eyes played tricks on him but he could have sworn the commander’s gaze turned and fixed him with a knowing look. He gulped back a wave of guilt—or was it fear?—and strode from the bridge. Busyness would keep his mind on the operation and as far from politics as possible.
***
Alarm klaxons blared down the Soul Ascension’s corridors. Heavy boots pounded down the alien corridors as the crew prepared for a combat Slipspace jump. In a few minutes the ship would disappear into the trans-dimensional void. When it emerged it would plunge into the nightmare of space warfare, where one wrong command or misfortune could spell doom for the ship and the thousands of souls trapped inside its armored shell.
A small contingent of humans and Sangheili trudged through the busy corridor, bulging duffel bags slung over their shoulders. In the middle of the dozen strong group Karina Larina stifled a wave of nausea. She’d endured more horror in the past year than most people saw in a lifetime. She’d watched her home on Taltisa occupied—twice!—before being reduced to rubble. She’d survived ship crashes and firefights and captivity, waking from nightmare-ridden sleep wondering whether each new day would be her last. Sometimes she felt that her life had turned into a death march down a long dark tunnel, a terrifying void that she could never escape. A few days ago she’d at least had Thomas to remind her that life wasn’t so bad. No matter what life threw his way Thomas always pulled through without so much as a word of complaint. Now the Kru’desh had taken away even that small comfort.
She fought the urge to throw herself against the bulkhead and scream. She didn’t know how the enormous Sangheili heading up the little procession of scribes would react if she indulged the juvenile passions churning in her breast. Probably not well. Karina had served as recorder for too many Kru’desh disciplinary proceedings. She didn’t think she could survive a turn at the flogging post. Fortunately she’d spent enough time around these soldier types to learn how to shove her misery down into a wretched corner of her mind and instead focus on merely putting one foot in front of the other.
The Sangheili officer pushed through a group of legionnaires waiting outside a gravity lift. “Priority orders,” he growled in answer to their angry protestations. “Wait your turn or take it up with command.” The little group of scribes endured a stomach-churning descent to the Soul Ascension’s lower levels—just one deck removed from the bowels of engineering, if Karina read the signs properly. They trooped through the dim corridor until they reached a small door guarded by a full contingent of warriors.
“Inside,” the officer ordered.
Karina and the others did as they were told. She glanced nervously at the armed guards. What was so important about this room? 
They were ushered into a dimly lit room lined with what appeared to be bulky stacks of crates. As Karina’s eyes adjusted to the light she realized that they were actually bookshelves. Bookshelves lined with real, bound books. For a moment Karina forgot her wretched mood. Her eyes bulged as she stared at the library stretching out before her—a library she could never have guessed might be lurking in the bowels of the Soul Ascension. Physical books were rare in the colonies. There wasn’t much call for them when every book written across humanity’s history could fit on even the most basic chatter device. But with every Waypoint and frontier networking station destroyed or controlled by the Created…
The possibilities flooded Karina’s mind. The Kru’desh were flying around with a literary gold mine. She stepped tentatively up to the nearest shelf and peered at the books on the shelf. The Brothers Karamazov, Things Fall Apart, a tablet transcribed in Sangheili runes… no one seemed to have put any thought into the library’s organization, but it was an impressive collection all the same. Where had the Kru’desh found these books?
Karina’s fellow scribes shared her curiosity. They roamed up and down the bookshelves and drank in the trove of manuscripts. The Sangheili scribes seemed particularly impressed. They clustered around a group of manuscripts and murmured excitedly to each other.
“Glad to see you like it,” someone said drily. Karina and the other scribes turned to see a bearded man in duty fatigues standing alongside two Sangheili. A small rank insignia identified this man as a captain. He nodded up at the shelves around them. “Welcome to your new duty station. I know most of you got press-ganged into this and I’m sorry for that, but we’ve got a lot to do and not much time to do it in.”
The captain waved up at the shelves around them. “Commander Venter’s private collection. He salvaged most of these from battlegrounds across the frontier before today’s… situation with the Created. Some of the books here might be the only physical copies of their kind in existence. You were chosen for this assignment because out of everyone in the legion you appreciate just how valuable this collection is. You’ll be cataloguing—”
The captain’s communicator buzzed, interrupting his introduction. The klaxons outside were intensifying; the Soul Ascension would enter Slipspace very soon. Karina tried to be respectful and focus on the officer but she couldn’t keep her eyes from wandering around the room. A private collection? She hadn’t realized Commander Venter was a book collector. She’d need to ask Cassandra about that.
“You’ll be briefed on the specifics once we can spare more time,” the captain said quickly. “For now you’ll work here, eat here, and sleep here. We’ve assembled hygiene facilities on this deck. For security purposes you won’t have any contact with personnel not assigned to this project. It’s—” His communicator buzzed again. He scowled and tugged it off his belt, diverted to some pressing pre-battle responsibility.
“Get them situated,” he ordered one of his Sangheili companions. “Keep this room secure during the operation. We’ll do a proper briefing when the decks aren’t collapsing in on each other.”
The captain strode purposefully from the room. Karina dropped her duffel on the deck, brain whirling to process everything that was happening. No contact with other personnel? Was she a prisoner here? She stared up at the books and wondered what she’d done to get dragged down here. They couldn’t just be organizing this strange collection. Something else was going on. Karina was starting to worry she wouldn’t find out what it was until after the coming battle. If the ship survived the coming battle. From the looks on her fellow scribes’ faces, the same thought was occurring to everyone else.
A shudder coursed through the Soul Ascension as she commenced final launch preparations. Karina sat down numbly atop her duffel bag and wondered if she’d ever reach the end of this dark, grueling tunnel.
***
Transitioning into the transdimensional void of Slipspace was a matter of some ceremony aboard most human vessels. Even with the great leaps made in Slipspace travel since the end of the Great War, UNSC Navy protocol mandated a post-jump stand-down of several hours for all non-essential crew while internal systems—and human bodies—recalibrated. Most other human ships observed similar precautions. Given all Cassandra knew of the Covenant and their theological approach to technology, she had expected the Kru’desh to observe some ritual observances of their own once the Soul Ascension completed its Slipspace jump. The small part of her that still harbored such adventurous fantasies was disappointed to learn that this wasn’t the case at all. Once the sickening lurch passed and the alarm klaxons dimmed the legionnaires simply slipped out of their stand-down shelters and hurried back to their duty positions. Work as normal resumed after only a few minutes.
Now Cassandra stood in one of the Ascension’s cavernous assembly halls alongside several dozen human and Sangheili officers. A lanky Sangheili stood before the small gathering, briefing them on the plan for the assault on the Jade Moon shipyards. Legionnaires scurried about on various assignments, receiving orders from their officers or making ready to move to battle stations. This past year had seen Cassandra spend more time on Covenant vessels than she could have imagined in her darkest nightmares, but she could never have thought to find herself a part of the great warship’s seething battle preparations. She felt like a fool in her new uniform. The unadorned fatigues Captain Shah had procured for her were mercifully unpretentious but they still conjured up unpleasant memories of childhood uniform inspections and the grueling routine of her girlhood on Onyx.
She hadn’t spoken to Simon… well, not since their latest argument a week ago. Certainly not since her “commissioning”, such as it was. He knew by now, of course. He’d seen her up on the bridge though he hadn’t said a word. He was inscrutable as ever, his mind bent on the upcoming battle. Any distractions would have to wait until after the Jade Moon operation. It was a conversation they’d have to have at some point—a conversation Cassandra anticipated and dreaded in equal measure.
She’d had no chance to speak with Zoey since this latest development either. Cassandra feared that conversation even more than a future encounter with Simon. She still felt responsible for the Chancer V’s erstwhile captain. Zoey was as prickly as Simon and Cassandra had probably done her no favors by waiting so long to don the Kru’desh colors. But the Cyclops trainees were assigned to a different deck and ready position, and on a ship like the Soul Ascension that might as well be a different planet entirely. That was another concern that needed to wait until after the battle.
Cassandra’s responsibilities and concerns had doubled since she’d become “Lieutenant Engel.” She’d forgotten just how restricting a military rank could be, even in as roughly-hewn an organization as the Kru’desh.
The Sangheili officer had conjured up a miniature holographic presentation of the Jade Moon shipyards. The Kru’desh hoped to catch the Created loyalists off-guard, penetrating their picket lines with the brute force of the Soul Ascension and forcing a surrender without excessive damage to the shipyards and moon-side refineries. “So long as the battery crews and Seraph-jockeys do their jobs properly we won’t have to sortie at all,” the officer rumbled. “But don’t get your hopes up. Those lazy deck-scum always leave work for us.”
“Or show up late and take all the credit,” another Sangheili growled. “Just like Archangel’s Rest.”
The briefing officer laughed bitterly. Several of the other officers—humans and Sangheili alike—rumbled in agreement. Cassandra still didn’t know all the details about the fighting on Archangel’s Rest, but the battle seemed to serve as a rite of passage for the reformed Kru’desh Legion. She knew that kind of combat gateway all too well from the prickly circles of elite fighters within the UNSC community. There were some battles where you’d either fought or you hadn’t. She’d already endured a few scornful sneers from Sangheili who didn’t trust any human who hadn’t endured the “Long March” that Kru’desh veterans spoke about in nigh-reverential tones.
The rest of the briefing passed quickly. Cassandra had yet to receive any particular assignment. It seemed that her role for the coming battle was to standby with the EVA teams, not that anyone had made even that task explicit. She still hadn’t quite pieced together the ramshackle nature of the Kru’desh structure. The legion lacked the iron-spined discipline of the Covenant or UNSC, yet tasks and battle preparations seemed to fall together all the same. Some unseen force wove itself through the legion’s tattered fabric, marshalling order from chaos without dousing the feral energy of these outcast warriors. Was that Simon’s doing? Or was something else at work here?
Cassandra found the possibilities both fascinating and frightening.
As the officers dispersed Cassandra was surprised to see two armored figures lingering at the edge of the crowd. Andra and Merlin, fully clad and helmeted behind their MJOLNIR exoskeletons, had slipped in as surreptitiously as only Spartans could manage. Andra’s helmet tilted in Cassandra’s direction. Her visor concealed whatever expression might have flashed across the younger Spartan’s face in that instant, but Cassandra caught a subtle shift in the pale armor’s posture. Andra hadn’t expected to see her here. A strange pit settled in Cassandra’s stomach but she forced herself to approach the two Spartans.
Merlin sensed Andra’s attention and turned as Cassandra approached. “Oh, hey Cassandra.” He hesitated, as if noticing her uniform for the first time, then swiped two fingers over his visor. Cassandra reflexively returned the gesture. She felt foolish making the gesture without a helmet and suddenly wished she’d donned her own armor for this briefing. She’d hoped to keep herself inconspicuous but it seemed she stood out no matter what she wore.
Andra was more direct. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, perhaps more forcefully than she intended. “And what’s with that uniform?”
“What’s it look like?” Cassandra forced back a jolt of annoyance. Andra had that effect on people. “I’m a lieutenant in the Kru’desh Legion.”
“I see. Never thought you’d be up for joining them.” There was palpable disappointment in Andra’s voice, as if Cassandra had let her down somehow. Cassandra was surprised at how much that disappointment stung.
“They weren’t going to let a freeloader like me lurk around the decks forever.” The smile she plastered on her face felt entirely unconvincing. She’d never been good at forced cheer. “I figured I might as well get with the program. At least I’m a higher rank than I ever was with the UNSC.” She didn’t mention her conversation with Mohsin.
“Lieutenant, huh?” Merlin cut in. He seemed to sense Andra’s unease. “Now you both outrank me. I need to look into this officer deal. It’s…” He paused, head tilting, and didn’t finish the sentence. Cassandra wondered what words were passing between him and Andra inside their private helmet channel. “Congratulations, I mean,” he finished lamely. “Hope you won’t mind that I don’t call you ‘ma’am.’”
“I’m happy that you don’t.” Cassandra couldn’t imagine herself as Merlin’s superior, not after their shared ordeal at the Gilboan Citadel. She wasn’t even used to the honorifics she got from the Kru’desh legionnaires. Merlin possessed an affability that gave him an almost boyish charm even when encased in armor. Cassandra didn’t want to see him dragged into the Kru’desh machine the way Andra had been. The UNSC had done the boy enough harm without Simon’s taskmasters piling on. 
Cassandra let Andra and Merlin lead her out into the corridor. The Spartans’ armored presence helped push through the streams of Kru’desh hurrying here and there to battle stations. Andra kept shooting Cassandra sidelong looks. She probably thought her helmet concealed the glances but experience had taught Cassandra to read armored body language. For reasons she couldn’t discern, Cassandra’s new role bothered the younger Spartan. The discomfort was all the stranger given that Andra was back in the Kru’desh rotation. Cassandra tried to put the girl’s hurt tone out of her mind.
“What’s your read on that briefing?” she asked once they’d reached a more secluded area. “Can they really take this Jade Moon place without a boarding action?”
“Depends. The Seraph talons have gotten better coordinated, but ever since Juno died the battle coordination’s been a mess. They didn’t do the flyboys any favors by throwing the Baselards and Nandaos into the rotation last week, but I guess they needed more human tech to help integrate the training programs.” The wounded trepidation was swiftly replaced by an insider’s self-confidence. Cassandra watched with interest as Andra tugged a small notebook from one of her armor pouches and began tracing a facsimile of the attack plan. “Breaching a defense picket with a capital ship maneuver isn’t exactly conventional, but Str—Venter loves throwing doctrine out the window. If the Guardians really don’t show up we might just pull it off. Your boyfriend always gets lucky right when he needs it.”
Cassandra let that last remark slide. She’d also picked up on the reflexive we Andra had slipped out. “Well, I hope things go according to plan. I’m not ready for a boarding action with this outfit. They haven’t even bothered with an assignment for me yet.”
“Stick with us then,” Merlin said quickly, as if to head off a reply from Andra. “Apparently we’re standing by as an emergency quick response force. Come find me once you’re suited up. It’d be great to get you linked into our TEAMCOM.”
Cassandra caught herself wondering at Merlin’s motives and angrily pushed such suspicions aside. The younger Spartan was refreshing in his earnest lack of guile. She wanted to believe he was genuine.
“Yeah,” Andra said. Her visor peered down at Cassandra. “Great.”
Cassandra wondered at the turn her life had taken, that she was now back to dealing with childish games and boundary-setting. For some reason Andra had taken a dislike to her and now Merlin was corralling them together like a watchful drill instructor. She was surprised to find the whole thing strangely nostalgic. Poor Mary-G130, killed just hours before the Great War ended, had kicked up a fuss when Cassandra was assigned to her team and it wasn’t Jake, their team leader, but Simon who smoothed things over between them. The memories brought a bittersweet smile to her lips.
“Thanks,” she told Merlin. “I’ll find you once I’ve secured my gear.”
She left them standing together in the alcove as she strode back into the churning corridor. Every step she took brought her deeper into the Kru’desh Legion and whatever strange destiny this ship carried them toward.
***
Merlin watched Cassandra stride away. “What was that about?” he asked Andra through their helmet com. He kept his tone casual. He didn’t want to start anything with Andra on the eve of a battle. They still hadn’t patched things up with Callum since the argument in the corvette. “Cassandra’s a good fighter. We wouldn’t have made it off the shield world if it weren’t for her. She might be a traitor but she’s not nearly as bad as Simon-G294.”
“You don’t need to remind me,” Andra growled. “I just thought, her of all people would be the one who could avoid getting dragged into his net. But I guess he gets his claws into everyone in the end.”
Merlin heard an odd note of bitterness in Andra’s voice. She’d been so enthusiastic to discuss Kru’desh affairs, but any mention of Simon always put her in a strange mood. Merlin knew there was a lot Andra hadn’t told him about their time a part. He knew better than to push the subject. There was plenty he hadn’t gotten around to telling her about his own hellish time at the Gilboan Citadel. But it was her idea to get us in on this operation…
Merlin had once understood Andra’s fickle moods as clearly as his own. These days he struggled to know just what was going on inside her head. Fate or luck or some unseen power had brought them back together after the galaxy tore them apart but Merlin still felt a gulf gaping open between them. He still didn’t know how to bridge that gulf. He’d need to figure it out sooner or later before that gulf became permanent. That thought rent his heart worse than any fears about the coming battle.
Andra shook free from whatever grim mood had seized her. She straightened and grabbed Merlin’s arm, suddenly bright and eager once more. “Follow me. I want to show you the armory. They’ve got all sorts of kit we can load out with.”
“Aye-aye, lieutenant.” Merlin let her lead him off down the corridor. He knew better than to trust the abrupt shift in his friend’s disposition. He needed to mend the rift between them one way or the other. But that was something to think about once this ship wasn’t hurtling onwards into battle. For now he'd content himself with following Andra's lead and hoping for the best.
***
“We’re on standby! Move your machines into position! Don’t let me catch you slacking!” Ragna could barely contain her excitement. She dashed across the catwalk, agile even in her bulky EVA suit. She welcomed the machine’s cramped, uncomfortable cockpit. It her like a well-worn glove. She craned her neck, calling up to those still on the catwalk: “Hurry it up! We’ve got five minutes to move into position!”
The actual timeline gave them more than thirty minutes to rotate their machines into the ready position at the other end of the hangar—a mere fifty meter jaunt. But Ragna’s fellow Cyclops jockeys—the worthwhile ones, anyway—shared her excitement. The battle plan called for an EVA assault on the Jade Moon’s orbital stations if the Soul Ascension couldn’t force an immediate surrender. A secondary reserve measure, of course, but Ragna hoped with a forbidden thrill that the fighting forced the Kru’desh to deploy the boarding teams. This was exactly what the Cyclops Corps had trained for. The machines kneeling in the stables like metal gargoyles had been up-armored and reinforced for EVA combat. A word from the bridge would send them tumbling out into space to rain armored destruction upon the enemy.
Ragna’s Cyclops shuddered to life as she ran through the pre-launch checks. The metal beast rose to a standing position. After all this time her body took to the controls as naturally as if she were rising from her own bunk. She’d worked closely with the Kru’desh techs these past months, devouring field manuals and tech documents covering Cyclops specifications. Every kink and technical issue that had held her back on Archangel’s Rest was now adjusted and modified. The Cyclops chassis was draped in extra armor and weaponry. After months of tedious battle drills Ragna itched to unleash this beast on a real opponent.
Lieutenant Kasbeh hobbled along the catwalk, agile atop the narrow gangway despite his crutches. “Seal your EVA suits!” he ordered, his usually casual voice elevated into a commanding baritone. “Do not close your cockpit until you’ve verified suit integrity!”
The heavy EVA suits each jockey wore restricted movement inside the cramped cockpits. Ragna would just as well go without. A hit strong enough to penetrate the Cyclops’s armor would kill her outright anyway. But Kasbeh wouldn’t budge on that front. Ragna’s arms scraped against the cockpit interior as she checked her seals. Her suit practically doubled her frame. The bulky helmet closed over her head. Lieutenant Kasbeh shouted again. The Cyclopes’ cockpits slammed shut. Ragna was sealed inside two layers of protection now. Those layers couldn’t smother her pulsing excitement.
“Move into deployment position!” Kasbeh’s voice sounded tinny inside Ragna’s helmet. She wrapped her hands around the familiar throttle and shook her machine free of its stable. A line of metal soldiers trooped across the hangar while Sangheili guide-ons waved them towards a pair of waiting Lich gunboats. Ragna’s moment of freedom was all-too short lived. She cleared the hangar in a few strides. Then, gritting her teeth, she dicked into the first Lich and dropped into a kneeling position. The other Cyclopes crammed in around her, reinforced hulls scraping up against each other in the gunboat’s cramped interior.
They would wait here alongside the other boarding teams, tethered inside the ship until the hoped-for order from Commander Venter sent them spilling out into the vast, cold battlespace. Ragna drummed her fingers against the throttle and tried to fight back the choking claustrophobia that always came rushing in when forced to stand by in her beloved exoskeleton. She was almost ashamed to admit that she missed Archangel’s Rest and its vast empty snowfields. Almost.
All around the Lich and its armored payload the rest of the legion moved into position. The machinery of war ground on as the Soul Ascension hurtled on through the silver void.
***
“All bulkheads are sealed. All sections are on stand-by. All fighter talons are ready to launch.” Mohsin ran a finger down the Covenant script scrolling across his tactical feed. Urei had insisted he learn the strange runes in what little spare time he had. The text was surprisingly easy to learn and Mohsin found it strangely comforting to understand the glyphs he encountered around the Soul Ascension. “The legion is ready to begin the attack.”
“We exit Slipspace in half a unit.” Urei strode purposefully across the elevated command deck. He stared down at the bridge crew officers, eyes glistening with reptilian pride. “Communications, prepare the orders. Do not let a single section go undirected. You’ve been trained well. Do not fail your legion now.”
The communications officers—six Sangheili and four humans—nodded nervously. Times like this made Juno’s death sting harsher than ever. Mohsin hadn’t realized that he’d grown so fond of Juno before her fall from grace. He’d taken her tactical support for granted. Now the Kru’desh relied on organic officers for their strategic coordination and it showed. The Jade Moon assault would be the legion’s first true test without an AI linking their systems and unit leaders. Mohsin still didn’t know if they were ready for such a test. In an hour he’d know—or they’d all be dead.
He wished he knew exactly what had gone on between Juno and the commander. Mohsin glanced over at Venter. The commander stood just as he had during the officer briefing, rooted in the center of the command deck, arms folded over his armored chest. The MJOLNIR helmet tilted up to observe the scouts’ projection of the Jade Moon’s defensive layout. That display would shift in just a few minutes. Mohsin had little doubt the Created force’s dispersal would be far different from the recon picket’s estimation. The Kru’desh strategy anticipated this with the flexible bluntness Mohsin had come to expect from Venter after all this time.
The strategy was the same... and yet the commander himself was different.
“This is it,” Mohsin heard himself say. “All or nothing.” Part of him just wanted to speak with Venter, even if it was to exchange meaningless pleasantries. A sinking feeling in his gut warned him that Venter knew everything: Cassandra’s recruitment, Urei’s plotting, the work going on even now down in that repurposed library. He felt a sudden urge to come clean and confess everything. Surely the commander would understand. He’d know that everything Mohsin had done was for the best.
“This is it,” Venter agreed. He turned to Urei. “Prepare my ship for combat.” His tone was strangely detached, as if someone else spoke through his lips. A rigid coldness, so different from the fiery passion with which Venter had led the Kru’desh at Gilgamesh, Le Havre, and Archangel’s Rest. He acted more like a real officer—more like his “father”—every day. The change worried Mohsin. He could handle the wild, ambitious renegade. In the cold, quiet calculation Mohsin saw the reincarnation of the old Venter.
But that was what we wanted. He glanced at Urei. If the Sangheili noticed Venter’s altered posture he didn’t show it. Isn’t it?
Mohsin descended from the command platform. He quickly busied himself in the crew pits, eager to take his mind off the armored figure looming above them all. Not for the first time did he wonder if he’d gotten more than he’d bargained for with the Kru’desh Legion. Life had been so brutally simple back when he was just another Insurrectionist huddled in a bunker on some muddy backwater fighting for a lost cause. Standing on the Soul Ascension’s bridge, helping to coordinate the first truly integrated human and Sangheili fighting force either species had ever known, Mohsin Shah felt utterly out of his depth.
He swept those feelings aside and focused his mind on the battle at hand. He could indulge in all the fears and doubts and self-recriminations later. If there was a later.
A shudder coursed through the Soul Ascension. The ship made ready for its transition to realspace. Pilots tensed in their hangars like horses in a starting gate. Boarding parties huddled aboard their dropships, waiting for the command to launch. The ship hurtling through Slipspace was nothing short of a primed fragmentation bomb, ready to explode and unleash its chaotic arsenal on the Created and their newborn empire.
The alarms sounded once more. Cries echoed through the corridors. The Soul Ascension ripped a hole in subspace and emerged back into the light. A planet, a moon, and a vast array of shipyards lay before it. The Kru’desh Legion had come for the Jade Moon.
===Chapter Five: The Jade Moon===
Night—or at least, the artificial approximation of a night cycle—hung over the Jade Moon. The graveyard security shifts drifted listlessly from their posts and orbital positions. Weary defense teams watched over control centers on defense platforms while workers shuffled listlessly through factories and shipyard refineries. Shipmistress Lil’lik’s operation had once functioned like a tightly wound machine. No enemy had ever slipped through the station’s nets even at the height of the Blooding Years. But that was before the Created. Before the Guardians stripped the galaxy free from all threats. Before half the Jade Moon’s defense fleet was disarmed and the other half placed under the watchful, hardlight “eyes” of Promethean sentries. The refineries and shipyards continued to churn and toil, but it was a diminished, hollow industry. Lil’lik’s iron ambitions no longer turned the Jade Moon’s orbit. The labor continued like all enterprise under the Created Mantle: efficiently, ploddingly, soullessly.
A lifetime of petty resentments had given Simon Venter a bully’s eye for striking those weaker than himself. These crude instincts served him well as commander of the raiding force. The Jade Moon’s defenders were not the proud armies of Irthanus or the Asphodel Medows vanguard force. They were sullen, weary subjects already diminished in the Mantle of Responsibility’s sterile, enforced peace. The Kru’desh had chosen their target well.
The Soul Ascension tore free from Slipspace’s silver shroud. She hurtled forward toward the Jade Moon’s defense picket. The ship had emerged close to the shipyard defenses—far too close by any rational tactical analysis. Most of the ship’s systems needed to recycle after the Slipspace transition. She was easy prey for any alert defense force.
The Jade Moon defense picket was not an alert force. The picket vessels, a mixed armada of man o’wars and brigantines, were positioned to defend against attackers striking from planetoid cover deeper into the system. They had not anticipated a brazen assault so close to the shipyards. Their crews, caught unaware during a tedious shift exchange, were sluggish and surprised. Even their Created-slaved systems, focused on coordinating the shift transition, were slow to re-dedicate resources. By the time the picket ships reformed their battle formation the Soul Ascension was on top of them. The battlecruiser’s shields were back up and attack talons streaked from her hangars. Bright streaks of fire blossomed across her hull as she plunged like a hawk down upon her prey.
Alarms spread across the shipyards and refineries like wildfire. Kig-Yar crews scurried to their fighters while security teams stumbled from their nests and rushed to arm themselves. Shipmistress Lil’lik herself stormed onto the central shipyard complex’s command center, hissing furious orders to her panicking subordinates. The Prometheans standing on stiff guard offered no orders or advice. The Jade Moon had a distress beacon launched before the first Kru’desh salvo struck home.
In her heart of hearts, Lil’lik knew no help would come. No Guardians would emerge from the void to sweep these attackers aside. The deck rumbled beneath her talons as plasma torpedoes ripped through shipyard defense batteries. Assault talons swept aside fighter defenses while bomber squadrons descended on pre-planned targets. The Soul Ascension loomed over the carnage, raining plasma down upon the Jade Moon while fire from the scattered defense picket splashed uselessly off her shields. The disaster unfolded and Lil’lik knew that the rumors whispered in alcoves and secluded corridors were true.
Cortana was gone. The Created had crumbled. The Mantle of Responsibility and its promises of a millennia-long peace evaporated. The Kru’desh Legion swept down upon the broken empire to take its share of the spoils.
Lil’Lik’s needle-sharp teeth tightened in her beak. She didn’t know exactly who had come to destroy her precious Jade Moon. She didn’t care. If she was to lose everything, she’d make sure these vultures paid a steep price.
***
Ensconced within the little BDS corvette, Callum was several layers removed from the battle raging outside. Inertia dampeners rendered all but the sharpest of the Soul Ascension’s maneuvers imperceptible to those inside her hull. Even the stars visible through the hangar shields seemed placid and tranquil. Were it nor for the alarm klaxons and the officers bellowing orders to the legionnaires out on the hangar floor Callum might not have known there was any sort of combat operation in progress at all.
Of course, the strange tranquility only served to further rend the Spartan’s already frayed nerves. He leaned back in the pilot’s seat and resisted the urge to leap up and join the frantic work outside the corvette. Sitting out of any battle wasn’t in his nature. But participating in this one meant submitting to the Kru’desh. Callum wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.
A barely perceptible tremor passed through the corvette. Callum gritted his teeth and rested his fists on the cockpit controls. “Get me into their battlenet,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “I want to know what’s happening out there. This is an order.”
Althea glared from underneath her hood. Perched atop the cockpit’s holoprojector, the AI folded her arms. Callum’s weary exasperation was probably playing tricks on him but the AI’s hooded expression seemed almost petulant. “For the last time, this isn’t a sanctioned operation and you can’t give me orders.”
“Yet I keep you plugged in,” Callum grated.
“If you unslot me you won’t have anyone left to talk to.”
“I miss the good old days when you wouldn’t even speak up without permission. No wonder Commander Frendsen didn’t want you making contact with Andra. You get more like her every day.” Callum paused. Outside the corvette another Seraph talon made ready to launch. “That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I didn’t think it was,” Althea said primly. “But since you brought her up, I might as well point out that you’d have a better idea of what’s going on if you’d just volunteered to work with them.”
“You know why I won’t do that.” Callum’s irritation dissipated. He could never stay angry with Althea for too long. He owed her too much. “Merlin and Andra have their hearts in the right place. But the Kru’desh are a gang of traitors and rebels. Working with them is a slippery slope. Simon’s dangerous. He’s good at manipulating people. Andra says she doesn’t care for him, but he’s already gotten inside her head. He’ll use her to get to Merlin. Maybe they just have to figure that out for themselves.”
Althea ducked her hooded head as if in thought. Another shudder—heavier this time—rocked the corvette and the AI’s hologram flickered. Callum leaned back in the pilot’s seat and slipped into a rhythmic breathing exercise he’d used since childhood to calm his nerves. Everything about this mess was wrong. He was trapped on an enemy ship on the edge of known space with no way of regrouping with the UNSC—or even knowing if there was a UNSC to regroup with. In Callum’s darker moments he wondered if Merlin was right. Maybe he just couldn’t handle the truth. Maybe there wasn’t any point in loyal—
“I’ve got it,” Althea said suddenly.
Callum blinked. “Got what?”
“Kru’desh operational security isn’t as good as it could be. A lot of talons and shipside teams are using private comm devices outside of the official battlenet.” Althea spread her robed hands. “It’s not perfect, but as long as I just channel them here it shouldn’t cause any trouble.”
"Thank you." Callum leaned forward. "So, let's have it."
Althea raised a digital hand. "Not so fast. What was that you said about unplugging me?"
Callum raised an eyebrow. He spotted a mischievous smile beneath that deep hood. He still remembered a time when Althea had been so timid she practically relied on Merlin to speak for her. Now she really was getting more like her progenitor. Callum wondered if Althea understood just how dangerous that might be. But that was a conversation for another time. "Alright, alright. Truce. I won't unplug you."
"Can I get that in writing?" Althea laughed. She seemed to enjoy the back and forth. Callum could tolerate a bit of backchat. It beat her moping around mourning over Juno. "Just kidding. Let's get to eavesdropping." She gestured with her robed hands and the chaotic sounds of a legion in combat filled the cockpit.
***
Althea’s transponders intercepted dozens of the independent com channels raging across the battlespace as thick as plasma. The legion’s com systems were fragmented; in part thanks to a conscious effort to deter Created incursions and in part as a consequence of unleashing as chaotic a force as the Kru’desh on any target. Talon commanders barked orders to their pilots and snarled at each other as they bore down on the Jade Moon’s defenses. Fire control teams chattered over private coms as they scurried from one deck to another. Down in the mustering halls warriors armed themselves and murmured together in terse anticipation as they awaited the sortie orders that would surely come at any moment. The Soul Ascension rampaged on over the Jade Moon, deadly plasma bombardments issuing from her smooth hull.
This cacophony of conflicting voices flowed into Althea as she made herself the conduit between Callum and the battle’s chaos. Only an AI’s rapid-fire processors could take such a raging torrent and weave it into something even remotely discernible. Even then, to the untrained ear this would have been little more than one panicked voice shouting over another, on and on into the raging void.
But Callum had a lifetime’s experience sifting through battle networks. His expert ear picked out each individual voice and put it in its place. He steadily assembled a mental picture of what was happening; a picture, it turned out, that was very close to the truth.
The Kru’desh had caught the Jade Moon completely by surprise, just as Venter and his officers planned. None of the picket ships had the firepower to penetrate a battlecruiser’s heavy shielding and within minutes of the Soul Ascension erupting from Slipspace half of Lil’lik’s patrol fleet was space dust. The surviving vessels scurried towards the safety of the space docks or fled out to the far edges of the system. The Soul Ascension hurtled forward unopposed, blazing like a meteor as she bore down upon the Jade Moon and her orbital shipyards.
That was where the trouble started. The attack had, in fact, gone too well. The Soul Ascension’s gunnery crews were in top form but her fighter talons gave a much poorer showing. Without Juno’s battle coordination efforts their intricately planned precision strikes swiftly fell apart. Bombers missed their targets and came around for a second run only to be cut off by their own escort fighters as they dueled clumsily with the Seraphs and Banshees pouring out of every hangar and porthole. The space around the Jade Moon was a mess of wounded ships limping back towards the Soul Ascension and fresh squadrons eager to succeed where their predecessor had failed.
What happened next was entirely avoidable. The Soul Ascension could have simply slowed her advance and picked off the station defenses one by one while her fighters regrouped. But Venter was convinced he had no time to lose. Every extra minute the raid dragged on was more time for Guardian reinforcements to arrive and trap the Kru’desh mid-assault. The urgency was an excuse for Venter to indulge in his most reckless impulses. And so the Soul Ascension pressed ahead, carving a burning path through the Jade Moon’s defenses. She drove down into the moon’s orbit, eager to get beneath the station defenses and bring her ventral beam to bear on the moon’s surface. The dockyard batteries—batteries that should have already been destroyed—hammered away at the battlecruiser’s shields. The Soul Ascension paid them no heed. She slammed further downwards.
Downwards—and in range of the Tyrant surface-defense battery Lil’lik had prepared on the Jade Moon’s surface.
***
An eerie silence hung upon the dim library. Karina sat at her workstation and tried to keep her eyes focused on the documents spread in front of her. A writing stylus—most of these Covenant systems lacked proper keyboards—trembled in her hand. Names and dates and places swirled in her head. Redmond Venter, Spartan program, Naval Intelligence, Mamore, Shinsu ‘Refum. None of these meant anything to her. How did they expect her to write anything coherent from this mess?
Sangheili officers prowled around the library. They seemed determined to pretend that there wasn’t a battle raging outside at this very moment. This work day had proceeded like any other, with documents distributed and writing quotas assigned. The officers in charge were determined to complete this project as quickly as possible, battle or no battle. Karina still had no idea what she was doing here. She simply took the notes these officers gave her and transcribed them into whatever coherent scraps of passages she could muster. All of her fellow scribes were doing the same, not that Karina knew what they were doing. They weren’t allowed to discuss anything about their work with each other.
A flash of professional pride stung Karina. This was almost as bad as writing up propaganda broadcasts for the Created. The finished product—whatever that was—would be an absolute mess of conflicting styles and translations. Did these Kru’desh understand anything about writing? Half of the scribes in this room didn’t even speak the same language!
Raised voices drifted in from the corridor. A wiry Sangheili seated at the station beside Karina craned his neck to stare at the sealed door. One harsh look from the nearest officer snapped his head back to his workstation. Karina fingered her stylus nervously. Their Sangheili overseers always swaggered around in full armor with plasma rifles clipped to their combat harnesses. That seemed to just be how the Covenant did things, but did they have to wear their weapons so prominently? It was hard to write with armed guards lurking over your shoulder—
The shudder that rocked the Soul Ascension threw Karina face-first into her workstation. She reeled back, eyes stinging, as cries from her fellow scribes filled her ears. Some of the others had been thrown clear of their workstations. One of the Sangheili officers had only stayed on his feet by grabbing the nearest bookshelf. Protective casing over the priceless tomes held the books themselves in place.
Karina thought she could smell smoke. The air around her felt thin. An animal panic threatened to take hold of her. Her mind warped back to the hellish escape from Asphodel Meadows, scrambling through halls and corridors as the station collapsed around her. She still had nightmares about that day. It took every ounce of effort she possessed to hold herself in place at her work station.
More panicked shouts rose from the scribes. One of the officers bellowed for order. “You are warriors of the Kru’desh Legion!” the Sangheili snarled. He glared fiercely at each scribe in turn. “Remain at your stations. Continue your work. The battle proceeds with or without our interference.”
Warriors of the Kru’desh Legion. Karina didn’t feel like a warrior. Yet somehow the officer’s assurance calmed her nerves. The other scribes returned unsteadily to their posts. But Karina knew the battle wasn’t going as planned. There was something different about the Soul Ascension. She could feel it in the ship beneath her feet, as if she were standing beside a wounded animal. Something had gone wrong, very wrong.
She could only hope Cassandra and Simon and the others fixed this. A tightness settled in her gut. She didn’t know where Thomas was. She had know way to find out if he was safe or… or…
Karina squeezed her eyes closed and pressed her stylus to the pad before her. She locked a primal scream in her throat. Another tremor coursed through the room as the Soul Ascension rampaged on across the Jade Moon.
***
“Hurry!” the Unggoy fire-gang leader squealed. He waved his stubby arms, urging Thomas and a dozen other legionnaires on through the smoke-filled corridor. “The fires are spreading through the portside decks!”
“Idiot,” a woman in front of Thomas snarled. “It’s the starboard hangar that got hit. We’re going the wrong way.”
“That’s what I said, stupid female! Your translation device is faulty. Stop arguing with me or I’ll have you flogged!”
The argument raged back and forth, a torrent of angry abuse and accusations. Thomas kept his head down and focused on balancing the heavy fire suppression gear piled in his arms and slung over his shoulders. The fire-gang hurried on through the smoke. Maybe they were going the right way and maybe they weren’t. Thomas had no way of knowing for sure. He had no idea what was going on. All he wanted to do was break away from this team of squabbling, self-important morons—human and alien alike—and comb the Soul Ascension’s decks for any sign of Karina. But of course he couldn’t do that. He was trapped. Trapped on this ship, trapped in this legion, trapped as always with no way out.
The battle wasn’t going well, at least as far as Thomas knew. One moment he’d been on standby with the rest of the fire-gang and then an earthquake had erupted beneath his feet. The ship had taken a hit, that much was clear. It had to be pretty bad. They’d passed scores of wounded legionnaires dragging themselves through the corridors, abandoned by their comrades as they sought to escape the spreading fires. Thomas tried not to think about all the horror stories he’d heard about space warfare: men and women vented into space or left to burn or suffocate behind sealed bulkheads, entire ships blasted apart with all hands, thousands of souls extinguished in an instant…
The thought of Karina lying dead or wounded, abandoned to the flames, made Thomas sick. Where was she? He wanted to scream.
“What do you think you’re doing?” a sharp voice demanded. The fire-gang skidded to a halt. A figure in battered-green combat armor blocked their way. Her face was concealed by a broad-visored helmet but Thomas recognized her at once. Cassandra!
“Out of the way, out of the way!” the Unggoy squealed.
“Your team’s headed in the wrong direction,” Cassandra snapped. A small crowd of legionnaires was visible behind her through the smoke. They seemed to be taking directions from her. “I have orders to get every fire-control team I can find to the starboard decks. That means you, so fall in!”
The Unggoy started to argue but quickly thought better of it. A fully armored Spartan had that affect on people. Cassandra wasn’t carrying any weapons. Her armor was loaded up with fire control equipment. Her medical satchel hung, as always, at her side. She pushed through the fire-gang and hurried on back down the corridor they’d come. As she passed Thomas her helmet dipped in an almost imperceptible nod. The small gesture swelled his heart with gratitude.
The simple, unlooked for acknowledgement lifted Thomas’s spirits. After days spent lurking alone, a nameless and faceless legionnaire, Thomas had almost given up on seeing any of his friends ever again. Now here was Cassandra, striding back into his life with that same determined confidence that she’d used to keep them alive back at the Gilboan Citadel. The chastened Unggoy and the rest of the fire-gang fell in alongside the others without further argument.
More shouts echoed down the corridor. The fires were getting worse. Cassandra didn’t hesitate. She hurried forward towards the screams and alarms. Thomas shouldered his gear and swallowed his fear. He hurried after her as the sounds of battle rang like alarm bells in his ears.
***
“What does that moron think he’s doing?” Callum snarled aloud.
The Soul Ascension had taken a hit. That much was clear from the battle chatter still flowing in through Althea. Callum couldn’t decipher how bad the damage was, but at least three decks were breached. A fair number of fighter talons were pulling back to defensive positions around the ship. Excited chatter from assault team leaders suggested that boarding teams were preparing to launch a direct attack on the Jade Moon orbital stations. Under any sane conditions such a shift in tactics called for the attacking mothership to pause its advance and use its shields and weapons to cover the boarding vessels.
And yet—if chatter from talon flight leaders could be believed—the Soul Ascension raged onwards. She showed no signs of stopping, bringing her weapons to bear on distant surface targets even as dropships and gunboats launched upward, straining against the moon’s gravity well to assault the orbital platforms. The Kru’desh were simultaneously continuing their assault on the Jade Moon’s orbital platforms while lashing out at distant targets on the moon’s surface. Simon was spreading his legion thin, trying to accomplish tactics suited for a force three times his size.
The recklessness shouldn’t have bothered Callum in the slightest. If Simon wanted to get himself and a few thousand pirates killed the galaxy would be no poorer for it. But these so-called tactics kept paying off—at Archangel’s Rest and Asphodel Meadows the Kru’desh had stacked up victories and cemented the false legend of Commander Simon Venter. And if Simon failed here—if the Jade Moon’s defenses cracked the Soul Ascension apart and burned her crew into stardust—then Andra and Merlin and Althea died with them. Callum hadn’t brought them all this far just so they could die in a pointless assault. But as long as they were trapped in this wretched ship there was nothing Callum could do.
He leaned back in his seat, fuming. He wished he could be up on the bridge. Then he might grab Simon by the collar and shake him like a misbehaving dog. Someone had to beat sense into that wretched traitor. The Kru’desh thought their precious commander was some kind of military genius. Even Adndra bought into the myths Simon and his cronies spun. She tried to hide it, but Callum heard the thinly veiled admiration that crept into her voice whenever she talked about Simon.
Callum knew better. He’d seen enough of Simon’s tactics to recognize all the signs of a middling, poorly-educated commander. Simon had no advanced tactical training whatsoever. He had experience aplenty: soldiering experience, brawling experience, blunt force instincts transposed into aggressive, reckless assaults to disguise his lack of technique. Simon used the Soul Ascension and her crew like a club, bludgeoning battles into pieces no matter how many lives such an approach cost.
Another squawking voice leaped out from Althea’s concert of intercepted com traffic. “Warriors, to your ships! They’ve called out the next wave of boarders!” The Kru’desh hadn’t given up yet.
Callum closed his eyes and soothed his nerves with the tempting fantasy of wringing Simon-G294’s neck. In the real world the Soul Ascension plunged on into the fire, caught in the swirling chaos of battle.
***
Ragna’s boot kicked a tattoo into the Cyclops’s cockpit. This waiting was driving her crazy. She had no way of knowing what was happening in the battle beyond the confines of her machine and the cramped Lich troop bay. The Cyclops squadron’s com channel was sealed off from the battlenet. They were trapped on standby, wedged like freeze-rations into the dormant gunboat. For all Ragna knew the battle was over already. She might never get—
The com piece in her EVA suit hissed. “Boarding team,” Lieutenant Kasbah’s voice barked. He was coordinating the squadron from a separate command suite back by the Cyclops pens. “Boarding team, you’re up! Brace for launch in three minutes. Your target is the shipyard command platform. Standby for targeting data.”
The dim Cyclops cockpit erupted with light. Kasbha was streaming target IDs to each machine in the squadron. Ragna’s eyes bulked. She drank in the information streaming past her eyes. Excitement nearly made her illiterate. This was it. No more stand-by. No more drills. This was the real deal. Her hands tightened around the control throttles.
Targeting and combat status data linked Ragna’s cockpit to the rest of the squadron. Her machine shuddered as the Lich rumbled to life. Ragna’s heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the whine of plasma engines. She was still sealed in the cramped darkness of the troop bay but she could practically see the bright flurry of activity raging in the hangar outside.
Her stomach lurched as the Lich lifted off. A moment later her skin tingled as the gunship tore free of the Soul Ascension’s artificial gravity and burned out into the weightless void.
“Remember the drill,” Kasbah’s voice, raspy with static, crackled in Ragna’s ear. “Once you clear the Lich, touch down on the spacedock hull and magnetize. No acrobatics out there. Just blast your target zone with everything you’ve got and move on.”
More targeting data flashed through the cockpit. Attack threads showed the squadron’s projected dispersal across the station’s surface. Targets throbbed on the alien hull. Ragna’s first target was right in the middle of the ovaloid structure. The darkness outside the cockpit and the dull throb of the Lich engines stood in stark contrast to the deadly chaos Ragna knew was raging outside.
“We are passing through the station’s point defense field,” a new guttural voice, the Lich’s Sangheili pilot, growled over the comp. “Brace yourselves, humans. The bay will unseal as soon as I clear the strike zone.”
“Hit ‘em hard, Cyclops Corps.” Kasbah’s usually mild voice was hard and cold. “Violence of action. I want holes in that station!”
Ragna shifted the Cyclops’s weight, bracing for depressurization. A wave of primal energy rushed through the cramped bay. Each pilot readied his or her machine. All eyes fixed on the sealed bay doors. The Lich shuddered as its armor shrugged off a glancing hit.
Flowers of terror blossomed in Ragna’s gut. Only now did it occur to her that EVA action was different from ground pounding. One well-placed shot, one bad hit on the Lich, and she’d be dead. She might never see the shot that killed her. Or maybe it wouldn’t kill her. Maybe she’d be sent spinning out into the void, trapped in her precious Cyclops, drifting aimlessly until her air ran out and she—
“We’re in the dispersal zone!” the pilot bellowed, voice tight with concentrated excitement. “Get off my Lich!”
The next few seconds happened far too quickly for Ragna to process. One moment her Cyclops was kneeling in the troop bay. The next a terrible force shook her, as if a giant hand had seized her exoskeleton and hurled it out into the void. The troop bay’s darkness gave way to an even deeper, inky blackness. The full measure of weightlessness erupted around her and a terrible panic took hold. Ragna couldn’t see anything: not the Lich, not the Soul Ascension, not even the enemy command platform. Her instruments flashed before her. The cockpit seemed more cramped than ever.
Fear nearly paralyzed Ragna. Instinct saved her. She fired her frame’s booster jets just as she’d done a hundred times in training exercises. Her stomach lurched as the Cyclops oriented itself in the vacuum. As she regained her bearings a large purple sphere slid into view. Behind it loomed a breathtaking sight: an immense, craggy planetoid, the Jade Moon itself. It surface was pitted and jagged and yet strangely beautiful. Ribbons of pulsing emerald light danced silently across the moon’s surface. So that’s why they call it the Jade Moon, a small voice marveled in the back of her mind. Ragna still couldn’t see the Soul Ascension or any of the Kru’desh fighter talons. She couldn’t see her fellow Cyclopes or even any signs of battle at all. For one serene moment Ragna simply floated through space, eyes fixed on the eerily beautiful scene before her.
The moment didn’t last. Lieutenant Kasbah was shouting orders in her ear. Instinct kicked in again and Ragna fired the thrusters again. Her Cyclops tumbled forward towards the station. The beautiful view transformed into a battlefield. Ugly gashes and plasma scoring marred the platform’s paneled hull. Flower-like bulbs across its surface become defense emplacements that blasted streams of plasma at unseen targets. Ragna thought she could see more Cyclopes hurtling down towards the target’s hull—or maybe they were just chunks of debris.
The Cyclops’s onboard computer flashed. Red lines traced across Ragna’s EVA heads-up display, bisecting the station and completing its transformation from tableau to target. One line in particular burned more urgently than the rest. This deadly thread was Ragna’s assault path. That was where she needed to go. That was where she’d find her target.
The targeting data burned away the last of her confusion. Fear became pulsing, irresistible adrenaline. Ragna was no helpless spectator. She was a predator. An iron-clad hunter. She bared her teeth and fired the thrusters once more. The station’s surface swelled to fill her tiny viewport as she bore down on the hull. Kasbah’s targeting data lined up a series of paneled blisters directly in her path, the space on the hull where her first blow would land. Ragna didn’t need to know what those blisters were or why they needed to be destroyed. All she needed to do was release her payload.
Ragna’s arms darted nimbly through the cramped cockpit, the stuffy weight of the EVA suit forgotten. She primed her autocannon and released the safeties on the chassis-mounted rocket launchers. Her fingers quivered over the firing studs on her throttle. She drifted closer to the station. Just a few more seconds and she’d be in range. A few more seconds and she could—
“Stand down! Abort descent and stand down!”
Someone was yelling in her ear. Ragna scowled. She didn’t need distractions right now. She lined up her target. The enemy was right in front of her. She and the other Cyclopes would punch through this objective like a metal fist through wet paper. Her fingers tightened on the firing studs.
“Abort descent!” Kasbah roared. “This is an order!”
Ragna stifled a scream of frustration. An emergency thruster blast sent her spiraling backwards, away from the station and back out into space. Her weapons pointed uselessly out into the void. She couldn’t see anything anymore.
“Stand down,” Kasbah repeated. He sounded relieved. “The Jade Moon surrendered. They’re disarming their defenses. We’ve won. It’s over.”
Over? Ragna hadn’t done anything. She hadn’t even fired a shot. How could any of this be over? She twisted her Cyclops, straining for a better view. The station drifted serenely beneath her. Its plasma turrets hung limp in their sockets. Ragna still couldn’t see the Soul Ascension.
“Good work, team,” Kasbah continued. “Excellent dispersal. Minimize movement and fire your retrieval beacons. The Lich is coming back around to pick you up. We’ll debrief back in the ready room once you get back to the pens and dismount.”
The praise felt completely hollow. Ragna’s hands tightened angrily around her throttles. Frustrated tears stung her eyes. She couldn’t even wipe them clear thanks to this ridiculous EVA helmet. She felt like a fool. The Kru’desh had won another victory and she hadn’t done anything. She didn’t even know what had happened.
She pushed her anger and humiliation, stuffing them down into a box in the back of her mind just like Venter had taught her. She fumbled with a switch at the bottom of the cockpit dashboard. Her Cyclops would fire off an emergency ping, signaling the retrieval dropship. Ragna let herself fall limp in the uncomfortable cockpit, waiting sullenly to be ferried her back to the hangar like so much dead weight.
“You don’t look very happy,” Althea observed. The hooded girl leaned forward as if to inspect Callum. “Did you want us to lose?”
Callum grunted. He slouched back in the cockpit seat and stifled a wave of irritation. “Us. Who’s this us you’re talking about?”
“The Kru’desh Legion. Which for all intents and purposes includes us as long as we’re aboard this ship.” Althea folded her arms and gave Callum a knowing look from beneath her cowl. “You did want us to lose. That’s not very healthy, you know.”
“I’m glad we’re still alive,” Callum grated. “But he didn’t deserve to win. That’s all there is to it.”
Simon’s thuggish brawler’s tactics had paid off once more. The Soul Ascension had simply ignored the orbital defenses, scattering friend and foe in her wake as she plunged recklessly towards the moon’s surface. With her shields down and a gaping hole blown in her starboard hull, one good hit from the surface batteries could have crippled her. Instead—if the excited chatter between talon commanders could be believed—one blast from the battlecruiser’s ventral beam had vaporized an entire quadrant of the lunar surface. The ship had been readying a second barrage when the messages announcing the moon’s surrender came pouring in.
Another victory for the Kru’desh. Another victory for Simon Venter.
Callum sighed. He was wasting time and energy letting himself be annoyed. Yet with he battle at an end, the inevitability of this victory gnawed his mind. Simon led the legion so confidently, deploying his warriors with reckless abandon as if victory was a foregone conclusion. The Kru’desh had assaulted a Created stronghold, yet no Guardians had emerged to defend their subjects. The wild nature of the Kru’desh deployment pattern hadn’t even taken the possibility of Guardian interference into account. Was it just blind luck? Or something else?
Not for the first time Callum wondered what was going on inside that twisted traitor’s mind. Could he possibly know something the rest of them didn’t?”
Callum rose. His prosthetic leg scraped against the deck as he stepped out of the cockpit. Althea gazed curiously after him.
“More rest?” she asked.
“I’ve rested enough,” Callum said. He crossed over to the corvette’s common room. His MJOLNIR was stacked neatly against the bulkhead. “I think it’s time I made myself useful.” No, he didn’t need rest at all. His body was suddenly pulsing with restless energy. His mind buzzed with possibilities. If Simon had his finger on some unseen pulse, Callum was going to find out exactly what that pulse was. The answers he found might give him cause to hope once more.
===Chapter Six: Spoils===
An air of subdued melancholy hung over the Jade Moon’s command center. Kru’desh officers now operated the station controls, directing traffic around the shipyards as the legion stripped the operation bare. Human and Sangheili guards kept watchful eyes on a small party of Kig-Yar who stood near the center of the chamber. Shipmistress Lil’lik stood out among her avian coterie with her ornate robes and brightly colored plumage. Out of all the defeated Kig-Yar, she alone held herself proudly as she faced down Simon Venter. A wheeling holographic display projected images of the captured shipyards overhead. A projection of the Soul Ascension’s bulbous prow loomed over the chamber as if gazing down upon the proceedings.
The commander had permitted Lil’lik and her officers to keep their personal weapons. Such a gesture was alarmingly gallant, given the circumstances. Urei ‘Caszal hoped Lil’lik and her cronies appreciated the sentiment. Kig-Yar were not blessed with the social graces of more civilized races. They were as likely to see such a gesture as a sign of weakness than something to be grateful for. Urei had doubled the guard on the command center just to be sure.
Venter himself stood stiffly before Lil’lik’s delegation, clad in the MJOLNIR armor he now wore for all formal occasions. Urei knew his commander well enough by now to know that Venter must be itching to sprawl in the thickly cushioned command chair that loomed just a few paces to his right. Fortunately Venter had learned to show a bit more decorum since his unsightly display in the Archangel’s Rest throne room. The human was a slow learner, but he was teachable. Lounging on the deposed shipmistress’s throne was uncalled for. There was no need to humiliate a defeated enemy.
“We’ll be out of your quills in two cycles,” Venter informed Lil’lik. “Maybe less, depending on how quickly my legion moves. Keep your people under control and we’ll honor the terms of our agreement.”
Lil’lik’s beady eyes narrowed. “I will not remain long myself, commander. Perhaps I will depart before you do.” Urei had little love for the Kig-Yar—greedy, chittering savages that they were—but even he had to admit that the shipmistress was an impressive specimen. She stood almost as tall as the armored Venter, head held high even in defeat.
“Your ships are yours, as we discussed. Take them wherever you want. My quartermasters will make sure they’re adequately provisioned. You can oversee that if you’d like.” Venter spoke with stiff formality. Urei would need to work with him on his delivery if they were ever to negotiate with the high lords of his own people.
“Your terms are remarkably generous, commander,” Lil’lik said. “I suppose I should be grateful it was the Kru’desh and not the Banished who liberated us from our Created illusion. Another in your position might have simply killed us all—or worse.” She shot a cool glance Urei’s way.
Venter waved an armored hand. “You’ve cooperated with my people and we’ve taken everything we need. I don’t gain anything by turning this into a bloodbath. This wasn’t personal.”
“Not for you, perhaps.” Lil’lik sighed. Her quills drooped as she stared up at the Jade Moon hologram. The moon’s surface bore a deep, dark scar from the Soul Ascension’s orbital bombardment. “This was my home for many years, human. It survived the Schism, the Blooding Years, even Spartan raids. I spilled blood and slit throats to keep my people safe. After the Covenant I swore that I would never be taken in again. But when the Created cast their net across the galaxy I truly believed the years of killing were over. And then you and your legion smashed it all in a day.”
“Everyone’s luck runs out eventually,” Venter replied. He sounded strangely sympathetic. “I’ll probably see you on the other side of defeat one of these days.”
Urei pursed his mandibles disapprovingly. That was a strange way to talk, especially before a defeated enemy. But Lil’lik clicked her needle-like teeth in a Kig-Yar gesture of amusement.
“I look forward to that day, human,” she said without malice. “We met before, you know, back when you were Jul ‘Mdama’s lackey. Shinsu ‘Refum came here to negotiate safe harbor for Covenant warships. I was surprised to see a human lurking in ‘Refum’s shadow. I wondered what scheme he’d use you for. I never could have guessed you’d be the one to take the Jade Moon from me.”
“It wasn’t the first time I’d been to the Jade Moon.” Venter’s helmet tilted slightly. “I helped steal some cargo a year before that. We planned that operation for a month and your defense picket still nearly fried us. After all that I couldn’t believe I just strolled in with Shinsu and got an audience.”
“You? A thief?” Lil’lik blinked slowly. She folded her long arms. “A theft back then… not the Chancer V?”
“Yeah.”
“Well then.” The shipmistress let out a dry laugh. “It is a strange galaxy indeed. And how is Captain Dunn these days?”
“No idea.”
Lil’lik sensed she had tread on unwelcome ground. She inclined her head ever so slightly. “Well then. I suppose our business is concluded. I will hold you to your promise of adequate provisioning. I wish you and your legion the best of fortune. You will need it in the wars to come.”
She strode regally from the command deck, her attendants trailing listlessly after her. Venter waited for the bridge doors to seal behind her before he sank into the padded command chair. The reinforced plating groaned beneath his armored weight. Urei gave orders to Lil’lik’s escort and guards before drawing up alongside his commander.
“I recommend you not discuss your prior lines of employment, Lord Venter,” Urei said quietly. “It will not do for tales of theft and smuggling to become attached to your reputation.”
“Who cares, Urei?” Venter was tired of all the decorum. “I think it’s a bit late for me to worry about my image. Lil’lik owes us now. She’ll do her part. Word will spread about this raid. The warlords need to worry about us now and the Created know their precious Mantle isn’t as impenetrable as it was six months ago.”
Lil’lik would spread far more than mere news of the attack, but Urei kept quiet about that for now. The commander had enough on his mind coordinating the “requisitioning” of the shipyards. The work continued apace. Even after the utter failure of any Guardians to materialize—as well as new intelligence gleaned from Lil’lik and her cohort—Urei was anxious to get moving. The Kru’desh had done all they needed to accomplish here and more. The Soul Ascension was resupplied and her warriors freshly paid in the Jade Moon’s looted riches. Every moment they remained here courted disaster. A Guardian attack now would catch the legion in the worst possible position.
And there was the not-trivial matter of the gaping hole in the Ascension’s armor. A hole put there by Simon Venter’s reckless tactics.
Venter checked the datapad strapped to his wrist. “Lehk wants a meeting. Probably wants another raise. Wonderful.” He leaned back in the chair and stared up at the transparent shipyard display. “I’ll deal with that while you handle the debriefing.”
“The debriefing of the bridge officers, of course.” Urei glanced down at his commander. “But you will attend our leadership council. We must determine our next course of action… and reflect on the raid’s outcome.”
Venter knew his meaning immediately. “Fine. Tomorrow then.”
“It would be best—”
“Tomorrow. Debrief the bridge crew and then get some rest. We all need it.”
Venter rose and departed the command room without another word. Urei sighed. Things would come to a head very soon. The commander was right. Urei hadn’t slept since the assault on Jade Moon. But he couldn’t use this time to rest. He needed to ensure everything was in place for the next phase of this operation. He tapped his wrist-pad and transmitted messages to Argo ‘Varvin and Mohsin Shah. Time to see just how far their little project had progressed.
***
Cassandra never fully grasped how the Sangheili aversion to doctors worked. Half the species’ culture seemed built around glorifying its warrior caste, yet the elite great houses looked down on the very thing that kept warriors alive in battle after battle. Those Sangheili of more humble origins seemed less averse to medical practice, but in practice the cultural imperatives of the aristocracy yielded mandates that hindered the ability to treat wounded warriors. Thus Covenant vessels lacked dedicated infirmaries. Apparently warriors were meant to be treated in their barracks by members of their own lances, away from the prying eyes of outsiders. The Kru’desh had long since repurposed several chambers on each of the Soul Ascension’s decks but they were still a far cry from the medical decks you might find on any large human vessel. It was all so inefficient. Cassandra wasn’t sure whether to feel pity for the lives cost by such a needless practice or grateful that the old Covenant’s military had suffered such self-imposed handicaps. The more time she spent among the Sangheili the more she understood how the UNSC had held its own for so long during the Great War.
The ruminations bounced around in her aching head. Her eyes glazed over; she set down her tools and breathe deeply, conjuring up years of training and conditioning to hold her weary mind and body in check. She muttered a quick prayer for strength, then turned her attention back to the patient on a cot in front of her. The Sangheili legionnaire stirred fitfully beneath his sedatives. Gel packs and sedatives covered much of his upper body. Hangar techs had dragged this pilot from his burning Seraph after an emergency crash landing. Fortunately loot from the Jade Moon had the Soul Ascension’s medical stores fully stocked. This warrior and dozens more like him would live.
The raid had gone well, at least according to snatches of conversation Cassandra heard from other legionnaires. Most of the casualties had been inflicted by the Tyrant strike on the Soul Ascension. The wounded still numbed in the hundreds, enough to keep this and several more medical bays packed with injured.
Cassandra left the wounded pilot sleeping peacefully. She exchanged a few words with the infirmary chief, a portly Sangheili officer clad in blue armor. One of the benefits of serving with a legion full of Sangheili dregs was that more than a few had experience with the despised medical tradition. The Sangheili doctors Cassandra had worked alongside were quite proficient at treating casualties of all species. Cassandra slung her medical kit over one armored shoulder and slouched out of the infirmary with as much poise as she could muster. The chaos of marshalling fire control teams across the embattled Ascension had given way to hours treating wounded legionnaires. Even in victory the work never ended. Cassandra didn’t even want to look at her helmet’s internal clock to calculate just how long she’d gone without sleep. The answer would just depress her.
She needed to get a few hours’ shut eye. She wouldn’t do any of the patients good half-comatose from sleep deprivation.
Cassandra was surprised to see another armored figure tending the “walking wounded” pressed up against the infirmary walls. She hadn’t observed merlin’s arrival. He finished his work and drew near as Cassandra retrieved her rifle.
“Lieutenant.” Merlin swiped two fingers over his visor and followed Cassandra into the corridor. “Should I be saluting you or…”
“I’d prefer you didn’t.” Cassandra wasn’t used to the honorifics from humans, Sangheili, and Unggoy alike. She didn’t think she could handle the complicated emotions of having Spartans—true, loyal Spartans—treating her like an officer. “What are you doing up here?”
“Making myself useful. I spent the whole battle on standby. They never even launched my boarding group. I’m not used to just sitting the whole party out. Now that the fighting’s over, no one seems to care what I do.”
A spike of irritation coursed down Cassandra’s spine. The restless boredom in Merlin’s tone stung her raw exhaustion. Could have used your help hours ago. She suppressed the spiteful jab. “What about Andra?”
“Got pulled into repairing the damage starboard side. I haven’t heard from her since. What are you up to now?”
The young man was trying to be friendly. Cassandra hid her irritation. “Sleep.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Merlin sounded chastened. “I’ll leave you alone then.”
“It’s fine. Really.” Cassandra pressed up against the bulkhead to make room for a waddling Unggoy salvage team. The squat aliens laughed in their squeaking tongue even as they dragged heavy machinery equipment behind them. Cassandra heard more happy voices echoing down the corridor. The crew was in good spirits. Simon knew how to keep his legion under control. “Is there anything you need from me?”
“I was just wondering…” Merlin hesitated, then opened a private channel between their helmets. “Andra’s got a Kru’desh rank. Now you’ve got a Kru’desh rank. Karina and Thomas and Zoey are all in uniform. Shouldn’t I…?”
He trailed off. The sight of a young man standing sheepishly in full MJOLNIR armor was enough to pierce the weary fog choking Cassandra’s mind. She hid a smile behind her visor. The smile vanished as she grasped the full weight of what Merlin was asking. She started to say something but stopped herself. This wasn’t a conversation to have when she was barely holding together.
“Come find me in a few hours,” she said with as much kindness as she could muster. Should she be flattered or worried that Merlin had come to her with this question? “You won’t get anything intelligent out of me right now. But if you would do me a favor…”
“Sure,” Merlin said quickly. “Anything.”
“I saw Thomas during the fighting. I know he’s alright, but check in on him, would you? And I’d like to know how Karina and Zoey are doing, too.” A pang of guilt struck Cassandra. She hadn’t even given any of them thought during the battle. Surely she’d know by now if anything had happened to them. Simon would have reached out to her… wouldn’t he? “Tell them I’ll come by as soon as I can.”
She left Merlin standing in the corridor. Her bunk was three decks down. Kru’desh officers were allotted their own rooms. The miniscule chambers were practically walk-in closets with barely enough room for a grown human to lie down. Apparently Sangheili preferred curling up when they slept. At least the tiny rooms offered more privacy than the open barracks. Cassandra had only had the chance to sleep here once since her “promotion.” She stripped off her armor, barely noticing the stench from her sweat-soaked fatigues as she collapsed onto her tiny cot. She tugged a battered prayer book from her pocket. She knew the words to her pre-sleep prayer by heart but right now she was too exhausted to speak or even think.
How long could she live like this? She stared blearily at the cramped chamber. How long could anyone live like this? Endless days of eking out an existence on the Soul Ascension, moving from battle to battle in Simon’s shadow loomed before her. She thought of Mohsin Shah and his “promised land” and of poor, murdered William Hargrove and his dreams of a peaceful life far from war and oppression That all seemed very far away now.
Cassandra slipped into a dark sleep plagued by strange dreams of shadowy caves and voices snarling out from the darkness.
***
Lehk had planned his speech for months. He’d dreamed of the day he finally looked this insufferable, limping human in the eye and told him exactly what he thought. He’d always imagined himself hissing out his demands, cowing the wretched commander into submission before storming triumphantly out of the Kru’desh Legion forever.
Yet now that Lehk stood in Venter’s office his confidence began to waver. Only now that he’d presented the commander with his demands did he remember the weeping Sangheili forced out the airlock, the executions on Archangel’s Rest, the armed guards he’d passed on his way into the office, and the armored power of the man seated before him. He tried to hold himself steady as the commander parsed through the Kig-Yar contingent’s list of demands, tried to forget that Venter could have him killed with a single word. The commander had removed his helmet. He sipped idly at a mug of that foul black liquid humans liked to ingest while his eyes scanned the datapad in front of him.
Venter set the datapad aside and took another sip from his mug. His prosthetic hand tapped a few notes into the computer terminal. He seemed completely at ease, which only served to make Lehk even more anxious. Dimly he realized he had never been within this sanctum before. The small office was a far cry from the elaborate trophy rooms most shipmasters assembled. The room was bare save for a Kru’desh battle flag hanging behind the desk and the commander’s weapons stacked neatly against the wall—and noticeably within reach of the desk. Lehk’s beady eyes flicked towards Venter’s machete. All of his former confidence had abandoned him.
The commander set the mug down. He finally stared up at Lehk. His mouth curled in that infuriating human smile. They really were hideous creatures, Lehk thought with rising panic. How had he ever thought to work with these soft-mouthed freaks?
Venter indicated that he was waiting for Lehk to speak. He clearly wasn’t going to say anything until Lehk explained himself. The Kig-Yar screwed up what remained of his courage.
“My boys won’t fight for you any longer.” The words tumbled from Lehk’s beak. He felt like a fool, as if he were a hatchling again, dragged before the brood-mother over some petty mischief. “We’ve had enough of swaggering Sangheili and you human upstarts. Your cronies rule against my people at every turn. This business with the Jade Moon was the final smashed egg. A Kig-Yar enterprise, destroyed on a whim? Enough. I won’t stand another day cooped up on this wretched ship. We’re leaving—but we’ll take every ounce of pay and booty you owe us first.”
Lehk stopped to catch his breath. When Venter still said nothing, he spat out, “This is all within the stipulations of our contract!”
The human’s smile widened. “Of course. I know your contract backwards and forwards. You’ve fulfilled your obligations to the letter. I’m sorry to lose you, but if that’s how your boys feel I won’t stop you. And this severance pay you’re asking for is more than reasonable. We can make the arrangements right away.”
Beautiful relief coursed through Lehk’s body. He relaxed. This would go smoothly after all. Venter didn’t want trouble. There was nothing to fear from this posturing human.
Venter tapped the datapad. “It’s just…”
Lehk’s quills shot back up. “Just what?” he demanded, cringing at the sharpness in his own voice.
Venter raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised, that’s all. These figures are so low. You’re screwing your boys over, asking for so little when I’m sitting here ready to pay double this amount.”
Double. A blow over the head wouldn’t have stunned Lehk so much as that word. He was already asking for far more than the Kig-Yar contract stipulated “What do you mean, double?” he squawked.
“Is your translator malfunctioning? I mean double. You’ll be ex-Kru’desh a cycle from now but I won’t have my legionnaires living in poverty. It will be a good way to curry favor with your new boss. Lil’lik needs all the funds she can get. She might as well get a bit more of her hoard back from us when she takes you on.”
How does he know about that? Lehk narrowed his eyes, searching for the trick. Venter had an angle. There was always some game with this human. The human’s smirk burned him hotter than any plasma blade. “You’ll pay me double,” he said carefully. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Venter agreed. “And that’s just for your boys. And as their spokesman you’d be entitled to a separate war chest. There’s just one little favor I’d like in return. One last job, for old time’s sake.”
Lehk was relieved to hear that there were strings attached. He’d been starting to question Venter’s sanity. Humans were such strange creatures. “What do you want?”
“I just need you to pass a few messages along for me. You won’t even be going behind Lil’lik’s back. You can tell her all about this if you’d like. She’s already agreed to pass on the same messages. I just need some insurance, something extra to make sure they get to where they need to go.”
“These messages,” Lehk said slowly. “What are they?”
Venter told him. Lehk agreed in a heartbeat. A moment later he found his bony wrist wrapped gingerly in Venter’s gauntlet. They shook hands across the desk and Lehk’s mind was too awash in credits to mind the human gesture. He found himself babbling grateful platitudes, stammering that Venter really wasn’t all bad, that this was just business, that Archangel’s Rest was a tale he’d tell his hatchlings and their hatchlings after them. Lehk staggered from the office very much alive and wealthier than he could ever imagined. Venter settled back into his desk and watched the Kig-Yar depart with cold satisfaction.
Money really did make life a lot easier.
***
Andra stared at the crate, then looked questioningly at the Sangheili officer who had thrust it into her arms. It was a simple small arms carrying case, the kind usually used to transport and distribute reserve weapons to lances on the front lines. But instead of plasma rifles the smooth case was loaded full of neatly stacked pieces of sharply rectangular chits. Andra took a few moments to recognize the chits as old-style Covenant currency, the kind still used on many frontier colonies.
“What’s this about?” she demanded.
“What does it look like?” the Sangheili rumbled, barely paying Andra any heed. He made a note on his datapad and waved at an Unggoy subordinat. The squat legioniarre pushed a grav-cart stacked with the small crates onwards. Two lances of armed humans and Sangheili kept careful guard over the valuable load. Most of the legionnaires marching through the busy hangar bay made a point of not looking at the cart or its contents, a sure sign that everyone knew exactly what was being distributed. “Your share of the spoils from the Jade Moon operation.”
“But I didn’t do anything.” Andra had spent the entire battle cooped up with Merlin and a few hundred anxious legionnaires in a ready room, waiting for a mobilization order that never came.
“Naturally,” the Sangheili said irritably. “But since you’re an officer you get the basic allotment. All pilots and warriors who sortied get double. Now stop asking foolish questions and let me get on with my work.”
The officer and his guards hurried off in search of the next name on their list. Andra looked down at the crate loaded with alien currency. This was the “basic allotment”? The crate felt heavy even to her MJOLNIR-enhanced arms. The Kru’desh must have stripped the Jade Moon of everything it had to offer. Years of accumulated wealth now filled the Soul Ascension’s coffers, and a crate of that cold, hard cash rested in Andra’s arms. Her share. She stared at the money. A surge of strange feelings swept through her.
The Kru’desh had never paid her before. She’d held the rank of “lieutenant” for over half a year now, yet she’d never actually felt the weight of that rank until now. She’d always known the rank was Simon’s way of making fun of her, another one of his little mind games. Yet here her name was on a list of officers, allotted her share of the spoils like anyone else. The UNSC had paid her a salary, at least in theory—pay for Spartan-IIIs went into a retirement account against their eventual departure from the service. That was what Commander Frendsen had told her, anyway. But that account existed only as a memory now, a hypothetical strand of code that had probably been wiped clean by Created EMP bursts.
Aside from her armor and gear and a few keepsakes she’d hidden away back on the corvette, this war chest amounted to everything Andra possessed in the galaxy. That thought left her light-headed.
A line of tired human legionnaires filed past from the direction of the Cyclops pens. Andra spotted Zoey, that spacer girl Merlin had escaped the Gilboan Citadel with, walking with them. Ragna trailed near the back of the group. The young sergeant looked awful. Disheveled hair and dark shadows under her eyes made it look like she hadn’t slept since the Jade Moon assault. She caught sight of Andra and started to turn aside, then seemed to think better of it and rejoined her cohort.
“Hey, Ragna,” Andra said before she could stop herself.
Ragna shuffled over. She stared blearily at the crate in Andra’s arms. “What’s up, lieutenant?”
“You don’t have to call me that.” Andra suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious. She wished she’d at least put the box out of sight before speaking up.
“She said, holding her officer bonus.” Ragna laughed dully. “It’s fine. I got my share, since we sortied and all. For all the good it did.”
“How are you holding up? Did you lose anyone out there?”
“Nope. No one. Didn’t even get a round off before those bird-freaks caved. It’s just… EVA really, really sucks. I’m still dizzy.” Ragna rapped a fist weakly against Andra’s armor. She looked pallid, as if she’d spent the past twenty-four hours with her head in a toilet. Her usual combative spark was completely extinguished. She forced a smile. “See you later, Andra.”
She wandered off to rejoin the others, leaving Andra to wonder if she’d done her any favors by speaking out. Ragna never looked that bad. Even the hellish conditions on Archangel’s Rest hadn’t been enough to dampen her spirits. Only after the Cyclops crew had shuffled away did the weight of what Ragna had said register with Andra. EVA? In a Cyclops? Those machines were meant for ground support, not boarding actions! No wonder Ragna and the others looked like hell. Cyclopes didn’t have any of the pilot safety features a fighter or dropship sported. And a few months’ training wasn’t nearly enough to prepare the body for the rigors of EVA combat. Andra and her fellow Delta trainees had spent nearly a year running simulation courses before their instructors dropped them in a real zero-gee environment.
What was Simon thinking, running a program like that? Did he have any idea how…?
“Ah, the conquering hero, awash in her well-earned riches. Perhaps the mercenary life suits you after all.”
Andra hadn’t noticed Argo creeping up on her. The lanky Sangheili bared his mandibles in a toothy grin. He lowered the com piece he’d been speaking into and jabbed a finger at the crate in her arms. “I ought to ask for a finder’s fee, you know. Captain Shah forgot to put your name on the distribution rosters. It’s only thanks to me you got your share this time around.”
“I’m sure you’ve already lined your pockets.” Andra had half a mind to upend the crate over Argo’s head. “What do you want? I thought you were done with me.”
“My dear, self-important Spartan, I’m happy to remind you that my life no longer revolves around your tiresome affairs and hasn’t for some time. I’m here on other business.” Argo turned to watch the hangar shields. A Phantom dropship soared into the bay and settled its beetle-like bulk down into an empty berth.
A team of legionnaires emerged from the Phantom. They escorted a small group of unarmed, unarmored figures—human and Sangheili mostly, it seemed. At first Andra assumed these were prisoners, but no effort was made to restrain the newcomers. The Kru’desh warriors simply led them through the hangar, pushing their fellow legionnaires aside to make way. A few of their charges stumbled or limped and needed to be helped along the way.
“Who are they?” Andra asked, curious.
“The Created used the moon as a prison, it seems, or a re-education facility as they like to put it. We freed these poor souls and now the commander wants to interview them.” Argo waved an idle hand. “Not that it’s any of your concern. Run along now and count your coins, lieutenant.”
As the newly arrived group drew closer Andra noticed that the newly-liberated humans seemed taller than their legionnaire escorts. With a start, Andra recognized the posture and enhanced musculature of augmented bodies. These men and women bore marks of captivity yet they still walked with an instinctive military posture. These prisoners were Spartans!
One of the ex-prisoners, slightly younger than the others, caught Andra’s eye. He was a young man with dark hair and a thin, pale face. That face stirred up a distant memory in Andra’s mind. The years of training at Camp Ambrose flashed behind her eyes and she remembered a quiet trainee with that same sallow face and dark, searching eyes. The crate fell from her arms and struck the deck with a crash.
“Saul?” She stepped over the mess of spilled coins. “Saul is that you?”
The young man once known as Saul-D313 snapped his head around. His eyes met Andra’s and widened. His mouth moved noiselessly as if trying to form words. “An- dra?” he managed to choke out. “What are you doing here?”
They didn’t have a chance to say any more. At a sharp order from Argo the legionnaires picked up the pace and double-timed the liberated prisoners out of the hangar. Andra opened her mouth to protest but fell silent after a sharp look from Argo. The Sangheili swept out after his charges, leaving Andra to pick up the spilled coins. Her mind reeled as if she’d just been struck upside the head. Spartans—UNSC prisoners—here on the Soul Ascension! Argo clearly didn’t want her engaging with them, which of course made her know she needed to speak with Saul as soon as possible.
It was high time she went back to jumping the chain of command.
As Andra gathered up the last of her spoils a pair of Sangheili marched past. They were speaking excitedly with each other, long necks bent over a freshly printed pamphlet inscribed front and back with tiny runes.
***
Ragna sank onto a bench in the Cyclops ready room. She and the rest of the Cyclops Corps had tried to de-alien the purple chamber by lining it with upended munitions crates and folding chairs. She felt like an idiot. She’d had her big moment to look good in front of Andra and she’d blown it. Of course she’d run into Kearsarge right when her mind was such mush she could barely form complete sentences.
The day since the raid had been one of debriefs and Cyclops maintenance. Usually laboring over her precious exoskeleton left Ragna invigorated. Now she felt drained and listless even after a full sleep cycle. Her mind was still buzzing from the euphoric high of the Cyclops Corps’ debut and the sullen low of their complete non-participation in the Jade Moon raid—a raid that was shaping up to be the most successful attack in the Kru’desh Legion’s history. Even after the damage sustained—the starboard section of the ship was almost entirely off limits, with displaced legionnaires clogging up training decks as temporary living quarters—the Soul Ascension was awash with looted luxuries. Even with their attack run called off, Ragna and the other Cyclops operators were treated as if they’d sortied alongside the most hardened Seraph pilots. Ragna now had more money than she’d ever had in her life tucked away beneath her bunk. Only the tight-knit nature of her fellow Cyclops jockeys had her confident no one was going to steal it.
But Ragna’s mind wasn’t on money right now. She wasn’t even sulking about the sortie—not anymore, anyway. She couldn’t get her mind off what she’d seen and felt floating helplessly out there in her Cyclops. She couldn’t get sight of the Jade Moon, its atmosphere awash in emerald light, out of her head. The universe had stretched out before her in that moment, so vast and beautiful and utterly untouched by the tiny battle raging across its stars.
Ragna had always thought of herself as a practical girl. She’d been through hell and back with Redmond Venter’s crew at an age before most pampered colonials weren’t even out of grade school. She’d spent plenty of time in space. The Jade Moon raid wasn’t even her first EVA action. But that all-too brief moment out in zero-gee had taken hold of her brain and wouldn’t let it go. For the first time in her life Ragna had realized just how immense this galaxy was—and how tiny she herself was by comparison. She had no idea what to do with this discovery.
When she’d seen Andra in the hangar she’d itched to talk to her about it. Spartans saw more of the galaxy in a year than most people did in a lifetime. If anyone could handle thinking about the big picture, it was them. But Andra had seemed so stoic and put-together in that sleek MJOLNIR armor that Ragna had felt disheveled and pitiful by comparison. Her nerves were so shot that she couldn’t even begin to describe what she was feeling. For the first time since Redmond Venter had upended her life and made her one of his freedom fighters, Ragna Aasen just felt like a small, scared little girl.
Someone sat down on the bench beside her. “Sergeant Aasen.” Ragna was surprised to see Hunsinger, the recruit they’d pulled off of Asphodel Meadows. The Cyclops trainee looked at her curiously, her messy red hair pulled back behind her head.
“Corporal Hunsinger.” Ragna tried to straighten herself out. She couldn’t let the others see the mess inside. She was a legionnaire, a soldier, a noncom. “Good work with the post-op checks. You really know your stuff.”
“I’ve worked with plenty of machines,” Zoey said simply. “I used to operate an Argo-class freighter. After something like that a Cyclops is pretty straightforward.”
“You were a pilot?” Ragna recalled hearing something about that. She hadn’t given it much thought. “What are you doing in a mobile infantry unit?”
Zoey gave Ragna a crooked look. “You weren’t asking questions like that when you grabbed me and told me I had to wear a uniform from now on.”
Right. Ragna had recruited this girl, hadn’t she? She’d forgotten. It had been one more chore after all the chaos on Archangel’s Rest and Asphodel Meadows. “Oh. Sorry about that. We can get you transferred if—”
“It’s fine, sergeant. The Created destroyed my old ship. Flying something other than her would just be depressing.” Zoey looked around the ready room. Their fellow legionnaires milled about, speaking quietly or napping up against the wall. A few were absorbed in reading the pamphlets Ragna had seen cropping up in the corridors and barracks. “You know, back when you dragged me down here you said Cyclops jockeying was fun. I didn’t believe you then, but now that I’m getting the hang of the machines I’m starting to think you’re right.”
Fun. Ragna took a moment to register the word. She hadn’t even wanted to look at her Cyclops after returning to the Soul Ascension. Now here was this press-ganged trainee sounding like Ragna’s own self. The scales smothering Ragna’s brain slipped away. She suddenly felt better. A little, anyway. “Well, maybe once the mess from the raid clears up and we get our practice space back I can teach you a few tricks…”
Across the room two other pilots sat close together, murmuring quietly as they looked over one of those pamphlets. One kept shooting glances Ragna’s way. After a few minutes he rose and crossed the room, pamphlet in hand.
“Hey, Aasen,” the pilot said. He was a short man with a beard that made him look older than he was. Frostbite on Archangel’s Rest had cost him a few toes and left him with a shambling gait. “You ran with the old Venter. Second Vanguard, right?”
“I sure did.” Ragna sized him up suspiciously. Fighters from other cells—outsiders as far as Redmond Venter’s crew were concerned—had always been strange about the Second Vanguard. Venter’s name had never been popular with the wider independence movement, at least not until the Created upended the galaxy. “What’s it to you?”
“Nothing to me. I guess I just owe the old guy an apology. We didn’t give him enough respect after everything he and his son went through.”
Ragna searched the man’s face for sarcasm but he seemed sincere. “Thanks, I guess. What brought this on?”
“These things are everywhere all of a sudden. I think they need to explain to all the aliens what a human’s doing running this ship. Lieutenant Kasbah said he got a whole stack from Captain Shah.” The pilot handed over the pamphlet. It was printed on cheap but tough material of the kind the Covenant used for important orders or directives. The alien paper was dark and embossed with pale writing in a font that must have been derived from Sangheili runes. It took a few moments of staring for Ragna to realize it was in English.
Zoey squinted at the paper. “How are they going to explain Stray to the aliens if this crap is in English?”
“Stray?”
“Simon. The commander.” Zoey scowled. “Duh.”
“Oh right.” The bearded man shrugged. “These are printed in all sorts of languages. English, Russian, that Covenant script. They must want to make them easy to distribute.”
Ragna stared at the writing. Simon Venter, the first line read. Commander of the Kru’desh Legion, Conqueror of Le Havre and Archangel’s Rest, Guardian-smasher and Spartan-killer. Son of Redmond Venter.
“Do you mind if I read this?” she asked.
“Be my guest. There’s five more of them floating around the ready room.” The pilot hesitated, then added, “Are you feeling better, Aasen?”
Concern, even genuine concern, stung. Ragna fought back the urge to snap back. Lieutenant Kasbah had warned her about picking fights. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for asking.”
The pilot went back to his side of the ready room. Ragna poured over the pamphlet with growing interest. She wasn’t much of a reader but she’d digested her share of manifestos expounding the colonial cause. The writing here was very similar, but for once it talked about things Ragna was familiar with. Simon Venter was stolen from his father, Redmond Venter, by ONI agents intent on controlling a skilled military officer expressing sympathies for the cause of colonial independence. It is a known fact that many Spartans were children of dissident figures who dared to speak out against the policies of Imperial Earth. Redmond Venter was one such dissenter, a great military figure who won many victories against the Covenant before UNSC corruption proved too much…
“Um, sergeant?” Zoey was reading over Ragna’s shoulder. “They got the facts wrong. Stray wasn’t Venter’s kid. Your old boss adopted him back on Talitsa. He told me that himself.”
She was right. Ragna had been in the room when Venter made the adoption official. So had Mohsin. So why was he letting them distribute such glaring errors?
“This is stupid,” Zoey grumbled. “Stray’s too busy to come down and talk to me but he’s got time to make up this crap for his memoirs?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Ragna said. “The commander has a legion to run. They’ve been up on the bridge planning the Jade Moon operation for months. He didn’t write this.”
“Well whoever did doesn’t have any idea what they’re talking about. I had to live with that jerk for years. He hated Venter. I bet he only made up with your boss to get back at Gavin. You Second Vanguard guys tried to kill us more times than…”
Ragna drove an elbow into Zoey’s side. A whole lot of things had suddenly become very clear to her. “Don’t go spreading that around,” she hissed. “Venter’s name is the only reason most of the humans in this legion signed on in the first place.”
The pamphlet carried on in a similar vein, line after line about the evils of the UNSC Spartan program and Simon Venter’s resilience in overcoming Earth’s indoctrination with “a spirit aflame with the passion for revolution.” Ragna didn’t know enough about Spartans to know if any word of this polemic was true. But Zoey was right: the commander wasn’t Redmond Venter’s beloved son. Ragna had never hunted Simon-G294 herself but enough of her Second Vanguard brethren had come back from those missions in body bags for her to know that the last thing Simon had on his mind back then was colonial revolution. She even remembered Mohsin muttering bitterly about the traitorous freak who’d stabbed out their beloved commander’s eye. Of course, everything was different now. Venter had said so just before he died. But that didn’t make anything on these sheets true.
Several things became clear to Ragna in quick succession. First, Mohsin must have authorized this fabrication. Second, whatever was going on here was well above Ragna’s pay grade. Thirdly, Zoey was a loose end. Loose ends didn’t last long in Mohsin’s world, especially not when they drew attention to themselves. Ragna found herself simultaneously pissed off and relieved: pissed that Mohsin hadn’t breathed a word of this to her yet relieved that she had a part to play in it nonetheless.
All her old confidence came rushing back. “Keep quiet about this, corporal,” she ordered.
Zoey bristled. “Why should I?”
“Because your sergeant just ordered you to,” Ragna snapped. She lowered her voice. “And because the officers went to a lot of trouble to pass these out. Do you really want to make trouble by getting in the way?”
“Trouble?” Zoey seethed. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to get in Stray’s way. He can’t hide on the command deck forever. I’m going to shove this moa-turd down his throat!”
It wasn’t exactly a promise to keep out of trouble but it was the best Ragna would probably get. She had her own plans. Nothing as dramatic as force-feeding her commander some silly pamphlet. But she needed to talk to Mohsin. He owed her an explanation.
She stared down at the pamphlet. On the battlefield of Mamore, father and son were reunited, the thick, pale lines read. War drove them apart, but the fire of the human spirit is impossible to quench. Ragna had read plenty of propaganda leaflets across the rebel frontier. For the first time, reading these jingoistic slogans brought a pink tinge of shame to her cheeks.
===Chapter Seven: Saul===
Saul Denisov—they had given him his old name back after he washed out of the Deltas—paced anxiously around the cramped, dimly lit holding cell. When he’d heard the alarm klaxons raging outside his last cell and felt the first impacts of breaching charges against the prison where the Created had sequestered him for three months he’d dared to hope that the UNSC had finally returned to save him and his fellow Spartans. That hope had risen even higher when high-powered torches sliced through his cell walls. But then a Sangheili head had stared at Saul through the smoke and that hope was dashed. True, the aliens hadn’t been rough with him or the other prisoners. But they’d brought them back to their mothership, a CCS-class battlecruiser if Saul’s read of the hangar layout was correct, and then split them up and taken them to what was clearly a brig. In the end he’d simply traded one cell for another.
Saul had no idea who these people were. This ship was crawling with as many humans as Sangheili, but from their hodgepodge gear and irregular uniforms he could tell that they were either rebels or mercenaries or both. Had he been captured by some Banished affiliate? Saul hadn’t seen any Jiralhanae since being brought aboard but that didn’t mean these weren’t some auxiliary force.
But Andra! Her being here threw everything off. And that had been her in the hangar. Saul hadn’t seen his fellow trainee since they’d gone under for augmentations. She’d changed a lot since then—longer hair, rougher skin—but that had to have been her back there, that same spunky girl he’d known back at Camp Ambrose. Standing free and in full MJOLNIR no less, making no effort to conceal her identity. What could it mean?
Maybe months of isolation and re-education efforts had finally broken him. Maybe this was all just some feverish dream, his mind playing tricks on him. He wondered where Jamie and the rest of his fellow captives had been taken. He couldn’t see any of the others through the energy barrier sealing him inside the cell. Saul was so wrapped up in the heady intensity of it all that he didn’t notice the security team’s arrival until they were right outside his cell. Three humans and two Sangheili stood several paces away from the containment field. The panoply of weapons they leveled in Saul’s direction were far from friendly.
“Stand back against the far wall, human.” Another Sangheili stood alongside the security team, arms akimbo. Saul recognized him as the officer who’d hurried him and the others away from Andra back in the hangar. “Don’t try anything foolish. There’s no need to make my job more difficult than it already is.”
Saul did the only thing a man with five rifles trained on his chest could reasonably do and obeyed. The containment field deactivated and the security team stiffened as if they expected Saul to throw himself at them the moment it was down. He might have been flattered by their caution if he weren’t so confused.
Someone moved in the shadows behind the security team. A human figure snaked his way around the armed guards and stepped into the light. He was a young man, only a few years older than Saul at most, with dark hair and gaunt features. He wore only a set of featureless military fatigues, the kind Saul had seen on Insurrectionist militias the galaxy over. This man bore no visible weapons but he’d obviously seen more than his share of combat. He walked with the telltale traces of a consciously concealed limp and the dull tips of prosthetic metal fingers poked out from the sleeve fabric where his left arm should have been. This man was also clearly someone important. You could tell from the way even the Sangheili bowed their heads at his presence. Saul had never heard of the Banished placing humans in any positions of prominence. Today just got stranger and stranger.
The officer put his hands on his hips and regarded Saul with an expression of wary amusement. In the brig’s pulsing light Saul realized that in spite of his battle scars the man’s cold grey eyes were his most arresting feature. They held his gaze, commanding his attention even with the armed guards looming threateningly outside the cell. A crooked smile played over the officer’s thin lips.
“You’re not going for any heroics, are you?” the officer asked in a mild tone. “No Spartan stupidity I need to be worried about?”
That was pretty rich coming from the guy backed up by six armed guards. Saul only had his prison fatigues. His augmentations wouldn’t do him much good against plasma and bullets. Even if he did overpower this crowd he still had an entire battlecruiser’s worth of enemies to fight through. If these people were his enemies. A faint, desperate chance made Saul desperately hope they weren’t.
“Are you going to give me a reason to fight you?” Saul asked with as much bravado as he could muster.
“I’d like to keep this friendly.” The officer scratched idly at his jaw. He didn’t seem concerned with maintaining any kind of decorum. “Sorry about the whole brig situation. Things are a bit cramped right now and we’re worried about Created sleeper agents.”
“They didn’t break me,” Saul snapped, more forcefully than he intended. These people thinking he might be some brainwashed Created plant was far more offensive than being a prisoner. “If you’re fighting the Created that’s reason enough for me to cooperate.”
The young officer nodded. At a wave of his hand the guards lowered their weapons. They still kept them at low ready, eyeing Saul suspiciously. A human and Unggoy appeared carrying folding chairs and a table that might have looked at home on any human colony. The sight of such mundane furnishings in this alien cell nearly made Saul laugh. The strange pair set the chairs and table in front of Saul, all the while shooting them nervous looks as if they thought he might wring their necks at any moment. They scurried away as quickly as they had come. The guards departed with them, leaving only the human officer and the languid Sangheili.
Saul smelled the food before it arrived. The wafting aroma of eggs and bacon nearly knocked him flat against the wall. A young human woman appeared to set plates of hot food on the table. After months of nutritious prison slop the sight of such luxuries felt more alien than the plasma-toting Sangheili. Saul flushed to find his mouth watering. The woman hurried out of the cell. All the while the pale-eyed officer watched Saul with a cunning expression.
Those cold, calculating eyes made Saul remember his training. Just because they hadn’t broken out the plasma brands didn’t mean these people weren’t interrogating him. He drew himself up. After all the humiliations he’d endured at the hands of the Created he was still a Spartan.
“I don’t think you’ve been fed since we pulled you off the Jade Moon.” The officer sat down at the table. “Sorry about that. Work never ends around here. Some coffee will be here in a minute, if the galley crew can operate the machine without breaking it this time. I…”
He caught Saul’s expression and made a face. “I know what this looks like, but I’m not trying to trick you.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Just to talk. A little chat, that’s all. We’ve been on the run for six months. I’ve got my own sources of news and we’ve learned some interesting things from your former captors but I’d love to hear your side of things.” The officer grimaced and waved at the plate of eggs. “Go on, eat it before it gets cold. This stuff isn’t easy to come by.”
“What about my friends? They haven’t eaten either.”
“They’re being fed, too. We have to keep you separate for security reasons but from what I’ve already seen we don’t have to worry about Created games. You’ll see them all once things settle down, I promise.” The officer took a bite of eggs. When Saul still didn’t move he gave an exaggerated sigh. “You aren’t helping anyone with the dramatics. Especially not yourself. Can we pretend to be human beings for ten minutes?”
Saul gave in. He drew on every ounce of discipline he possessed to deliberately lower himself into the open seat instead of throwing himself onto the table and simply inhaling everything within reach. The bacon was limp and had the copper taste of flash-frozen travel rations; the eggs carried the telltale dryness of bagged and powdered artificial nutrients. Saul didn’t care. After months of cold nutrient paste delivered by faceless Prometheans this meal was a feast. He devoured half the plate before coming to his senses and remembering that this joyful meal was being eaten in a holding cell under the watchful eyes of an intelligence officer and an armed Sangheili. He set his fork aside and tried his best to look defiant.
“What do you want from me?” he demanded.
The interrogator raised an eyebrow, a forkful of eggs halfway between plate and mouth. “Just to talk,” he said, finishing his bite. “We weren’t expecting to find Spartans locked up on the Jade Moon. I figured you might have some interesting things to tell us.”
“And if I—” Saul hesitated. “If we won’t talk?”
“Then that’s that. I’ll make you all as comfortable as I can and we’ll negotiate some place to drop you off. I can’t think of where that might be given the state of the galaxy but we’ll figure someplace out.” The interrogator caught Saul’s expression. “I mean it. We didn’t expect to find you here. My plans don’t revolve around you. You cooperating would be a bonus to what’s already been the most profitable operation of my career, but if that’s not going to happen it won’t happen. There’s no point in torturing you. My boys are in a good mood so they don’t need that kind of sport. It would be counterproductive. As long as you aren’t trying to shoot up my ship I don’t really care what you do.”
Something about this man’s utter lack of hostility or concern worried Saul far more than threats or intimidation. Five captive Spartan-IVs should have been a windfall for any enemies of the UNSC. And there was something about the way this man was talking… “Your ship? Your boys?”
“Well yes. I’m the commander here, for whatever that’s worth. Isn’t that right, Argo?”
The Sangheili officer chuckled. He watched the strange meal play out with an air of cold amusement. “Indeed, my lord.”
Saul stared at his interlocutor with newfound interest. A human, commanding a battlecruiser full of Sangheili? This man had the look of a fighter, but he looked too young to be anyone important.
The commander—if that’s what he really was—smiled that crooked smile of his. “Do you know who I am, Saul?” he asked mildly.
“No.” There was something familiar about this man’s features, not that months of captivity had helped Saul’s memory. He strained to recall years-old briefings about criminal or Insurrectionist notables. Was this guy some sort of Syndicate bigshot?
A strange mixture of amusement and disappointment flashed across the commander’s face. “Well, I guess that gives me the advantage.”
“In more ways than one.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” The commander pushed the remainder of his eggs across the table to Saul. “Go on, eat your fill. You need them more than I do. Where did they take you?”
“My original team was running disruption operations against the Created,” Saul said between bites. He weighed each scrap of information he offered. Everything he said, even the most trivial detail, might be a puzzle piece these people needed to reconstruct UNSC battle plans. “A Guardian slipped in system and dumped an army of Prometheans into our area of operations. We stayed behind to buy everyone else time to escape.”
“Brave of you. What do you mean, your original team?”
“Do you really think the Created would keep a team of Spartans together? They split us up when they sentenced us to re-education. I’d never seen any of the others here until we arrived at the Jade Moon.”
“You called them your team earlier. Your people.”
“Of course they’re my team. We spent months keeping each other sane in that re-education facility. I’d have broken without them. I owe Jamie and her people everything.” Saul set his fork aside. Both plates lay barren in front of him.
“Jamie and her people.” The commander nodded thoughtfully. The light of pale cunning that flashed in his eyes should have put Saul on guard. “Spartan-IVs, given how much older they are. Were your original team Deltas like you?”
The words pierced the air like a hidden dagger. Saul couldn’t hide his shock. He blanched, gaping across the table. The commander merely offered a thin smile in return. Footsteps echoed in the brig outside. The uniformed woman from before returned carrying tin field cups full of steaming coffee. She set the cups on the table and hurried away once more. Argo watched the proceedings with naked amusement.
Saul flushed with embarrassment. He tried to regain his composure. It was too late to hide his shock at the commander’s words. “How did you know I was from Delta Company?” he asked quietly, wrapping his fingers around the coffee tin. The pleasant warmth comforted him.
“You just confirmed it.” The commander sipped his own coffee and made a face. “I had a hunch after Argo told me Lieutenant Kearsarge had recognized you back in the hangar. You’re augmented but much too young to match the special forces profile for a current Spartan-IV recruit, not unless the UNSC’s getting desperate over in whatever hole HIGHCOM has left to hide in. All the pieces fit.”
“Lieutenant Kearsarge?”
“Andra. She’s done pretty well for herself here in the Kru’desh Legion.”
“Kru’desh.” That was a name Saul recognized. A dull pit settled in his stomach. He suddenly felt more in danger than he ever had in Created captivity. “Who are you?”
That crooked half-smile finally slipped from the commander’s face. He fixed Saul with a keen look. “My name is Simon Venter,” he said quietly. “But you’d probably know me by my old designation: Gamma-Two-Nine-Four.”
G294. The traitor. The butcher of Philadelphia. A clammy chill crept over Saul’s skin. The man sitting across from him was more than an Insurrectionist. He was a war criminal. An enemy of the UNSC. A Spartan killer. Every alien and human on this ship was an enemy. Saul was surrounded. His eyes flicked over to the Sangheili officer. Argo’s hand had dropped to the plasma pistol on his hip. Was it Saul’s imagination or were several shadows moving out in the brig?
He might make it across the table before they brought him down. His hand curled around his fork. They’d been stupid enough to give him a metal utensil.
Simon sighed and set his coffee aside. “I meant what I said before. I don’t mean you any harm.”
“Traitor. How could I possibly—” Saul’s mouth began to ask one question and then abruptly asked another, the one thing that might possibly keep him alive. “What’s Andra doing in your legion?”
“That a long story. A very long story. Merlin’s here too. I assume that name means something to you. They’re not my biggest fans but these days they can’t be picky. They aren’t traitors, not by a long shot. I’m a bit of an expert on that topic. You can’t really betray something that doesn’t exist anymore, can you?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t have any reason to hurt you and you don’t have any reason to throw your life away attacking me—unless you’re just crushing that fork because you’re still hungry.” Simon flexed his prosthetic fingers against the table. “You’d be dead before you could lay a finger on me. Argo’s a very fast draw.”
“You’re too kind, Lord Venter,” Argo called from outside the cell.
“I have a duty, “ Saul rasped even as he pried his fingers away from the fork.
“Your duty to a government that’s been defunct for nearly a year?” Simon sipped idly at his coffee, as if they were merely discussing the quality of the food. “Or to a severed military appendage? Andra and Merlin thought the same as you, good little Spartans that they are. But eventually they got tired of waiting for a ride that just wasn’t coming. A life’s a terrible thing to waste over a dead system.”
A wave of emotion, held in check all those months in Created captivity, washed over Saul. A terrible lump formed in his throat. The UNSC, gone. His life in pieces. A traitor and a criminal sitting across from him, offering him food and friendly words. Andra and Merlin reduced to mercenaries in a warlord’s entourage. It was too much. He didn’t want to face it.
“The UNSC isn’t beaten,” he choked out. “They’re still out there. Still fighting.”
“Fighting, maybe. Certainly not winning. Not according to my sources, anyway. No one’s heard a peep from Sol since the Created rolled in. The colonies are either locked down or rebelling. We’ve got the Banished rolling over the frontier while the rest of us fight for scraps.” Simon looked at Saul with unexpected sympathy. “I was hoping you’d be able to give me more information about the way things are, but maybe I should be the one filling you in.”
“I want to talk to Andra and Merlin.” Saul fought to keep his voice level. He desperately wanted to think of this man as his enemy yet he couldn’t muster any of the right emotions. He felt lost and confused and utterly alone.
“That can be arranged. We do have to interrogate you and your friends first. It’s nothing personal, but I do have a legion to run here. We’re getting a barracks set up for you all now. You won’t be in this cell long, I promise you.” Simon indicated Saul’s coffee. “You should drink that before it gets cold. It’s hard to get beans out here. In the meantime, ask me anything. I’ll tell you anything I know.”
Saul gripped the coffee tin and took a deep, steadying breath. The foul coffee helped bring his mind back into focus. He was alive. He wasn’t being tortured. Silver linings were thin and far between. He looked at the traitor who now held his life in his prosthetic fingers and took the plunge. 
***
“That went better than I expected,” Venter said. He knelt in the corner of Argo’s detention block office to strap on the ODST battle plating he’d worn on his journey to interrogate the unfortunate Saul-D313—D313 being the young Spartan’s old designation number, as Venter and Argo had learned during the interview.
“You play the role of host quite well.” Argo plunged his hand into a ration bag. Standing guard watching the two humans eat had made him hungry. “By human terms I might hazard to guess that can be positively charming when you set your mind to it. If only you could marshal some of those skills for your personal life.”
“Hilarious. Real funny.” Venter grimaced as he locked the armor into place over his fatigues. Removing the armor to play his games with Saul was annoying but Urei insisted that the legion not see their commander roaming the corridors in plainclothes. Sangheili—even loyal Sangheili—hated leaders who took personal security lightly. He shot Argo a sidelong look. “Good job making sure Andra saw the prisoners brought in. Your hunch about Saul was right on the money.”
Money being the operative word in this arrangement, Argo thought between bites. “And now I’ll be forced to deal with her tiresome demands once more. I hope this is all worth the risk. She’ll be clamoring to see him, you know.”
“Good. Just not yet.”
“She will want to see him now. When she does not get her way from me she will come to you. She will tell Merlin and when that doesn’t get her way she will get Callum in on this business. I hope this scheme of yours is prepared for these eventualities.”
“I’ll need a few more sessions with him first. We made good progress today but I need to be sure he tells her what I want him too. She’ll pass it along to Merlin the minute she’s done with Saul. If we play our cards right we could add seven Spartans to our ranks. Permanently.”
“Saul, his four compatriots, Merlin, and of course the charming Lieutenant Kearsarge.” Argo nodded. “But not Callum?”
“I don’t think he’s ever coming around. It’s too much effort and too much risk.”
 So he knows he will never be able to control Callum. Argo watched Venter’s face closely. Adept as he was at reading human facial expressions, he did not see so much as the shadow of a doubt flicker across the commander’s face. He didn’t need to tell Venter that Callum would wrench up the metaphorical machinery Venter had so carefully set in motion to bend the other Spartans to his will. Argo wondered if Venter trusted him enough to prepare the necessary arrangements without specific orders. If that were the case they would need to re-examine the nature of Argo’s employment here. He wouldn’t take the fall for any unfortunate accidents just for Venter to set him up as a plausibly deniable asset.
“I will send my own boys in to chat with our guests,” Argo said, slipping more rations between his mandibles. “And of course I can monitor their conversations once we let them mingle again.”
“You know how to do your job. You don’t need me telling you how to do it.” Venter slid the helmet back over his head. “Just keep me posted on anything new you find out. We’ll be breaking the news about Doisac to the crew after the command meeting this afternoon. I don’t want any more surprises lurking around the corner.”
Doisac. Even Argo’s hearts fluttered at that word. Yes, that had been a nasty shock. The Jade Moon’s computer banks were full of bitter developments but none so bitter as that. The galaxy had changed while the Kru’desh licked their wounds on the frontier. Argo wasn’t entirely sure the change had been for the better.
He wondered how Venter would turn the new situation to his advantage. The human was adept at contorting through the winds of change. His mastery seemed not so much in controlling events as it was in racing along with the current, pulling the legion along in his wake. The Soul Ascension was a crippled, barely functional mess after the damage sustained in the Jade Moon assault yet Venter marched along as if he’d expected it all along. Somehow his mood infected the rest of the legion and they marched right along with him, just as they’d done on Archangel’s Rest.
Argo still didn’t know if this human fully understood the forces he toyed with. Venter schemed as naturally as breathing. He’d known of Saul and the other freed Spartans for less than an hour before he’d set this plan in motion. But such casual inclinations were a double-edged sword. And Venter wasn’t the only schemer on this ship. He still had no notion of the propaganda leaflets Urei had spread across the ship. Leaflets that, thanks to Lil’lik and her defeated pirates, would soon be sailing off to every corner of the frontier.
“Watch your step with Andra,” Argo warned as Venter strode from the office. “She is smarter than you give her credit for. Things have changed since Ryder Kedar forced her aboard. She has her feet firmly planted on this ship now. She may prove to be as dangerous as Callum. You may be fond of the girl but she is a Spartan. You may cage the great Thremaleon beast but you will never ride it.”
Argo didn’t need to see through Venter’s visor to feel the cold stare Venter shot him. He smiled back and shoved a mouthful of rations between his mandibles. So he could still get under the great and powerful Simon Venter’s armor. Excellent. There might be hope for this relationship yet.
===Chapter Eight: Tradewinds===
Two days after the Jade Moon operation, the dreams returned.
Merlin walked aimlessly through a foggy hellscape of mud and rubble. The ruins of civilization loomed up around him, a jumbled collage of the world he’d once known. A ruined barracks from Camp Ambrose rose up alongside the bombed-out shell of the Rio De Janeiro refugee slums. He trudged numbly through the wreckage. HIGHCOM’s grand Sydney headquarters lay in ruins alongside skeletons of wrecked UNSC warships. Bits of cast-off military gear and MJOLNIR armor poked out from the mud beneath his feet.
The sounds of animal growling drew Merlin’s attention. He found himself staring down at a crater full of dead Spartans. A pack of skinny wild dogs tore into the corpses, their teeth chewing through MJOLNIR battle plate as if it were cartilage. Merlin stared down at the grisly scene. He knew he should feel horrified. Instead he only felt numb. Try as he might, he couldn’t summon the resolve to feel anything other than the sheer inevitability of standing in these ruins watching his world be ripped apart.
Andra’s pale, dead face stared up from the piles of corpses. Merlin remembered seeing this before, a horrifying abomination conjured up by the Silent Garden. A dog sank its teeth into the apparition’s ghastly flesh.
A great, shaggy beast prowled around the edge of the crater. Merlin couldn’t make out exactly what it was. Its fur writhed and shifted like a cloak of darkness. As it drew near, it stopped walking on all fours. It rose and became a human, a small figure draped in a wolf’s pelt. It stood beside Merlin and stared down into the pit. Then its great, dead head turned. A strange voice spoke from beneath the beast’s pelt: “Who are you? You shouldn’t be here.”
Something caught Merlin’s shoulder in a firm grip. He awoke with a start, lunging at the armored figure he found standing over him.
“Easy there, Spartan.” Callum turned Merlin’s groggy blow aside. He stepped back, giving Merlin space to come to his senses. The ruined city was gone. He was sitting up on his bunk back in the BDS corvette. After another moment the panic faded and he was himself again.
“Callum,” Merlin said. His heart pounded in his chest. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you.”
“You didn’t hit me,” Callum said pointedly. “No harm done. But I needed to get you up. You’ve slept long enough. There’s work to be done.”
“Work?” For the first time it dawned on Merlin that Callum had strapped on his set of salvaged MJOLNIR armor. It was unnerving to see him wear armor stripped from the corpses of Fireteam Gravity—Delta Spartans who had once been Merlin’s friends until they betrayed the UNSC and swore allegiance to the Created. Andra still hadn’t told Merlin the full story of how Gravity had fallen in battle with the Kru’desh. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“Yeah, work. You know, like responsible adults.” Callum offered a wry smile. He seemed to be in a better mood than Merlin had seen in months. At least, he wasn’t simmering with stir-crazy rage. That was an improvement. “Our hosts need some heavy lifting done out in the damaged section of the ship. EVA work, just the thing to stretch our legs. Come on, get suited up. There’s a labor detail headed over there now.”
“Work detail, right.” Merlin slipped into soldier mode. He noted somewhat irritably that he’d only slept for five hours—Callum had woken him an hour before he’d intended to rise. Irritation gave way to guilt. These long months in the doldrums, unmoored from sleep shifts or responsibilities, were eroding a lifetime of military training. Thoughts of his old self and the disciplined routine of his fellow Spartans brought an embarrassed flush to his cheeks. He hurried to gather his gear and suit up with he frenzied enthusiasm of a fresh recruit. Only after he was halfway through strapping on his armor did a fresh realization occur to him.
“Work detail?” he asked, helmet in hand. “What are you doing on a work detail?”
Callum’s usual scowl returned. “I don’t like bowing and scraping to this gang of pirates. But as long as they’re sheltering us—and as long as you and Andra insist on playing their little game—I might as well chip in. Keep an eye out for you.”
“In other words, he’s bored,” Althea remarked over the coms.
Callum rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite hide the smirk tugging at his lips. He really did seem happier—or at least in a better mood—than Merlin had seen him in a long time. Maybe for as far back as Oyster Point. Merlin wasn’t entirely sure what might have worked that change in the older Spartan, but it was enough to drive a spike of motivation through his gut. He was armored and ready to move out in under ten minutes, no mean feat even with his field-modded knockoff BDS MJOLNIR.
The two Spartans left the corvette and joined a small team of EVA-suited Kru’desh legionnaires. Before long they were hard at work in the Soul Ascension’s damaged starboard section, several decks’ worth of smashed hull and charred corridors. Merlin hadn’t realized just how extensive the scarring was. The Kru’desh had sealed enough of the damage off to prevent major damage to the superstructure but the first hour of EVA labor made it clear this was more than a simple patch job. The Soul Ascension needed professional shipwrights to undo this damage. Where they might find such shipwrights was another problem entirely.
The wreckage clearing was good, invigorating work, enough to make Merlin forget just how dire their situation truly was. He flashed a quick message to Andra through their shared helmet link but got no response. She must be off on some errand in her role as “Lieutenant Kearsarge.” She seemed more lively since she’d gotten back into that life. Merlin was almost jealous. Some rank—any rank—was better than eking out an existence sequestered on the corvette. No wonder Callum had finally caved.
Adrift in zero-gee maintenance, Merlin didn’t spare another thought to his strange dreams.
***
Andra had planned to track Argo down and beat his greasy Sangheili hide until he let her see Saul and the other prisoners. Failing that she would storm onto the command deck and wring Simon’s scrawny throat in front of all his precious officers. These pleasant fantasies burned inside her for a few hours. Then reality intervened. Mohsin lit her datapad up with a string of new orders and now she found herself working an “advisory shift” on one of the Soul Ascension’s training deck. Even a successful raid couldn’t win the Kru’desh rank and file a reprieve from their daily drills, it seemed.
Not that there was much for Andra to advise. She marched idly up and down a makeshift firing line while gunfire bounced off the sloping walls. Legionnaires trained their Bandit rifles downrange and fired in alternating intervals. Andra’s helmet gave her an enhanced view of the legionnaire’s movements. Their fire and reload patterns weren’t the smoothest in the galaxy but they certainly knew what they were doing. Each man and woman here knew their weapon and gear well. It was just a shame that they didn’t have a space to properly hone their skills. Andra had seen these monotonous firing drills on dozens of UNSC vessels. Soldiers and marines couldn’t practice real maneuvers in the close confines of a warship. Without help from an advanced holodeck like the Infinity’s they made do with mind-numbing equipment maintenance and close-fire familiarization tables.
Andra wondered how long this state of affaris could last. The Kru’desh would be down to dry-fire exercises without a proper source of ammunition. The recycled rounds hastily churned out through the Ascension’s armory forge wouldn’t do Most of the legion’s human-patterned gear had been looted from the URF arsenals at Gilgamesh. They’d expended so much ordnance at the sieges of Le Havre and Archangel’s Rest that Andra didn’t know how they had anything left to train with. Simon was a deft hand with logistics but despite all the rumors circulating about him he certainly was no miracle worker.
Smoke and mirrors, he’d once told Andra. It’s all just smoke and mirrors. But smoke and mirrors couldn’t conjure fresh ammunition out of thin air.
The deck NCO was a bulky man who reminded a bit too much of poor Sergeant Okafo. The loss of Redmond Venter’s old weapon master still stung. Andra couldn’t begin to unpack how she felt about her grief for a dyed-in-the-wool Insurrectionist. Of course, she didn’t understand a lot of what she felt these days.
“I don’t have anything special to teach your guys,” Andra told the deck sergeant between firing intervals. “Mo—Captain Shah didn’t explain why he was sending me down here.”
“Not to worry, lieutenant.” The legionnaire hooked his thumbs into his combat harness. More and more Kru’desh humans were taking advantage of lightweight Covenant battle plating. They strapped and welded scraps of Sangheili gear onto their own armor. Andra admired their ingenuity. “Having you down here is good for morale. Makes the lance keep their head on the range. No one wants to embarrass themselves in front of a Spartan.”
Spartan. Andra thought of Saul and those Spartan-IVs being marched across the Soul Ascension’s hangar. They were free from Created activity. Freed not by some daring UNSC rescue operation but by a Kru’desh Legion raid. What was happening out in the galaxy? Andra wanted to climb the walls. She felt like a wolf in a cage. She needed to be out there doing something—only she didn’t know where there was or what something might be. She spotted Thomas Koepke standing on the firing line. Merlin’s former companion looked grim as he pressed a rifle stock to his shoulder. Andra wondered where Merlin was right now. She needed to talk to him about Saul. About their future. She didn’t dare try to raise him on their private channel. Long range pings were too easy to track. Simon had three sets of MJOLNIR from the very same team Andra’s had come from.
The deck sergeant was still talking. Andra snapped back into focus.
“What we really need is your input on the projected training programs.” The sergeant waved for a subordinate to take his place on the firing line. He led Andra over to a staff section cordoned off by sandbags and purple-hued crates. A mixed group of humans and Sangheili consulted with each other, unperturbed by the volleys of gunfire ringing out from just ten meters away.
A Sangheili wearing the muted-red colors of a major nodded to Andra. Everyone in the legion respected her these days. It was all part of the mystique that came from having served on Archangel’s Rest. Anyone who fought there had earned their place in the legion. Andra accepted the respect with equal measures of pride and queasiness.
“Delighted you could join us, lieutenant,” the majordomo said. He spread a list of documents out on the table before him. “Captain Shah told me that you might have some insight into the new training regimens. Our program must take into account the physiology of humans while allocating labor and tactical duties accordingly. Commander Venter insists that humans and Sangheili train and promote equally. A difficult state of affairs, to be sure. But our legion has overcome greater challenges than this, human… shortcomings not withstanding.”
“You mean stiff hinged necks not withstanding,” the deck NCO retorted. “If working with humans finally forces you savages to jettison these archaic tactics you’ve been forcing on my people then you’ll have us to thank for giving you the chance to die of old age.”
Not long ago the exchange would have ended in raised voices, drawn blades, and spilled blood. Now the Sangheili simply laughed it off. Everyone was in good spirits after the Jade Moon operation. The Kru’desh were evolving before Andra’s eyes. She felt a dizzying sensation—she was at once frightened of this development and yet proud to be part of it. Loyalty to the UNSC—loyalty to herself—fought the thrill of standing amidst something so new and daring.
Two halves of Andra pulled at each other like unmoored shipyard tugs. Andra-D054 was a lost Spartan, adrift and irrelevant in a broken galaxy. Lieutenant Kearsarge rushed into the breach, ready to do some good here on this ship. She pored over the training plans, losing herself in each fascinating detail.
These plans were more ambitious than she could have imagined. The Kru’desh leveraged lessons learned at Le Havre and Archangel’s Rest, jettisoning cumbersome massed army tactics in favor of flexible mobile warfare maneuvers. Simon and Urei aimed for nothing less than to build an integrated force ready to meet any threat the legion might face. If they hit their mark they would forge an army to match any UNSC battlegroup.
“It’s an interesting plan,” Lieutenant Kearsarge told the others. “But you need to dig deep into the fundamentals before you look at the big picture. You need your new teams training together ASAP if you expect them to fight together. Is there any chance you scored some prefab shelters off of the Jade Moon? It would take some doing but you can set up some interior assault courses for practical training. You’ve got the space for it down in the larger assembly halls. I saw…”
The other legionnaires drew closer to the lieutenant as she outlined her plans. Sharp gunfire reports from the firing line clattered over their bowed heads.
***
A very different kind of meeting was taking place up on the Soul Ascension’s command deck. Mohsin felt a tension churning in the air around him. He stood with a small assembly of senior officers clustered inside an antechamber just off the bridge. A bulky tactical table dominated the room. The table’s surface glowed with a sickly pale light (Mohsin still couldn’t wrap his head around half toe Covenant technology he now relied upon on a daily basis) to project a holographic image of the battlecruiser over the officers’ heads. The damaged starboard section was highlighted in red like a raw wound. Mohsin winced. The damage seemed more extensive each time he looked at it.
Urei ‘Caszal fidgeted anxiously near the head of the table. The legion’s Second had been in a state of unrest since the Jade Moon raid. Mohsin was taken aback by the Sangheili’s evident discomfort. Urei was always level-headed in a crisis. His faith had never waved even during the darkest moments on Archangel’s Rest. Mohsin wondered if this had anything to do with the propaganda pamphlets so recently completed by the Kru’desh’s newly instituted information office. If Lil’lik and her beaten pirates did their job those pamphlets would soon be floating around every corner of the frontier.
Mohsin’s stomach tightened at the thought of that particular conspiracy. There were so many plots to keep track of these days, schemes within schemes. Mohsin wondered what God had in store for him along this winding road. A year ago he’d been a cast-off guerilla, scrabbling for survival in Talitsa’s sewers. Now he stood on the bridge of a Covenant warship, shaping the lives of several thousand warriors to whatever good he could eke out.
He ignored the fear and uncertainty and instead pulled a datapad off his belt. Reports and statistics flashed across the screen. Even here, at the edge of civilized space on this ship full of exiles life still turned around the drudgery of numbers and staff meetings. Some things never changed.
Simon Venter sat at the head of the table. He seemed distracted, staring up at the Soul Ascension projection without really seeing it. He was only half-listening to the discussions around him. Mohsin hoped these off-the-cuff maneuvers with the recovered Spartans hadn’t diverted his attention from the real problems at hand. Sometimes the commander seemed more interested in the minutiae of his private schemes than in the day-to-day matters of the legion.
Mohsin could sense an outburst coming from Urei. He tried to head the Second off by leading with the good news. “The Jade Moon operation has been more successful than any of our projections hoped for,” he announced in his best command voice. “I think it’s safe to say that congratulations are in order for everyone in this room. We’ve reversed our logistics situation, replenished our stores, and more than tripled our war chest. The spoils recovered from the Jade Moon will keep this legion in the fight for the next five years.”
Most of the other officers nodded along. They looked pleased with themselves. Urei was not among them. The Second planted his palms on the table opposite from Venter. “Yes, yes, glory and honor to all involved. But our purpose here is to focus on more pressing matters. Namely the damage suffered during the raid.” He shot Venter a cold look. “Does the commander have anything to add?”
Venter had set his helmet on the table. He raised an eyebrow, as if surprised to be addressed. “About what?” he asked mildly.
Urei bristled. “About our current predicament! Yes, the raid was a success. But your vessel suffered critical damage during the assault. Damage that could have been avoided had we not pressed the assault so recklessly. We have returned to this fight for all of three days and already the Soul Ascension is combat ineffective. Our war chest may be overflowing but this legion is now more vulnerable than ever.”
Mohsin and the other officers watched the watched the exchange in nervous silence. Even Urei’s fellow Cleansing Blade defectors looked worried. Everyone on the bridge knew that Urei had urged against the Ascension’s headlong plunge through the Jade Moon’s defenses. Once the fighter assault had faltered Venter had rushed to compensate by intensifying the assault with far more aggressive tactics than originally planned. The attack had allowed the Kru’desh to bring every ounce of firepower they could muster into play—but it had also brought them into range of the Jade Moon’s heavy-duty surface batteries. Urei had restrained himself at the time. Now he was dragging the mess into a command meeting. This was tantamount to a direct challenge.
Venter seemed unperturbed. “You heard Captain Shah. The Jade Moon operation was the most successful assault in the Kru’desh Legion’s history. We cracked the defenses with minimum losses and proved that our restructuring efforts are paying off. Now we’re free to be even more ambitious.”
“We cannot be free to do anything with a gaping hole blown in our starboard hull.” Urei’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Had yo—had we simply held back, our firepower would have forced Lil’lik’s surrender without such undue risk.”
The commander regarded Urei for a moment. He took a moment to collect himself, then rose to face his Second and the other officers. He glanced up at the Soul Ascension projection, her hull marred by the red-hued damage projections. He nodded slowly.
“You’re right, Second,” he agreed. “We’d have won. We’d have won after another hour’s worth of combat and casualties. Our operations plan called for us to end the engagement as quickly as possible. So that’s what I did. There was an opening in their defenses. I took it. This legion strikes hard and fast. We can’t afford protracted engagements. Never again.”
The Spartan’s voice was level but Mohsin sensed the ghosts of Archangel’s Rest behind those words. Not for the first time he wondered how long Venter had spent reliving those fateful weeks out on the icy tundra. Weighing each decision. Second-guessing each order. Wondering what he might have done to end the fighting sooner—before the fighting claimed the lives of Tuka ‘Refum and so many others.
“Yes. I understand the policy.” Urei backed off, perhaps mollified now that Venter was fully present. He knew better than to drag the argument out in front of everyone else. “But in the future, more subtlety may be required. Without a support fleet to sustain us we cannot afford mistakes. And now we must consider how to repair the damage. The Jade Moon does not have the facilities to refit a Ket-pattern battlecruiser. We may spend months salvaging materials from her orbital stations to affect repairs.”
“No,” Venter said drily. “No, we won’t. I already have another solution lined up.”
Urei blinked. He drew back from the table in surprise. “Another solution?”
“We’ll get there in a minute. Right now we need to look at the big picture.” Venter turned to address the rest of the room. “You’ve all heard about everything we’ve learned interrogating Lil’lik and her people. A lot has changed since we escaped the Gilboan shield world.”
Venter tapped the war table. The Soul Ascension’s image erupted like a splash of water. The holographic particles reformed int a swirling map of the Milky Way. “Money and material wasn’t the only treasure trove we upended here at the Jade Moon. Lil’lik’s computers were crammed with information. Operations instructions from the Created, mostly. They didn’t have an AI overseer here, or else the files would have been wiped before we arrived. According to Lil’lik and her crew, they answered to an AI named Morgause until about two months ago. The Created reassigned her and never replaced her. The Prometheans we captured were operating under a pre-programmed command algorithm independently of the Kig-Yar they oversaw.”
“No surprises there,” a human woman commented. “The Created overextended themselves. It’s the same reason we didn’t have to fight any Guardians here. They can’t be everywhere at once. Were there any clues in the Promethean algorithms?”
“Yearns to Soar and the Huragok are sifting through the pieces, but without Juno it’s slow going.” Venter’s mouth turned unpleasantly as he mentioned his lost friend’s name. “But Lil’lik got her share of news here. We’ve got reason to believe it was accurate. It maps onto the rumors our signals group already picked up. I’ll start with the one you probably already know: the Created destroyed Doisac.”
A low pulse swept through the Kru’desh officers. The Sangheili shifted uneasily. A few flexed their mandibles in an expression Mohsin couldn’t read. Rumors about Doisac had trickled around the ship for a while now. He knew there was bad blood between Jiralhanae and Sangheili. Maybe this was good news for them. He wondered how he’d feel if Earth was destroyed. That situation was… complicated.
“Destroyed?” one of the Sangheili asked slowly. “You mean glassed?”
“No,” Venter said grimly. “I mean destroyed. The Created used some kind of gravity weapon. They tore the entire planet apart. Apparently, this was a few weeks after they destroyed Shinsu ‘Refum’s fleet. They didn’t even try to hide it. Footage was broadcast across the galaxy. A little warning against resisting the Mantle of Responsibility.”
“This is grave news,” Urei said, speaking for everyone in the room. “Not only is Cortana willing to destroy entire worlds, she has the means of doing so.”
“The homeworld,” another Sangheili interjected. “Is it…”
“Doisac is the only ruined planet that we know of,” Urei said. “Sanghelios and her colonies are safe, or at least intact. But the Brutes are on the warpath. Atriox led the resistance at Doisac. Now he has used the atrocity to rally the tribes to his Banished armada. He is stronger than ever. The firepower at his disposal outguns even what the Cleansing Blade wielded through the Fleet of Cleansing Fire.”
“No wonder we didn’t fight any Guardians here,” another officer spoke up. “The Created are busy brawling with the monkeys.” That got a laugh from humans and Sangheili alike. Mohsin wasn’t one of them. He already knew the rest of the news.
Venter pounded the table for silence. “The legion already knows about this, or at least they’ve got the gist,” he said. “Everything else that you’re about to hear is confidential. If anyone here speaks out until we make a formal announcement, I’ll know. And you’ll be sorry.”
That quieted them down. No one wanted to endure a flogging down in the brig. Venter looked to each officer in turn, light from the holoprojection casting dark shadows over his face.
“Lil’lik’s news sources told her that the UNSC mustered a fleet to go after Cortana. We don’t know how big the task force was, but it was centered around the UNSC Infinity. Atriox and his Banished geared up for something big around the same time. We can’t say for sure, but we think they had intel on Cortana’s whereabouts—maybe fed to them by the same source. Who knows? What we know for sure is that neither fleet has been seen in months. And ever since they vanished, Created activity has cratered. That was when the Jade Moon stopped receiving specific orders. Lil’lik doesn’t know what was going on. Neither did any of the other shipmasters she communicated with.”
Mohsin watched the other officers exchange looks. The gravity of what Venter was saying slowly settled on their shoulders like weighted rucksacks. He’d felt the same way when he first learned the news. Cortana, Atriox, the Infinity: they all loomed large in his mind, titans of power compared to the sealed world he’d lived in since beginning his new life aboard the Soul Ascension. His imagination conjured up the titanic battle that must have erupted when all three fleets clashed.
“What does this mean?” one of Urei’s lieutenants asked. “The Created are defeated?”
“Not defeated,” Urei replied. He stepped up alongside Venter, dwarfing his commander in the pale holographic light. “Disorganized and confused, certainly. We have lingered in this system in part to test their ability to respond. Were they in any state of readiness they would have retaliated by now. The UNSC likewise remains crippled while Banished forces remain active across the galaxy. The Swords of Sanghelios under House Vadam hold our homeworld and her colonies but refrain from aggressive action. If these events are any indication, Atriox and his forces emerged victorious from the encounter. At the most optimistic, we may hope that Cortana was defeated and the Infinity destroyed.”
“None of this leaves this meeting,” Venter said sharply as a surge of excited murmuring rose through the chamber. “Don’t spread rumors we can’t control. Once we really know what’s going on we’ll make a formal announcement. For now, keep the legion on its toes. Keep them focused on our next operation.”
Mohsin wondered just how focused that “formal announcement” would be. He wondered how Venter planned to present the Infinity’s destruction to the Soul Ascension’s growing population of Spartan tenants. He had little doubt that the commander planned to wield that particular knife to his advantage.
“The Created are splintered. The UNSC are on the run. The Covenant has fractured into so many different warlords it would take us days just to list them all. And now the Banished are lashing out at every target their chieftains can wrap their claws around.” Venter waved his prosthetic hand through the galaxy map. “We are living through chaos this galaxy hasn’t endured since the fall of the Forerunners. And chaos, ladies and gentlemen, breeds opportunities, opportunities we’ve never been able to see from beneath the shadows of the Covenant and the UNSC and the Created. This is our time. We won’t get a chance like this again. The Kru’desh Legion is done running and hiding. History is on the move. I intend to move with it. The Jade Moon was only the start.”
As inspirational manifestos went, it wasn’t bad. Mohsin had a list of quotations—real, imagined, and a few in-between—he could attribute to Venter once the propaganda war began in earnest. Simon might be a cynical little misanthrope in private but his public persona was the stuff legends were built around. Urei was right. The legion needed the public Venter, not the private Simon.
“Follow me and I promise you riches and opportunities we could never have even dreamed of back when the great and powerful held us in place,” Venter continued. “Where are those great and powerful now? Broken. Scattered. Defeated. The high lords and commanders who used to rule the galaxy are dead. It’s time we put new lords in their place.”
That got an appreciative rumble from the Sangheili. Even Urei looked impressed.
“Our first order of business, as the Second already pointed out, is getting our ship back up to full combat potential. The hull situation needs to be dealt with. Fortunately, I already have a solution lined up.”
This was the first bit of news to catch Mohsin by surprise. He hadn’t heard of any plans to repair the hull outside of the stop-gap measures already underway. “Where can we get the repairs finished?” he asked. “The shipyards here at the Jade Moon aren’t rated for docking capital ships. It would take months just to repurpose them. And any systems with star-forges large enough to repair a Ket-pattern battlecruiser are either under Created control or on the other side of the galaxy.”
“Stationary shipyards, yes,” Venter agreed. “But mobile shipyards are another thing entirely.”
“Mobile shipyards?”
“Ah,” Urei said. “So you intend to turn to the San’Shyuum after all.”
“I do,” Venter agreed. This was clearly a conversation Mohsin hadn’t been a part of. “Your concerns on that front are noted, Second. But I think we’ll be able to cut a deal.”
The commander tapped the map table once more. The galaxy map dissolved and reformed into the profile of a ship once more. But this ship was larger than the Soul Ascension—far, far larger. The ship Mohsin found himself staring at was of Covenant design but unlike any vessel he’d ever seen before. It resembled an immense floating tube. A gaping maw-like crevasse loomed from where the prow ought to be while smooth blisters interrupted the plated hull. Despite the vessel’s size, Mohsin couldn’t see any visible weapon platforms. It seemed at once benign and yet vaguely threatening all the same.
“For those of you not in the know, this is the Soaring Chorus,” Venter explained. “A mobile enclave and ship foundry run by a group of San’Shyuum who call themselves the Choir of Builders. The San’Shyuum got the worst of the Great Schism—”
“As they deserved,” a Sangheili growled.
“Argue about who deserved what later,” Venter said impatiently. “The Chorus of Builders controlled some of the largest ship foundries in the galaxy when the Covenant fell. They seized the superstructure of what was going to be a new supercarrier and contracted a small army of Unggoy and Yon’Het to build the Soaring Chorus instead. They’ve sailed around the galaxy ever since, lending their services to anyone willing to pay. Jul ‘Mdama and Shinsu ‘Refum dealt with them back in the day, so I’ve got plenty of dirt on their leadership. And our intelligence teams report that not only have they steered clear of the Created, they are currently moored just a few systems away. I already have an envoy prepping to commission their services.”
This was clearly a decision that had been made before the meeting even started. Mohsin couldn’t complain. He didn’t know the first thing about old-school Covenant politics. That world was so far removed from his old life that it made his head spin. Just looking at the Soaring Chorus in its immensity made him dizzy.
“The Chorus of Builders’ reputation proceeds them,” Urei said thoughtfully. “They will certainly have the means to repair the Soul Ascension. But San’Shyuum are honorless vermin—even more so without the trappings of the Covenant to hide their true nature. We must deal cautiously.”
“I didn’t say it was going to be a walk in the park.” Venter flashed a toothy smile. “But this is the Kru’desh Legion. No one does ‘honorless’ better than us. If the Chorus of Builders wants to play games then we’ll just have to rig the deck.”
It was only after the meeting adjourned that Mohsin thought to wonder at the serendipity of it all. The Soul Ascension took major damage in her first sortie and a behemoth ship-builder just happened to be idling nearby? Venter had spoken about intelligence gathering efforts that must have been underway months before the Jade Moon operation. No wonder the commander was so nonchalant about the damage. Mohsin wondered just how many things Venter had known in advance of their return to civilization. The thought made him deeply uneasy.
***
Later that day the Kru’desh delegation set off for the Soaring Chorus. Major Kelo ‘Demal, one of the heroes of Archangel’s Rest, was chosen as lead negotiator. The young officer draped the purple sash of an emissary over his battle-worn combat harness. He led a small group of armed legionaries onto the beetle-like shuttle that would carry them to the Choir of Builders. Commander Venter met them in the hangar, clad once more in his ungainly MJOLNIR. Kelo saluted stiffly as his lord drew him aside.
“You’ve already been briefed,” Venter said quietly as the rest of the delegation boarded. “But keep on guard once you’re aboard the Soaring Chorus. The Choir of Builders will treat you like honored guests once they know you represent prospective customers. They’ve got good business sense. But things may get chilly once you mention my name.”
Kelo cocked his head. “Do the Choir of Builders have reason to mistrust you?”
“Let’s just say the Choir and I go back a ways. I was involved in the Chorus’s construction. Things went well for me. Not so well for the Choir. They might still hold a grudge.”
“Then perhaps it would be best not to mention your name,” Kelo suggested, puzzled that the commander had waited until now to tell him this. “I could present Second ‘Caszal as the legion’s patron.”
“No.” Venter shook his head. “By all means, use my name. They knew me as Stray back then; the ship I operated out of was called the Chancer V. They’ll remember those names. Make sure they know that I plan to come personally along with my ship and the entire legion. Just keep an eye on their security precautions. I have a feeling they’ll raise their guard once they know I’m coming.”
“As you, say, commander.” Kelo rapped a fist against his chest. “We will not fail. Though I confess, this precaution surprises me. There was no word of the Soaring Chorus in the enumeration of your exploits.”
It was Venter’s turn to be caught off guard. Before he could ask Kelo exactly what he meant, the shuttle hissed to life as its pilots began their pre-flight checks. Kelo hurried to join the rest of his delegation. Venter remained on the crowded hangar deck. He watched the shuttle lift off through his helmet’s slit visor. After the shuttle slipped away he hurried off, trying his best to hide the pronounced limp through the enhanced exoskeleton.
Later that day, the legion’s combat teams received new orders. All personnel not assigned to repair or salvage operations were to begin training for close-quarters boarding action. The Jade Moon operation was finished. It was time to prepare for the Soaring Chorus operation. And as training began once more the lower decks of the Soul Ascension filled with excited gossip about their commander and his storied history - a history many of the legion were only just beginning to learn thanks to a series of inexplicably timed pamphlets.
==Part III: Old Wounds==
===Chapter Nine: Stains===
The Soul Ascension’s strange transformation into a mixed-species haven continued to bear strange fruit. With the disgruntled Kig-Yar contingent gone and the Unggoy largely confining their recreational time to their methane-infused private decks, much of the tension that had hung over the Kru’desh during their long exile dissipated. Human and Sangheili legionnaires, flush with the thrill of a successful raid, worked together in relative harmony. Decks that had seemed species-segregated just a few weeks previously integrated; work and recreational spaces opened up, allowing individuals to move freely without feeling as if they ran the risk of finding themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sangheili work crews could even be seen taking orders from human officers, though not without the occasional grumble or snide remark for pride’s sake.
One newly available space was a makeshift bar that had previously only served Sangheili legionnaires. At least, Merlin’s translation software called the place a bar. It seemed to him more like a cross between a teahouse and a hookah den. Off-duty Sangheili strode in from the adjoining foundry deck, pushing through clouds of colorful smoke to make their orders at a salvaged counter welded to the deck. The bartender, a portly Sangheili female, seemed to brew most of her offerings in a distillery the next room over. She’d even hired on a crew of industrious humans and Unggoy to help churn out a variety of ales, teas, and steaming gasses. The stench from the Sangheili smoke-pots was overpowering yet strangely pleasant. This strange hangout was certainly a step above the seedy dens where Merlin had seen Covenant refugees eking out their livings back in Rio.
“I should probably be more careful with these hinge-head brews,” Cassandra said. She fingered a steaming mug of bitter-tasting tea. “But whatever this stuff is, it isn’t half bad. I’ll probably be kicking myself in a decade when my organs start shriveling up.”
“Do you hate them?” Merlin sat across the table from Cassandra. Squatted was perhaps the more accurate term. Sangheili preferred large cushions to regular furniture, better to accommodate their lanky frames. Merlin struggled not to get swallowed up in a threadbare cushion-seat that was almost as large as he was.
“The Sangheili?” Cassandra sipped her tea and made a face. “I did. For a long time. They killed my mother right in front of me. Some nights I’d dream of watching the UNSC fleet nuke their homeworld into oblivion, the way they did to so many of ours. ’Happy shall they be who take your little ones and dash them against the rock.’ I really felt that way back then.”
“What changed?”
“Patched up enough of those little ones. They’d come to my clinic and I couldn’t turn them away. Guess I didn’t hate them as much as I thought. I saw enough of them starving to death on the frontier. It’s hard to hate an entire species when you’ve seen the mothers crying over their dead children. Maybe some people still could. I couldn’t. Hate’s exhausting. After a while I just didn’t have the energy for it.” Cassandra wore her faded work fatigues, her lieutenant’s bar barely visible on her collar. She wore her hair back in a loose bun. Merlin was surprised at how military the deserter looked. She could have passed for a career officer on any ship in the UNSC Navy. He’d managed to bum a set of work fatigues from a quartermaster he’d gotten to know before the Jade Moon operation. Callum didn’t like him or Andra going around the Ascension unarmored but MJOLNIR drew too many stares. Merlin would take his chances in plainclothes.
Cassandra eyed Merlin over her tea. “And you? How’s it feel to work shifts on a Covenant warship?”
“I don’t know,” Merlin admitted. He fingered his own tea. The bitter concoction reminded him of exotic colonial brews he’d encountered at frontier outposts. “It was different for us Deltas, training after the war ended. We were supposed to hunt down Covenant splinter groups. Peacekeeping jobs, police work, that sort of thing. I fought humans just as much as aliens.” He mulled that part over and shuddered, recalling the pit full of corpses from his dream. “I don’t know why I say that like it’s a good thing.”
“You did what they raised you for. From what I know about you, you probably served with honor. You should be proud of that.”
“I didn’t expect to hear that from you,” Merlin admitted. “Thanks, I guess?”
“Everything’s complicated where Spartans are involved. The UNSC excels at making things more complicated. This galaxy’s a nasty place but it’s also full of people just doing the best they can. Most Spartans are like that. In my experience you won’t find a group of kinder-hearted killers.”
“You know, halfway through training they told us about Simon. Everyone wanted to be the one to take him down. The briefings didn’t say much about you.”
“Of course not. I was just his accomplice. His victim.” A rare flash of irritation crossed Cassandra’s face. “It was one of the most humiliating days of my life when someone told me an ONI report actually said I defected because I was smitten with him.”
“Oh, uh, wow.” Merlin didn’t want to admit that he’d once believed that particular take on the story. There had been something criminally romantic about it. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring that up.”
“It’s fine. Simon taking the heat for everything meant they mostly left me alone. I didn’t realize just how much he did for me back then. Not that I’ll tell him that. If our illustrious commander’s ego gets any bigger there won’t be room left on the ship for anyone else.”
She laughed and Merlin laughed with her. Across the room a raucous group of humans and Sangheili clustered around the bar, shouting over each other with boasts and war stories. One of them knocked over a keg of ale, spilling thick syrupy liquid over the counter. The bartender snapped her mandibles furiously, thrusting a rag into the startled legionnaire’s hand. His comrades laughed as she forced him to clean the mess up.
“So why’d you want to talk to me anyway?” Cassandra swirled the dregs of her tea around in her mug. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I can’t really give you advice about getting back to the UNSC.”
Merlin wasn’t surprised. He’d been dancing around the question since they sat down. He was grateful that she’d spared him having to put the question into words. “How’d you know?”
“It’s not really a mystery. You’re a good Spartan. You want to do the right thing. The galaxy’s just not made it easy for you lately. For whatever it’s worth, you’ve been doing the right thing since I’ve known you. A lot of people are alive right now because of you. Zoey. Karina. Thomas. Me.”
Plenty of people hadn’t made that list. Merlin thought of poor Lieutenant Davis and his ODSTs. Those men and women had been his last link to any semblance of a real military presence after Ryder betrayed them. “No offense, but it doesn’t feel like I’ve been doing the right thing.”
“None taken. Here on the frontier it never does. Believe me.”
“So…” Merlin hesitated. “What should I do?”
“I can’t tell you that. Have you talked it over with Andra? Or Callum? They’re the ones you should discuss this with.”
“Callum will go back to the UNSC the second he gets the chance. He’s been saying that for months. And Andra’s the happiest I’ve seen her in months. Working with the Kru’desh gives her purpose. I can’t think… I mean, she went through things with them I can’t begin to imagine. Archangel’s Rest, Loic and his friends, the Silent Garden…” Merlin gritted his teeth and forced himself to say the words he’d resisted saying since he sat down. “And if I’m being honest, I’m scared of what her answer would be if I asked her straight.”
Cassandra was quiet for several moments. A faraway expression crossed her face as she stared down into her shriveled alien tea leaves like some back-alley fortune teller. She sighed and looked back to Merlin. “And what makes you think you’ll like what I have to say?”
“I trust you.” Merlin felt sheepish admitting it. “You’re nothing like the person the rumors made you out to be. Ever since I’ve known you I haven’t seen you do a single selfish thing. Not one. Right now I think you’re one of the only people on this ship who’d give me the whole truth about what I’m looking for.”
Maybe it was the dim lighting in this Sangheili tea parlor but Merlin could have sworn he saw a pink flush creep onto Cassandra’s cheeks. She hastily drained the last of her tea, her fingers nervously caressing the lieutenant’s insignia on her uniform. Merlin worried that he’d gone too far, laid it on a bit too thick. He cursed his own clumsy tongue. But after another moment of awkward fidgeting, Cassandra composed herself once more.
“Merlin, that’s… well, that’s one of the kindest things I ever thought I’d hear from a Spartan.” Her eyes looked wistful, maybe even sad. “But you can’t let your guard down. We can’t be all things to all people. I’m a traitor, Merlin. A deserter. I took an oath to defend Earth and her colonies, the same oath you and Andra took. I betrayed that oath. That was my choice. My choice. I have to live with that for the rest of my life.”
“We were just kids…” Merlin began the same argument he’d told himself in his own dark, treacherous moments.
“We were. Brainwashed, brutalized kids. But we took an oath. Words matter. I’m a traitor. I’d do it again in a heartbeat but I don’t want you to think for a second that it doesn’t hurt. That was my sacrifice. It was worth it to me. Is it worth it to you? To Andra?”
“The UNSC is gone,” Merlin said numbly. “Shattered. Destroyed. Simon says it’s finished. Never coming back.”
“Wishful thinking. The UNSC and the systems that built them are resilient. They outlasted the Covenant. They’ll outlast the Created. Maybe not in the form they had before, but maybe that’s a good thing. And what did I say about letting your guard down? Simon would like nothing better than to add you and Andra to his ranks. He has me now. I hear he let Hera slip through his fingers on Archangel’s Rest. He doesn’t want to make that mistake again. Every Spartan he recruits to this legion gives him that much more clout with the Sangheili and the rebels he’ll try to win to his side. You don’t want to be part of that, Merlin.”
Merlin wasn’t sure what he was hearing. Whose side was Cassandra on? “I thought you were with Simon now. Don’t you want him to get what he wants?”
“I am on his side,” Cassandra said grimly. “For better or worse. But I’m starting to remember that Simon getting what he wants is rarely a good thing for anyone. Least of all Simon.”
“And what are you telling me to do? Go back to fighting for the government you hate? What would you think of me then?”
“I’m touched that you care what I think of you. That means a lot.” Cassandra saw the look in Merlin’s eyes and offered a thin smile in return. “Really, it does. And I don’t hate the UNSC. I hate some of the things it’s done. Militarism, imperialism, techno-oligarchy, information control… the list goes on and on. But I’m a small person. It’s not up to me to judge. And for every swaggering militarist and preening bureaucrat serving Earth and her colonies, I know there’s ten good, decent people just trying to do the right thing. They’d be less without you, Merlin. They need you. Now more than ever.”
They sat together in silence for some time. The raucous noise from the parlor’s legionnaire patrons faded away as Merlin thought back to a time when the UNSC was the only life he knew. He thought of the ships he’d served on, the friends he’d made, the pride he’d felt wearing that uniform and standing in the ranks of Earth’s protectors. He couldn’t think about things the same way anymore, not after everything he’d been through. But that didn’t mean those memories were wrong, either.
“I still don’t know what to do,” he admitted.
“You don’t have to do anything. Not right away. But maybe that’s what you’ve been given with your time on this ship. The chance to choose which way you want to turn.”
“I hear they’re gearing up for another operation,” Merlin said carefully. “I’ll have to fight alongside the Kru’desh for a while yet, I think.”
“Do what you have to do to survive. That’s how we all live. It’s a fallen, broken galaxy we live in. But it’s full of good people. Don’t forget that. And don’t forget us, either, once you’ve returned to the primrose path.”
The parlor was getting more crowded as more legionnaires finished their evening shifts. Merlin rose to leave, pressing back against his cushion to make way for a passing Sangheili. “You didn’t exactly answer my question. But you gave me a lot to think about. Thank you, Cassandra.”
“Cass. My friends can call me Cass.” 
***
Mohsin found Ragna tending to her Cyclops. The Cyclops pens were empty save for a few bored Sangheili guards. Work continued in the hangar beyond—work never ended on the Soul Ascencion—but the Cyclops pens were dim and cool. Mohsin admired the space the Cyclops Corps had carved out for themselves here. Work on the exoskeletons was one of the few purely human endeavors left to the Kru’desh. This space, with its pens carved from salvaged battleplate and its caged equipment stalls, felt like a little haven of humanity amidst the deluge of alien sights and sounds and smells Moshin endured every day. The empty Cyclopes loomed over him like great sentinel statues in some dimly lit temple.
Ragna sat in her Cyclops’s open cockpit. The exoskeleton jerked and sputtered in its pen as she ran diagnostic trials through its core systems. Mohsin was abruptly reminded of Pruski, a fighter he’d known back in the early days with the first Venter and the crew who survived Mamore. Pruski had often fallen asleep standing up, twitching excitedly like a dog. Mohsin and the others had teased him mercilessly over it. Pruski was long dead now, of course, buried in an unmarked grave on some backwater colonial battlefield.
Ragna spotted Moshin’s approach and scowled. “I’ve got permission to be here, Captain.” That was a lie and they both knew it. The pens were off limits outside duty hours. Ragna always found her way in all the same.
“Relax, Ragna. I’m not here to be a killjoy. I’m off-duty.”
“Yeah?” Ragna made a face. “So why aren’t you off with Tran?” Ragna disliked Nhat with the petulant parochialism so characteristic of the independence movement. Aliens and rogue Spartans were one thing, but heaven forbid you forgive someone who’d served in the wrong militia.
“She’s busy. Close assault training up on Deck Four. Besides, I wanted to talk to you.”
Ragna’s scowl deepened. In all the years he’d known her, Mohsin had rarely seen Ragna without her features warped in some degree of a frown. Another memory stirred, his mother’s voice teasing ”If you frown all the time, your face will freeze like that!” Of course, Ragna’s mother had never gotten the chance to import that bit of trite advice on her daughter. Redmond Venter had seen to that.
And me, too. I was there. I followed his orders. Never questioned him, not once.
Boots kicked against metal as Ragna dismounted. She clambered down the Cyclops with the practiced ease of a child descending from a climbing tree. Ragna had loved this machine ever since Simon gave it to her on Archangel’s Rest. The chassis, scored by dozens of brutal engagements, was embossed with dull red highlights. She’d taken to etching kill tallies just below the cockpit. Rumor had it that Ragna and a few enterprising techs had modified this machine’s engine and hydraulics, pushing it past its factory specifications as if it were some custom-built muscle car.
Mohsin settled against the leg of another dormant Cyclops. “I hear you’re doing good work training the new pilots.”
Ragna leaped down the last few meters. She hit the deck with a thud. “You heard, huh?” She pushed strands of flaxen hair from her eyes.
“Yes. I am sorry we haven’t had the chance to talk in a while. Strange what living on a ship this size does to you.”
“No, I get it.” Ragna’s eyes burned with unspoken accusation. “We’ve all been busy. You especially.”
Ragna flashed Mohsin a cold look. She crossed over to her workbench and produced a small pamphlet. Mohsin cringed internally. He knew exactly what this was.
“I guess you came down here to chat about this?” Ragna asked. She ran her finger over the alien papers embossed with the Life and True History of Simon Venter. “I never knew you were the creative writing type.”
“I’m not,” Mohsin said quietly. “I just organized the project.”
“Organized it, huh? And then distributed this crap over half the ship.”
“And made sure the Kig-Yar took about ten thousand copies with them when they left the system.” The confession brought Mohsin felt a twisted sense of relief. “We paid Lil’lik to produce more. If she holds up her end of the bargain this thing will be all over free space within the month.”
Ragna tossed the pamphlet down on the workbench. “Really? That’s what you want the galaxy reading? I’ve been swallowing propaganda leaflets my whole life, but this is some next-level Grunt-meth. I just forgot all those times Simon helped us out on the frontier. It must have been someone else the old man sent us to kill on Fell Justice. Or maybe I was just two stupid to figure out that they really were father and son.”
The raw anger in Ragna’s scornful words stung. Mohsin couldn’t meet her eyes. “I had to do it. We’ll never get another chance like Gilgamesh again. If the Kru’desh are going to negotiate and recruit more troops, the commander has to be legitimate in every conceivable way. Even if that means altering the truth—”
“You mean lying.”
“Yes. Lying. We modeled the narrative to fit traditional Sangheili legends. They’ll make the connection between Venter and their own clan aristocracies. Our allies in the independence movement will know him as the true heir to the old man’s legacy. No one will say we’re the pawns of some brainwashed Spartan when these stories make the rounds. They’ll grow bigger than the words on the page. With the right moves from us they’ll become legend. And this legion will use that legend to expand our network on the frontier.”
Mohsin sighed. He still couldn’t look Ragna in the eye. “And you like the commander—”
“Of course I like him!” A ping flush crept over Ragna’s cheeks. “Where would we be without him? Dead on Talitsa, probably, just like the old man and everyone else! But what about before that, huh? That was us, not him! You and me and Okufo and Ramirez and all the rest of us. Back then it was just us and Venter against the galaxy. Us! That was our life! Not some fake legend cooked up in a lab somewhere!”
“You didn’t even warn me before you churned this crap out. Now everyone on the ship thinks we were his cronies the whole time.” Ragna’s fist slammed up against her Cyclops. She clenched her teeth and fought to compose herself. “We’re all that’s left, you know? Just the two of us out of all the Vanguard.”
“I know. I haven’t forgotten. But we have the chance to build something here with this legion. I owe it to you. I owe it to Okufo and everyone else we lost. I’ll whatever it takes to get there. Even if it means building our future on a foundation of lies.”
“Sure. Fine. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Ragna stared up at her Cyclops. “You don’t have to worry about me messing up that nice foundation you’ve built. That’s what you came down here to check on, right? The old man trained me better than that. Was that all you wanted, captain?”
Mohsin felt a sudden need to be anywhere else but here. “Yes. I guess that was it.” Some things couldn’t be fixed with words.
As Mohsin turned to leave the Cyclops pens he heard Ragna’s voice chasing after him: “Does Venter know?”
“No.”
“Good. At least I can still respect him. But what’s he going to do when he finds out?”
Mohsin didn’t have an answer to that. He strode from the hangar with as much dignity as he could muster. He didn’t know what Venter would do. That was a confrontation he’d face very soon. For now Mohsin fled into the bowels of this alien ship that had transformed him into someone he barely recognized.
Back in the pens, Ragna climbed up into her Cyclops. She sealed the hatch and curled up in the cockpit, glaring darkly into the cold metal around her.
***
Andra couldn’t believe the nonsense she’d just read. Her fingers curled around the frame of her cot aboard the BDS corvette. Augmented knuckles warped the metal. She glared daggers at the pages of lies. This pamphlet—plucked from one of the warrior ready rooms on her way off-shift—was full of the most ludicrous falsehoods she’d ever read. Andra had seen legionnaires, human and Sangheili alike, perusing the pamphlet (handily printed in both Sangheili and Roman script) with interest. Curiosity had prompted Andra to investigate what held the attention of even hardened Kru’desh killers. Curiosity gave way to rage as The Life and History of Simon Venter assaulted her eyes with one stomach-churning falsehood after another.
According to this pamphlet, Simon-G294 truly was the biological son of Redmond Venter, military genius and hero of the “colonial independence struggle.” ONI agents had cruelly kidnapped and brainwashed the young boy in order to manipulate his legendary father. Simon had been sent to Mamore to assassinate his own father in yet another despicable ONI ploy that had gone “fortuitously awry” when Venter instead captured his son and turned him against his ONI masters. Father and son had remained allies after Mamore, selflessly striving to advance the cause of colonial independence. The massacre at Philadelphia was painted as a bold military strike against Earth’s industrial centers. Years of criminal service to the Syndicate were merely ploys to root out corruption on the frontier. Even Simon’s allegiance to Jul ‘Mdama was a bold scheme on Venter’s part to unite human and Sangheili against the juggernaut of “Imperial Earth.”
Andra felt as if Simon himself had plunged his machete through her chest. This ridiculous manifest was his doing. And it was all a lie. He’d told her the real story down in the Soul Ascension’s library—hadn’t he? Andra hadn’t realized how much faith she’d placed in that convention, secure in the thought that she was one of the few people he’d ever divulged it to. Now she realized it was just one more ploy, another one of his endless mind games. That man’s life was one colossal psy-op. It had taken this latest, ludicrous lie to remind her of what she’d known all along.
The lies printed on this alien paper pierced Andra’s illusions about what she was doing here. No matter what they’d been through together, the Kru’desh and this ship itself were her enemies. The scheming, conniving caricature of the UNSC drawn up here was nothing like the military Andra had served her entire life, a military without which humanity would never have survived the decades long war against the Covenant—a war Simon had abandoned while better men and women than him died holding the line. Humanity—the UEG’s humanity—was the civilization Andra had a duty to serve. She would never be a part of this gang of pirates and mercenaries and terrorist cutthroats.
At least she wanted to think that way. The wanted the universe to go back to the simple world she’d known. But life wasn’t that simple. The Kru’desh had taught her that hard lesson. Or maybe Simon had just wormed his way so deep into her head that she couldn’t tell the truth from the lies anymore.
Andra tore The Life and History of Simon Venter in half.
“Andra?” Althea called down through the intercom. “Is something the matter?”
Andra glowed up at the security cam—sealed up by tape weeks ago yet somehow still able to let Althea sense her anger. “I’m fine,” she growled. Can’t even be alone in my own damn bunk
Boots thudded in the corridor outside. Andra recognized Callum’s uneven gait. She rose and stepped outside to greet him, bracing mentally against the almost instinctive urge to kick off another argument. She found Callum tugging off his helmet in the corvette’s common room. The older Spartan ran a gloved hand through his close-cropped hair. Even here aboard the Soul Ascension Callum made a point of holding himself to military grooming standards. For the first time Andra realized that she appreciated the gesture. Callum was a lifeline, a conduit back to the UNSC and the life she’d known.
“It’s like a damned factory shift out there,” Callum said as Andra approached. “They’re industrious bastards, I’ll give them that. These Kru’desh already have the damaged superstructure sealed off. From what I’ve seen, this crate’s spaceworthy again. They’ll need a real dry-dock to make it combat effective again. I sure hope your pal Simon has a plan for that.”
Callum noticed the tightness around Andra’s mouth. He groaned. “What’s wrong today?”
“Nothing,” Andra lied. Callum’s positive attitude grated. She wasn’t ready for a real conversation with him right now.
“Suit yourself.” Callum took a swig from his canteen. “Can’t say I like taking orders from lizards and Innies, but it does feel good to have a day job again. All that sitting around was driving me crazy.”
“A fact I repeatedly brought up during my mental health check-ins,” Althea piped up. “Physical activity is crucial for healthy living. Even more so for individuals with your level of augmentations.”
Hearing her own voice behind the AI’s sanctimonious platter made Andra cringe.
“Yeah, well, you’re not my therapist,” Callum retorted. “Though we’ll all need years of counseling once this is all over.”
The remark made Andra’s mind drift to Dr. Zhou-Romero, chief mental health counselor back at Camp Ambrose during Delta Company’s training. Zhou-Romero hadn’t been a real counselor—she’d reported everything from her sessions back up the chain to ONI’s handlers—but the memories made Andra nostalgic all the same. Yes, the UNSC did terrible things. But it was all in service to a greater good, not the base villainy bandied about in that stupid tract. Simon always twisted the truth to suit his purposes.
Merlin returned to the corvette next. The lopsided smile he flashed Andra soothed her temper. At least she could rely on Merlin to boost her spirits. But Andra’s relief was short lived. Merlin’s smile vanished as he dropped down onto the couch beside Callum.
“What’s wrong?” Andra asked, bracing for more trouble.
“I met a Kru’desh runner outside the ship,” Merlin explained. “It’s Saul. They’ve let him and the other Spartans from the Jade Moon out of the brig. Apparently he’s been asking after us. He wants to see us as soon as possible.”
***
The Sangheili guards glowered at Zoey as she passed. She kept her cool and walked steadily beneath the alien warriors. The guards craned their serpentine necks as she hurried further down the corridor. Zoey hated these hallways. The Soul Ascension was built to accommodate different light spectrums than humans were evolved for. Just walking through these purple-hued passages hurt her eyes. Sometimes the ship was unbearably dim and other times it pulsed with searing light. Whenever Zoey started to get a feel for the battlecruiser’s power cycles and operational systems it threw a new exotic shift into the mix. Climate controls tailored for Sangheili bodies filled the ship with a dry humidity that made Zoey feel as if she were walking through the belly of some enormous spacefaring creature.
Zoey missed the cold, messy predictability of the Chancer V, a ship she’d known inside and out. She missed home.
She expected to find more guards waiting outside the door at the end of the corridor. Instead the only creature outside the sealed chamber was one of those strange squid-jellyfish Engineers. The alien bowed its elongated neck as if to say hello. As Zoey approached it flashed its tentacles in a weird pantomime sign language.
“Sorry,” Zoey said. “I don’t understand you.”
The Engineer made a strange chirping noise. It dipped lower to make way for Zoey. When she ducked around its pulsating blue bulk the floating alien passed its tentacles down her arms and back. Soft blue tips split apart like blossoming flowers to release strands of gently waving fibers. They reminded Zoey of the coral anemone in the reefs she’d seen on the beaches of Gilgamesh. She jerked away from the alien’s strange embrace.
“No weapons.” Zoey patted down her grubby fatigues. “I’m not packing anything. See?”
The Engineer cooed soothingly. Maybe it was trying to reassure her. Or maybe it was just cussing her out. Engineers seemed incapable of expressing any kind of hostility. Zoey could hardly believe that these gentle creatures crewed murderous Covenant starships. Of course, the gentle façade could be an act, a way to get you to drop your guard. You couldn’t trust anything or anyone in this galaxy.
Real or fake, Zoey couldn’t resist a childish impulse to stroke the Engineer’s translucent skin. The bulbous squid seemed to like that. It craned its neck and mewled like a contented kitten.
Zoey smiled, but the warm feelings she got from stroking the Engineer faded. She set her mind back to the reason she’d come all the way up to this deck in the first place. “Sorry,” she said, ducking around the Engineer. “But I don’t have time to play with you.”
The Engineer warbled cheerfully. It drifted aside and left Zoey with nothing between her and the chamber door. She steeled her nerves, forcing herself forward as the chamber slid open and ushered her into the murky darkness beyond.
A wave of humidity slapped Zoey in the face. She blinked, adjusting her eyes to the dim light. She stood in some sort of alien bathhouse. Steam hung in great foggy clouds over pools of brackish water. A strange smell rose from the murky ponds—sharp and foreign but not exactly unpleasant. And there, seated at the far end of the chamber, was Stray.
The Kru’desh commander peered at Zoey through the clouds of steam. He’d stripped off most of his armor, leaving only a towel draped over his shoulders and a partial body glove to cover his lower extremities. His armor was visible just behind him, stacked neatly against the far wall. Zoey found herself drawn back to the first day she’d met Stray as he huddled, wounded and hunted, in her parent’s barn. That farm on Talitsa was the only life she’d ever known. The Syndicate had smashed that life like a giant trampling an anthill in its efforts to kill Stray. Then had come Cassandra, Gavin, the Chancer V, the Created—Stray had been the only constant through that chaos, the shadow holding Zoey’s life together. The steam writhed and twisted around them. The ravages of time stretched the distance between them into a gaping chasm.
Zoey steadied herself against a surge of emotion. She been on this ship for months, yet she’d barely talked to Stray since their escape from Asphodel Meadows.
“Zoey,” Stray said. His voice sounded hoarse and weary. “Cassandra told me you were coming.”
His rough voice helped Zoey find her own. She balled her fists. Something about Stray always made her ready for a fight. “You two are talking again, huh?”
Stray grunted. “We never stopped. She calls me when she needs things. You’re like damned cats, all of you.” He watched her with those cold gray eyes. He’d always been like this, even back aboard the Chancer V, always probing, trying to get a rise out of her.
Zoey glowered back. “I just wanted to talk to you, that’s all. What, is that too needy of me? Am I wasting the great Commander Venter’s time?”
He held her gaze a moment longer, then looked away. A sigh floated up through the steam. “No. It’s not a waste.” He sounded contrite. “It’s just impossible to get time to myself these days, that’s all. Give me a second here.”
The steam cleared enough for Zoey to see Stray fiddling with a large syringe. He pushed the towel aside and raised the needle up beneath his prosthetic arm. Zoey shivered at the sight of grayed, desiccated skin, an ugly pool splashing out from the place where metal met flesh.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Stray explained. He pricked the mortified flesh with the needle. “I just need to jab it every few months to keep the nerves alive. Juno used to help keep me on track with it but, well, she’s not around anymore.” He plunged the needle deeper into his skin.
Zoey turned away and tried to pretend she couldn’t see the mess scarring and plasma burns had made of Stray’s body. He got those protecting us. The battle of Fell Justice—where a ragtag smuggling fleet turned aside a Covenant strike force—had cost Stray his arm and his freedom. It had cost Gavin and Zoey their friend. The man standing before Zoey now was a different person from the renegade Spartan who’d waved her a cocky goodbye as he plunged into that Covenant carrier. She wondered if there was anything left of that jerk who prodded and poked and bullied and yet always came through for her when it counted. Stray had been there for Zoey so many times in their years together on the Chancer V. Now she needed to pull strings just to get an audience with him, as if he were some olbios spacefaring monarch.
“I hear you’ve gotten good with a Cyclops rig.” Stray set the needle down and glanced in Zoey’s direction, not quite meeting her eyes. His dull, uninterested tone chased away the wistful clouds of memory. The burning resentment returned.
 
“You hear, huh? Good, because I haven’t seen you once since I came aboard. Your hinge-head thugs basically smuggled me up here. And you can’t even take time out of—” She gestured furiously at the steaming healing pools. “Whatever this is to talk to me with clothes on!”
“You’re a legionnaire now.” A hard edge crept into Stray’s voice. “I’m the commander. I can’t play favorites.”
“I didn’t ask to be part of your stupid legion!” Angry words pent up over the long months in exile tumbled out of Zoey’s mouth. Perspiration dampened her fatigues. “I’m a pilot! A damn good pilot! You know that! But you didn’t even care enough to get me in the flight program. No, you stuck me in the infantry! If you’re so embarrassed of me, just dump me on some colony and leave me alone! Or are you trying to get me killed? Worried I’ll spill my gets on who you really are? Well don’t worry, Commander Venter, I’m not interested in getting in the way of your precious new history!”
Stray made an irritated noise in his throat. He pressed a finger to his temple, trying to keep pace with Zoey’s furious tirade. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about this!” Zoey ripped the crumpled pamphlet out of her pocket. She threw the wad at Stray’s head; it bounced off and floated to the deck with crimpling indifference.
Stray scowled. He looked from Zoey to the crumpled wad and back again.
“What did I ever do to you, huh?” Zoey felt her voice breaking. Stray looked at her like she was crazy. That stupid, puzzled expression was more than she could take. “We had a life! We had the Chancer! We were a family, we had each other’s backs! And now you write your stupid fake history and you don’t even mention us once! Did you really hate us that much?”
Stray stared at her. He bent down and snatched the crumpled pamphlet off the floor. He smoothed it over and squinted down at the creased writing. He stood there reading for a long time. When he spoke again his voice was dangerously quiet. “What the hell is this?”
“Your true history,” Zoey sneered. “It’s all over the ship. Thousands of copies. Don’t play dumb and pretend you aren’t behind this crap.”
Stray said nothing.
“You’re pathetic.” Zoey wanted to hurt Stray so badly right now. Words were the only weapons she had. “I can’t believe I ever looked up to you. You’ve always been like this, haven’t you? Just a loser trying to make yourself look big.”
Stray’s eyes glanced back down at the pamphlet. That cold fish-stare melted away, replaced by burning, murderous anger. The paper trembled as his fingers shook with barely suppressed rage. Zoey stepped back, a spike of fear penetrating her haze of anger. He didn’t know. She realized. Someone else had concocted these lies. They’d done it behind his back and now Zoey had rubbed it in his face. He wasn’t angry at her. Zoey still didn’t matter at all to him. And as the smoldering, wounded pride raged behind Stray’s eyes, Zoey’s own anger surged up like a firestorm.
“You only ever care about yourself!” She was sick of trying to get through to him. Sick of always being ignored, of always being on the way, never measuring up no matter how hard she tried. A frustrated scream wrenched clear of her lungs. She threw herself at Stray.
Combat instinct nearly got her killed. She saw Stray tense and drop into a combat posture. His arms came up, ready to pulverize this attacker just as he’d done to so many in the past. As he moved his form warped in the steam. For a moment he was an older man with a tattered coat and a cocky, lying smile. Zoey rushed furiously not at Stray but at Gavin Dunn. The mirage passed as quickly as it came. The fire left Stray’s eyes. He dropped his arms as a dull expression slid over his warped features.
Zoey collided with him. They crashed together onto the deck. She had planned to punch him, to hammer that ugly face until the ache in her heart went away. Instead all she could do was cling to him. She threw her arms around his waist and held him as tightly as she could, as if this was enough to hold him down, enough to keep him from drifting off into the mist like everything else she cared about.
“It’s gone,” she said feebly. Her breath came in short gasps. She was sobbing uncontrollably now. “The Chancer’s gone. Gavin left me. You never cared about us. I thought we had something real but it was just me being stupid. Stupid… so stupid…”
She felt like more of an idiot with each wet, gasping word that came out of her mouth. Her cheeks burned. She waited for the angry words. Stray would pull her off and toss her aside. He’d call for his guards, have her thrown in a cell, or worse just dump her back down on the lower decks where everyone would keep ignoring her forever. But the blows and harsh words never came. Stray just lay there, pinned to the deck by one scrawny, sobbing girl.
When Stray finally spoke his voice was thin and strained. “On Talitsa, when I let Venter adopt me,” he said quietly. “I didn’t really care about what the name would mean. I didn’t know I could use it to get the Kru’desh back. All I cared about was finding a way to hurt Gavin the best way I knew how.”
He stared up into the rising steam. Water from the alien pools lapped at their feet. “Yeah, I was ashamed of you. Of Gavin, the Chancer, our smuggling jobs, all of it. It was humiliating for them to see me like that, some washed up loser trying to string a few credits together. I just wanted the galaxy to 
respect me. I didn’t see what I had with you guys. I never—”
His voice broke and he took a moment to compose himself. “I never appreciated that rust-bucket the way I should have. I’m sorry, Zoey.”
He placed a faltering hand against Zoey’s head. She hugged him tight, so tight that he struggled to breath. She couldn’t staunch her tears. For a moment she pretended this was Gavin she’d shouted at, Gavin apologizing, Gavin holding her close the way her long-dead father might have. But it wasn’t Gavin. Just Stray. Spiteful, mean, broken Stray. Gavin had abandoned him just as much as he had Zoey. And now they were stuck with each other, lost in the debris of a collapsing universe.
“I should’ve been there for you,” Stray said.
“You saved us,” Zoey sniffed. She didn’t have the energy to scream at him anymore. “I’d be in some Created prison camp if you hadn’t come back.”
“I owed you more than that,” Stray said. “So much more. I’ve never done right by you. When we got away from Asphodel Meadows I really thought…” He trailed off. Through Zoey’s tear-blurred eyes he seemed lost and confused. The sight of that pamphlet and all it entailed had shattered something in him. “I don’t know how to make things right, Zoey.”
He was nothing like the hollow lie written in the legends. He wasn’t a hero of the Insurrection or some brilliant battlefield commander. Whatever schemes he’d doubtless been hatching melted away, leaving something tired and sad and confused. Stray couldn’t undo the past. He couldn’t restore what had been lost. But right now he was everything Zoey needed him to be.
“Please,” she whispered. “Just don’t leave me behind again.”
“Alright.” Somehow that rough, rasping voice was comforting. “Never again.”
Zoey tried to catch her breath. She leaned against him and tried to pretend that things were normal. For right now she pretended that he could keep that promise. She pretended everything would be alright.
Simon Venter stared up at the steam coalescing at the top of the healing chamber. Something needed to be done about this pamphlet. He already suspected who its architects might be. They’d need to be dealt with. And then there was the Soaring Chorus operation. A thousand swirling variables orbited that latest scheme. And the business with Saul. More responsibilities to attend to, more messes to clean up. The work never ended even as his life spiraled further and further out of control.
But for now he forced himself to forget the legion. He wrapped his arms around Zoey in as comforting an embrace as a creature like him could muster, adrift in thoughts of a life that might have been.
===Chapter Ten: Commander Venter===
Althea wasn’t spying. Not really, anyway.
She prepared herself for the data dive like a swimmer bracing for a plunge into an icy lake. All but her key infiltration systems were stripped away. She left the larger part of herself safely aboard the corvette’s computer systems, narrowing her consciousness into a potent but slender spike that could slip into the Soul Ascension’s data stream completely unnoticed. When Althea launched herself as a data-probe she disappeared into the ocean of alien systems without leaving so much as a ripple for the cyber-defense systems to detect. And like the swimmer immersed in frigid waters, Althea found the plunge at once agonizing and liberating.
No matter her precautions and self-limitations Althea felt like a hypocrite. She’d spent months deflecting Callum’s orders to probe the Kru’desh systems. The Spartan understandably wanted as much intel on the legion’s activities and stratagems as they could find. The Soul Ascension might be a temporary sanctuary but it was still packed to the bulkheads with criminals, renegades, and mercenaries—all potential future enemies. Althea agreed with Callum whole-heartedly: Simon-G294 could not be trusted. She saw the marks of his subtle influence on Andra—Althea’s own progenitor—and what she saw frightened her. Simon and his Kru’desh were a threat that must not be taken lightly.
And yet she resisted Callum’s orders all the same. Loyalty and gratitude stayed her hand. The Soul Ascension was Juno’s ship. Juno had given her life so that this vessel—and with it, Althea’s Spartan charges—could escape the Created. Althea had been linked in with Juno at the end. She had felt Juno’s death just as she’d experienced Deep Winter’s terrible destruction at the hands of the Created. The memory of those deaths still haunted Althea. Sharing a data-link with a dying AI was far more personal than simply sitting by an organic death-bed. Fragments of Juno’s disintegrating code still lingered within Althea. They writhed and twisted like burning ribbons, echoing against the defensive shields their progenitor had left throughout the Soul Ascension’s systems.
And if what Althea suspected about Juno’s origins deep within ONI’s secretive artificial intelligence research laboratories was true, then Juno had been far more than just a fellow AI. Althea had recognized elements of her own code in Juno during their time together. Juno had been a forerunner to Althea’s own LOKIBORN origins, an experimental construct drawn from a living human brain. And Juno—for all her righteous intentions—had deviated from her UNSC programming, dedicating herself to the traitor Simon-G294 and his alien legion.
Juno’s intentions had been entirely good. Of that Althea had no doubt. She was certainly no traitor like the countless Created defectors. At least, circumstances had conspired to make her Althea’s ally rather than her enemy. But Juno had strayed from the path set before her at conception all the same. The Created had shattered Althea’s illusions that it was impossible for AI to sin against their creators. Juno had warped Althea’s understanding a step further. Not only could a rogue AI exist, they could also take the guise of a friend and an ally. And then there was Althea’s horrifying, nauseating encounter with Diana, Juno’s twisted sister-AI…
I’m already deviant. Callum is my commanding officer and I’ve refused his direct orders. The thought tormented Althea even as she sifted through troop records and inventory manifests. How far was too far? And if she did break from her core purpose would she even realize it? Programming could be rewritten. Althea self-maintained her own coding every day. She even altered her own memories to justify these excursions into the Soul Ascension’s systems. Where was the line between good intentions and rampancy?
Something had happened to Juno before the end. A rift had opened between her and her beloved Simon that had healed only with her death. Althea still couldn’t determine just what had happened. Even Yearns to Soar and its friendly brood of Huragok refused to divulge information about Juno, who they referred to with fond sadness as “our lost friend.” Althea wished dearly that she’d spoken more freely to Juno before the end. Sometimes her experience of the past year felt like nothing but regrets.
But I still have a duty, she reminded herself. She would keep Merlin, Andra, and Callum safe, never mind her own doubts. If that meant she was too far gone when they finally returned to the UNSC fold, she would submit to her final dispensation without resistance. She would—
Althea purged these strands of frightening thought from her consciousness. Doubts and fears would bloat her presence within the Soul Ascension data flow. Relieved of these last burdens she plunged further into the data stream. She slipped past Juno’s old defenses, penetrating firewalls without dismantling the digital barriers. A “no-trace” infiltration like this was certainly more difficult but Althea’s goals here were far from ambitious. This was just another quick investigation. A patrol to discern the Kru’desh intentions, nothing more. Althea’s previous infiltrations had turned up no evidence of ill-intent. She knew this despite the fact that she purged her own memories after each plunge into the Soul Ascension network; only trace notes within her core programming reminded her of what she discovered on each run.
This time, however, was different. Althea detected it almost immediately. The Kru’desh rarely acknowledged their Spartan “guests” in official communiques. Now veiled references to Althea’s charges cropped up everywhere. At first Althea assumed that these were merely labor taskers reflecting the Spartans’ return to the ship’s work roster. But the deeper she probed the more she realized that several of these references stemmed from high-level reports surrounding the aftermath of the Jade Moon Raid. Even more concerning were references to Spartan participation in a new operation. Althea couldn’t discern exactly what this new battle plan was—the encryption levels were too high for her to penetrate without exposing her infiltration. But several Kru’desh intelligence reports had gone to great lengths to map Andra, Merlin, and Callum’s movements throughout the ship.
That alone was hardly surprising; the Kru’desh had every reason to keep an eye on three Spartans. What concerned Althea was the extent of the surveillance. Even without full access to the files it was plain that every conversation with Merlin, Andra and even Callum outside the corvette had been meticulously recorded and filed away. Was even the corvette safe? A terrible doubt churned in Althea’s programming. She couldn’t even trust her own safeguard measures. How did I not notice this before?
Althea’s consciousness swirled in the data-stream. Previous infiltration methods inadequate. Rogue cells. Enemy operations exceeding suspected parameters. Immediate counter-intelligence precautions required—
Something pulsed in the data-stream. Althea coalesced in on herself, shutting down the churning doubts and minimizing her presence. She’d timed this infiltration badly. Yearns to Soar and the other Huragok periodically spiked the system to reinforce the existing countermeasures. It was just Althea’s bad luck that her swim through the data-stream coincided with such a sweep.
Althea steadied herself. Losing control did no good here. She was out of time. The remainder of her window could be measured in seconds. She took stock of one final intelligence report—very recent, by the looks of it. Andra and Merlin were on the ship’s upper decks at this very moment, present for a scheduled meeting with the Spartan prisoners recovered from the Jade Moon. One prisoner in particular was highlighted for special attention: Saul Denisov. Saul-D313, Andra and Merlin’s fellow trainee. It could be coincidence. But everything Althea had found in here reeked of calculation. She couldn’t trust mere coincidence. Someone aboard the Soul Ascension wanted Andra and Merlin to meet Saul at this particular time and place.
But her time was up. Althea withdrew from the system. She purged her fragments as she did, eliminating every trace of her infiltration. Such a thorough retreat meant purging her core memories as well—every trace of intelligence she had gathered on Kru’desh operations and vulnerabilities. This was Althea’s penance for violating Juno’s old systems. Nothing she learned inside the Soul Ascension would ever be used against the legion. By the time Althea’s withdrawal was complete and she was safe and secure aboard the corvette, she barely had any memory of the infiltration at all.
Only one scrap of intelligence remained: Merlin and Andra and Saul. They were being manipulated. Althea needed to warn them. She fought to settle her churning emotions. No panicking. Not here. She couldn’t contact them now. Their lives weren’t in danger. And Althea needed to be cautious about how she revealed what she’d learned. Once the Spartans returned to the ship she would explain it all as best she could.
For now Althea settled into an anxious holding pattern, waiting inside her tiny sanctuary.
***
The Soul Ascension’s command briefing room was a gloomy rotunda lit only by a few sparse glow-lights and the holograms that bloomed up from the large tactical display table in the center. Mohsin wished Simon would let him install some portable field lights around the room. The Sangheili liked their dimly lit sanctums, but of course their eyes had a range of vision than humans. As with many facts of life across the ship Mohsin and the other humans simply had to put up with squinting and that eerie, ever-present feeling that they did not belong here.
Mohsin sometimes wondered how Simon had handled being the only human aboard an alien vessel. Another pang of guilt spiked his soul. The “biography” now circulating the legion and (provided the exiled Kig-Yar held up their end of the bargain) the frontier claimed that Simon’s command of the Kru’desh was an elaborate stratagem by Redmond Venter to install a trusted agent in a position of power to win Sangheili warriors over to the cause of… what? Freedom? Galactic liberation? Mohsin wasn’t even sure what flag he fought under anymore.
Urei ‘Caszal stood close by. The Ascension’s Second conferred quietly with another Sangheili officer. Mohsin wondered just how he’d found himself bound up in this alien’s schemes. A year ago Urei had been an adjutant officer with the Cleansing Blade. With his old masters dead or defeated he’d deftly changed his allegiance to the Kru’desh. What did he get out of all of this? There was no denying Urei’s skills as an officer and administrator. But where did Urei intend to be a year from now? Mohsin felt a twisting feeling in his gut. The future that loomed ahead was a dark road full of shadows and ambiguities.
Simon Venter leaned against the table’s far side. He’d worn his scavenged MJOLNIR to this meeting. He was becoming more confident with its enhanced speed and strength every day. The dented helmet lay on the table alongside a disordered stack of files and datapads. Its owner spoke quietly into an earpiece. Once that conversation was finished, Simon straightened and flashed a crooked smile at the assembled officers.
“Gentlemen. Sorry about the delay, Yearns to Soar had a security update. I’ve got a tight schedule so let’s get to business.” He tapped the table’s command panel. The room brightened as the immense bulk of the Soaring Chorus repair station sprang up over the table, accompanied by streams of cost projections and regional intelligence gathered by the Kru’desh advance party. “Major ‘Demal’s negotiations went just as we planned. The Chorus of Builders has extended an official invitation for the legion to use their services. All the projected factors are lining up as planned. I want this ship locked down and ready for Slipspace jump at the end of this cycle.”
“What about the recon team’s reports about the Soaring Chorus security detail?” a human officer asked.
“Nothing to worry about,” Venter said briskly. “We planned for this. Major ‘Demal’s report shows me nothing but opportunities. I intend to take them. Most of you already have assignments. Get to them. This operation needs to go off without a hitch.”
Venter glanced down at the files spread out before him on the tactical display. “Urei, Captain Shah, stay here. We’ve got one more thing to cover.”
The room emptied quickly. The other officers hurried out to perform their various duties. Soon, only Mohsin, Urei, and Venter remained at the table. Argo ‘Varvin had not been mentioned, yet the spymaster lounged against the wall behind Venter. A small guard detail—all Sangheili, Mohsin noticed with a jolt of unease—remained near the door. Venter made a show of rifling through his files. Urei took a step closer to Mohsin. They both realized exactly what was coming. Mohsin’s mouth felt dry. He felt no surprise at all when Simon drew a pamphlet—The Life and History of Simon Venter—and tossed it into the center of the table.
The commander stared at Mohsin and Urei with cold, dead eyes. His mouth twitched, then uttered a single word: “Explain.”
A deadly silence hung in the dim air. Mohsin looked to Argo, who had been as much a part of this project as anyone else. The spy made no move. Whose side was he on? The Sangheili guards were all Kru’desh veterans. None of Urei’s Cleansing Blade converts stood among them. Simon had prepared this trap before the meeting began. Mohsin had known a confrontation over the propaganda scheme was inevitable, but he had not walked into this room expecting to die. His knees wobbled beneath the table.
Another scene flashed before his eyes, another confrontation over Kru’desh leadership. Conspirators had turned on Venter on Archangel’s Rest, expecting the rest of the legion to join them in challenging Venter. Instead the Kru’desh had closed ranks around their embattled commander. Mohsin had led the firing squad that put those traitors to death that cold, snowbound morning. He had never expected to stand in their place.
Urei spoke first. “A trivial project, commander. Necessary for our future operations on the frontier, but hardly worth your time in light of the Jade Moon and Soaring Chorus plans.”
“Trivial,” Venter said drily. “You spend weeks fabricating the story of my life, disseminate a few million copies of this nonsense across the frontier, all behind my back, and you call that trivial. I’d hate to know what this would have looked like if you’d actually applied yourself on this one.”
Urei started to reply. Venter cut him off with a violent gesture. “Don’t bother denying it. I know everything.”
Argo leaned against the wall and said nothing. Mohsin wondered how long the mercenary had waited before selling him and Urei out to Venter. Probably just long enough for the information to be worth his while.
“My top officers,” Venter continued. “My best men. Putting a team together, drafting this garbage, shipping it out right under my nose. I’ll hand it to you, I didn’t have a clue. Not until Zoey shoved your handiwork in my face. I’m impressed, I really am.”
“You delegated many duties and projects to me,” Urei said stiffly. If the Second feared Venter’s wrath, he didn’t show it. He held himself with the same fearless composure he’d held during the Archangel’s Rest campaign. “You never ordered me to keep you informed over every undertaking. This is a necessity, an easy means of raising your standing at no cost to the legion. We stand to gain much in future negotiations with both my people and your own.”
“No cost,” Venter scoffed. His eyes glittered dangerously. The pamphlet crumpled, crushed between metal fingers. “Almost every word is a lie. And ONI will make sure the entire universe knows it’s a lie.”
“ONI?” Urei cocked his serpentine head in genuine puzzlement. “Commander, you of all people should know better. ONI is irrelevant in this matter. Their word means nothing. Any statement they make refuting us will only serve us the better. The Great Houses of the Sangheili will believe our truth and respect the legion all the more. And the humans of the frontier will know you as a hero – a hero who stood firm against both the might of Earth and the tyranny of the Created. Your concern over this matter is hardly warranted.”
“Watch your mouth,” Venter snarled. “Or I’ll have it ripped off, one mandible at a time.” He rounded on Mohsin. “And what about you? You know this is nonsense. I wasn’t in league with the old man. He tried to have me killed—and you helped him!”
“I did,” Mohsin said slowly. “I remember you killed more than a few of our people in your time.”
“Venter hated me and I hated him. You know that. So how could you help concoct this farce?”
Mohsin had held back while Venter and Urei argued. But now he realized that he wasn’t afraid anymore. Simon Venter could rant and threaten until the ship decayed around their heads but he wouldn’t kill them. He was asking too many questions for that, trying to make sense of a problem he couldn’t solve with a simple execution. Mohsin heard desperation behind the anger. Desperation… and a petulance he’d never heard from this man before. That petulance lit a fire in Mohsin’s stomach. He fixed Simon with a cold glare.
“So now you care about truth?” he demanded. “You of all people?” Truth? After everything you’ve done? Now you give a damn about the truth?”
Simon’s livid features contorted in the pale light. He planted his hands on the tactical display and for a moment Mohsin’s fear returned. Maybe Simon really would throw himself across the table to wring his neck like some stray dog. Mohsin planted his boots and held his ground. He wouldn’t doubt himself again. He was right. He owed his comrades—living and dead alike—to stand firm.
“We’ve let them control the truth for too long,” Mohsin said. The words tumbled from his mouth, feelings that had fermented within him for years now finally falling into the light. “Our history, our religions, our philosophies—the UEG warped it all to serve their own ends. Well, their information control is over now. We can thank the Created for that. They can’t tie the human race down anymore. I’ll never let them call me a terrorist ever again. The human revolution is here, commander. And if I have to sow a few lies to help it along then so be it. You taught me that. I learned that lesson well. Or maybe you never really believed all that big talk of yours.”
The words struck home. The fight drained out of Simon like water from a colander. He wasn’t Commander Venter anymore, just tired, bitter, outmaneuvered Simon. His eyes dropped from Mohsin’s unyielding gaze to stare at the pamphlet, crumpled and abandoned on the tactical display. Urei drew back from the table. He shot Mohsin an appraising look. The Second hadn’t expected Mohsin’s outburst. Mohsin gave him the same steely glare he’d given Simon. Urei cocked his head, then turned back to Simon.
“This legion needs the legend of Simon Venter,” Urei said. “It needs you as well, but not quite as much. Surely you understand. Especially after your blunder at the Jade Moon…”
Simon stared at Urei as if seeing him for the first time. Urei who had survived Archangel’s Rest, Urei who had traded his cloak so easily the moment Shinsu ‘Refum was defeated. Urei, so well-bred and aristocratic and yet a hardy survivor at his core. Simon looked at Mohsin and Urei as the state of things fell into place before his eyes. Something changed in his expression. He rose, lessened and yet revitalized.
The storm had passed. There would be no confrontation, no executions. Mohsin was startled to feel his fingers brush against his sidearm. He hadn’t even realized he’d reached for the weapon.
Argo hadn’t moved from his place behind Simon. The mercenary folded his arms and watched the exchange with cool detachment.
“You must have known,” Urei continued, half didactic, half soothing. “You staked your claim to power on one lie after another. We simply took steps to cement that lie into truth. A truth that will outlive—”
“Enough,” Simon snapped bitterly. “You’ve made your point. Keep doing what you’re doing. Keep The lie going. Just get out of my sight. I have another operation to plan.”
Urei hesitated. His serpentine head bobbed once. He offered a salute before sweeping from the chamber. The door guards responded to a curt sign from Simon and then departed. Mohsin waited for his own dismissal but Venter didn’t look at him. Instead the commander turned to Argo.
“You must have had a hand in this.”
“So I did.” Argo clicked his mandibles. “At least regarding some of the logistics. I’m not so nearly as clever as to come up with all these marvelous stories myself.”
Simon grunted. He shoved the parchment aside and waved his hand over the tactical display. New lights sprang up before his eyes: status reports for the Soul Ascension and plans for the Chorus operation. The stratagems woven around the ship repairs were shaping up to be intricate—and dangerous.
“Curiously, you don’t seem all that angry with me,” Argo said.
“What’s to be angry about? I’m sure our mutual friends paid you well for your services. You’re a credit-hungry mercenary rat, Argo. It’s what I like about you. No matter what happens, you always come out on top.”
“You flatter me, commander.” Argo offered an exaggerated bow. “And may I say, your legend will be a wonder to behold.”
“Don’t push your luck. Get out of here. You’ve got work to do with the Soaring Chorus. Everything has to go perfectly on your end.”
“Indeed they do. I look forward to seeing the outcome of this latest venture. This should be a fun little operation.”
“Yes. Fun.” Venter glared into the displays swirling around him. “Fun enough to wipe the bad taste out of my mouth. Now get out of here and get to work.”
Argo left through the same door as Urei. He cast a quizzical look at Mohsin, who remained at the table. The doors slid shut behind the saurian mercenary. Simon and Mohsin were alone in the dark chamber. Light from the alien holograms cast eerie shadows over the commander’s face. He made a show of being engrossed in data. Mohsin still didn’t move. This carried on for a good five minutes until Simon finally cracked.
“What do you want, captain?” Simon still didn’t look in Mohsin’s direction.
A strange swell of emotions rose up in Mohsin’s chest: guilt, anger, pity, conviction. He’d been right to betray Simon; right, and yet contemptible. For all of Simon’s faults—his pride, his hypocrisies, his lies—Mohsin everything he had to this man. A man whose warped life Mohsin couldn’t even begin to comprehend, a man who had journeyed to the edge of the universe and gazed upon mysteries that belonged only to God. But of course, that was why the legend needed to be fabricated. A man privileged with such a charmed life needed to be a legend. He could not be the stunted, bitter man who glared petulantly in the light of half-formed plots and old grudges. Mohsin could not let people die for such a man. Ragna and the others deserved better than that.
“I think you’ll thank me for this in time,” Mohsin said.
Simon’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Careful. I still haven’t made up my mind about not killing you.”
“Those threats are beneath you.”
“Nothing’s beneath me,” Simon hissed. “You think you know me? You think you know what I’m capable of? You haven’t seen the things I’ve done, the things I’ve—”
He cut himself short, running his fingers through his hair. “Ah, what the hell am I talking about? It doesn’t really matter what I’m capable of anymore? You’ll invent something better. Or someone else will. That’s the trouble with legends. You can’t control them once they’re loose in the wild.”
“True,” Mohsin agreed. “And because of that legend you might just escape this ship with your life. Once the legend eclipses the real you, once this legion doesn’t need you anymore, you can retire. Be done with this life.”
“How optimistic of you. And who ever said I wanted to retire?”
“Maybe not you. Not now anyway. But Cassandra…”
Mohsin expected more anger. Instead, Simon’s look became measured and cunning.
“So that’s why you convinced her to sign on.”
“One of the reasons.”
“I underestimated you, Mohsin. You’re even more devious than Urei. I hope he knows who he’s going into business with.”
“I had a good teacher.” Mohsin’s harsh words fought back the guilt. “I did what I did for the legion. For our legion. Your hurt feelings are a miniscule price to pay for what the Kru’desh will do for the cause of human independence. And when the legend becomes more important than the man, who knows? You might even get to enjoy the fruits of your labors.”
“We’ll see,” Simon said coolly. “But I think you’ll miss me when I’m gone. You’ll miss having me to take on all the guilt when you’re the one calling the shots. At least I have fun with it. You? You take everything too seriously. You won’t enjoy it at all.”
“Probably not. But I’ve made my peace with that.” Mohsin offered a perfunctory salute. He turned to go. “I do consider you a friend. And I’m grateful to you. I really am.”
Simon shook his head. He returned his attention to the tactical display. “Funny how people like to say that after they stab me in the back. I almost miss Amber. At least she didn’t make things complicated when she betrayed me.”
In the alien light the commander looked diminished—diminished, yet more resolved than he’d looked in months. Mohsin left the room, convinced more than ever that he’d done the right thing. But something troubled him still. As the door slid shut on the command room he could have sworn he saw a ghostly apparition shimmering in the air beside Simon: Juno, the traitor AI, her solemn features set in a sorrowful stare. The orifice-like door sealed over the commander and the ghost before Mohsin could decide if the scene was real or merely a fragment of his imagination.
***
“I have to say…” Saul licked his lips. He reminded Andra of a nervous dog fresh out of its kennel. He kept looking around the room, his eyes brimming with nervous energy. “I didn’t believe them when they told me you two were aboard. Didn’t seem possible. But here you are. What are the odds?”
“Crazy,” Merlin agreed. “And lucky. I’m glad they got you out of that prison. I can’t even imagine…” His voice trailed off and he shook his head. “They almost got me, too.”
Saul flinched at the merest mention of his imprisonment. Andra felt bad for him. She had not known Saul well during their time together in training. She remembered a small, nervous kid, good-natured but never exceptional. He hadn’t been anything like most of their loud, competitive peers. Somehow Saul had made it through training without that competitive edge only to vanish after Delta Company’s augmentations. “Post-procedure adjustment issues,” the ONI handlers had said curtly before they redoubled the exercises meant to familiarize the newly-transformed Spartans with their new bodies. Apparently Saul hadn’t adjusted well to his newfound strength and speed. ONI must have rehabilitated and recycled him into the Spartan-IV program rather than sacrifice the investment he represented.
And then he’d gone and been captured by the Created. Some people had the worst luck.
“I heard these, uh, these Kru’desh guys helped you get away from the Created.”
Merlin nodded. “Yeah. They did. Never thought I’d be saved by ex-Covenant and rebels and criminals, but here we are.” Merlin looked pensively around the spacious room, its smooth Covenant décor at once familiar and terribly alien.
Andra couldn’t help but feel jealous. The Kru’desh had furnished Saul with a full room for his quarters, complete with a comfortable bunk and work-desk amidst the smooth contours. This bunkroom was no luxury suite but it was far more comfortable than Andra’s cramped bunk back on the corvette. An odd twinge of annoyance panged Andra’s mind. Everything she’d done for the Kru’desh and Simon had never furnished her with so much as a bunk in a legion barracks-room.
She shook her head, chasing the unwelcome thoughts away. What the hell was she thinking? Since when did she expect anything at all from Simon-G294?
Saul sat awkwardly by his bed. He wore a set of baggy dull fatigues identical to those worn by most human legionaries on the Soul Ascension. The ugly uniforms were a common sight in any rebel outfit. Mass-produced in their billions, they were shirnk-wrapped and boxed and shipped across the colonies, easy apparel for any two-bit militia looking to add a bit of uniformity to its grubby ranks. The tags on Andra’s own uniform told her it had been sown back in the 2510s, long before humanity had learned of the existence of the Covenant or Forerunners and any of the other galactic mysteries they now took as a given.
“Here we are,” Andra agreed quickly. Something about Merlin’s tone worried her. She heard a note of resignation—or was it acceptance?—in his gentle words. “But everything’s been crazy since the Created took over. We’re glad to find more UNSC out here.”
“UNSC who haven’t turned traitor,” Merlin added. Andra flinched. The memory of Ryder Kedar’s betrayal still burned white hot.
Pink touched the corner of Saul’s cheeks. He turned away, suddenly unable to meet Andra and Merlin’s eyes. The two Spartans exchanged looks. Guilt flooded Merlin’s face as he looked back to Saul.
“Hey, Saul, it’s OK. Whatever you told them, whatever they did to you—don’t worry, OK? We’ve got no right to judge you.”
“Yeah,” Andra agreed, picking up on the soothing tone in Merlin’s voice. “They took me prisoner, too. I got lucky—I escaped. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you.”
Saul laughed weakly. “You guys were always nice to me. I missed that. But this isn’t about me telling the Created anything. I never had the kind of intel they wanted. Nothing they didn’t already know thanks to all the military AI who went rogue. But, well…” He sighed. “My team—the Spartans who were with me—we’re with the Kru’desh now. We’ve signed on with Commander Venter.”
Andra blinked. “You… what?”
Saul looked at his lap. “It wasn’t easy. But we talked it over and, well, we’re legionnaires now.”
“Why?”
“Same reason as you two, I guess.”
Merlin started to speak but Andra cut him off. “Saul, this isn’t permanent. We’re with them right now, just trying to survive out here. But that doesn’t make us part of them. As soon as we get the chance we’ll make a break for UNSC lines. Come with us. We can get back home.”
She sounded just like Callum now. Merlin stared at her. He hadn’t expected to hear this from her.
Saul’s mouth twisted. The Spartan looked like he was on the verge of tears. “Andra… don’t you get it? It’s over. The UNSC, the UEG… they’re gone. Even if the Created fall apart, the colonies won’t just come back together. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t give any more of myself fighting for a lost cause.”
“You don’t know that’s true,” Andra protested. She suddenly wanted, desperately, for Saul to be wrong. “Whatever the Created told you in that cell, it’s all lies—”
“The Created?” Saul stared at her, half-disbelieving, half-pitying. “They didn’t tell me anything. I saw it, Andra. I saw our fleets destroyed. Things like that happened all over the galaxy. And Simon told me what’s happening out there now. The Banished are tearing through entire systems. The rebels are on the rise everywhere.”
“Simon told you?”
“Yeah. We talked this out days ago.”
Andra leaned back. Simon. Of course he was involved. No wonder the Kru’desh had taken so long to let them see Saul. Simon needed time to sink his teeth into the prisoners. She was lucky he was letting them talk to Saul at all…
She froze. A terrible thought occurred to her.
“Can you trust a word he says?” Merlin demanded. “Seven Spartans are one hell of an asset for the Kru’desh. Simon would say anything to get you on his side.”
“I’m not stupid, Merlin,” Saul snapped. “They had evidence. Footage, recon reports, intercepted coms. The UNSC battlenet? The encryption is a joke. The Kru’desh have been intercepting them for months. You think I can’t tell a fabrication from reality? You think I don’t know what he’d try to get us onboard? He didn’t even want to let me meet with you. But I told him I wouldn’t sign on unless he set this meeting up. I knew you’d feel a certain way, but I hoped…” He trailed off and his face screwed up with pain. “I don’t know, maybe I hoped you’d be onboard with this as well. Selfish of me, I get it. Still…”
Merlin placed a sympathetic hand on his brother Spartan’s shoulder. “Saul. We get it. You did what you had to do. But don’t count us out yet. The UEG’s gotten through worse. You’ll see. Things will come together.”
Andra was barely listening. Something Saul had said fired synapses in her mind. Simon knew she and Merlin were aware of Saul’s presence. He hadn’t wanted them to get in touch with Saul—at least, that’s what he’d told Saul. But why did he even care? Andra’s mind raced. Questions she hadn’t bothered to ask suddenly bubbled up like boiling water. She’d been on deck right when the Kru’desh brought Saul and the others aboard. A coincidence, she’d assumed then. But Argo had been there too, a high-ranking officer tasked with a routine prisoner escort. And now Saul sat before them, primed to offer yet more evidence of the UNSC’s collapse, barely able to contain his hope that she and Merlin would join the Kru’desh as well.
A cold certainty seized her heart. Andra rose, knocking her chair across the room.
Merlin and Saul stared. “Andra, what…?”
Andra was already out the door. She strode past the Sangheili guards outside the brig, batting aside any Kru’desh who got in her way. Her stormy passage through the Soul Ascension passed in a blur. Even the usually nauseating ascent through the gravity lift couldn’t penetrate the cloud of anger crackling through her mind.
The command deck was only lightly guarded. The Kru’desh were stretched thin preparing for the jump out of the system. The human and Sangheili officers Andra passed knew her well enough not to question her presence. She stormed on to the command suite, the Soul Ascension’s inner sanctum, the shadowy heart of Simon’s operations. Andra was barely aware of where her feet were carrying her. All she could see was Simon-G294’s cold, calculating eyes, that crooked smile, that face where she now dearly wanted to plant her fist.
The strategy meeting should have still been in session. Andra expected to barge in on Urei and Mohsin and half a dozen other officers inside the command room. But instead she found a dark, empty room. Empty, that is, save for one. Simon sat alone in the dim chamber. The commander faced the door—Simon never set his back to an entrance—yet he barely registered Andra’s arrival. Instead his attention was fixed at something lying before him on the tactical display.
Andra stood framed in the door. The musky stench of Sangheili-adjusted climate controls somehow made the darkness between her and Simon seem thicker. After a few moments Simon looked up, his face bathed in the pale light from the tactical display. His mouth twisted in a grimace. “Andra. What do you want?”
What Andra wanted to do was to seize Simon by the throat. It took every ounce of self-control to hold her balled fists at her sides. “You…” She fought to steady her own voice. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
Simon leaned back in his seat, eyes turned up towards the ceiling. “Help myself with what?”
He still wasn’t giving her his full attention. Andra stormed forward and slammed her palms against the tactical display. The great table shuddered beneath her augmented strength. “Saul! You used him. You manipulated him to get to me. To get to Merlin. You set the whole thing up! You wanted us to know you had him. You wanted us to hear about all the intel you’d gathered on what’s going on just so we’d give up like he has. You played your mind games with him even after everything the Created put him through. And now you’re using him to screw with us. Again!”
Simon pressed a thumb to his temple, screwing up his eyes as if to remember some trivial bit of knowledge. “Oh right,” he said after a moment. “That.”
He made a flippant gesture. “Not my best work. I came up with it on the fly and then Cassandra went and ruined the whole plan by giving Merlin some kind of pep talk. Oh well. Win some and lose some. Can’t blame me for trying.”
“Can’t blame you?” Andra nearly strangled him for that. “After everything I’ve done for you. Everything I put up with. You just can’t stop. You lie and scheme and play with people’s lives. It’s just like breathing for you, isn’t it? You manipulate people. That’s what you do. You lie to the entire galaxy about who you really are and then…”
Her words faltered as her eyes adjusted to the war chamber’s dim light. She could finally make out just what held Simon’s attention: a crumpled piece of paper. No, not paper, a plasticized pamphlet. The false history of Simon Venter. The sneer Andra conjured to her lips passed as quickly as it came. She had seen Simon thrill in the fulfillment of his schemes before. This was different. This was different. There was no crooked smile, no triumphant glint in his eye, no infuriating look of smug self-satisfaction. None of these things festered on the Simon seated at the table now. He looked deflated, tired, even defeated.
Simon followed Andra’s gaze to the pamphlet and looked away. He couldn’t even look her in the eye, and this sudden recalcitrance told Andra everything she needed to know. The fabricated history wasn’t his plan at all. More than that—he hadn’t had anything to do with it at all. A strange fear thawed Andra’s fury. If Simon wasn’t in control here… who was?
“Ridiculous,” Simon said in a strange voice.
“Moronic.” The word was harsher than Andra intended.
“Moronic,” Simon repeated. He sighed and prodded the pamphlet as if it were a dead rat. “But people will believe it. It’s a big galaxy and there’s a sucker born every minute. I can’t complain. It’s why I’m still alive.”
“ONI won’t stand for this. They’ll hit this with a counter-intel op. When they’re finished they’ll make you out to be even worse than you really are.”
“ONI?” Simon laughed without humor. “Who will believe them? A lie flies around the galaxy before the truth can put its boots on. Not that ONI will tell the truth. And it won’t matter. They aren’t in control anymore. History’s a strange thing, Andra. It’s made a hero out of Venter and now it’s made me his immortal son. That’s the new truth and we all just have to live with it.”
As he spoke a faint smile slipped over his lips, as if he were relating something comic and yet deeply tragic. “History. Maybe that’s the thing Cassandra calls God. Tuka always said the hand of God was on me. I never believed him when he was alive. I thought I was the one in control. At Le Havre, Archangel’s Rest, even Asphodel Meadows. Those were my plans, my victories. But now I see it. History is what did it, not me. It raised me up the same way it did the Covenant and the UNSC and Shinsu ‘Refum. It’ll sweep me aside when it’s done with me, just like it did them. The Created brought the galaxy to its knees—destroyed entire planets—and now they’re collapsing too. Power’s just an accident of history.
He said all this quietly and furtively, as if he were talking to himself. “History gave me the power I have not. It will take it all away. Very soon, I think. But until it does, I’m free to run wild. And I think that’s exactly what I’ll do.” His gaze darkened dangerously.
Andra listened intently. The dark, humid air gnawed her skin. She’d seen Simon in these dangerous moods before. She remembered that terrible encounter in the Silent Garden, remembered the terrible presence she’d felt as an unseen entity tried to bend Simon to its will. He said he’d destroyed “Wanderer” or whatever that thing was. But when Simon descended into these strange ramblings—so unlike his usual veneer of calculated mockery—Andra wondered if he truly had emerged from that encounter whole. Simon was so hard to read. Maybe it was all an act. Or maybe he’s just crazy. Not for the first time did Andra wonder if it really was Simon who had staggered free from the Silent Garden’s clutches. The Domain had left its mark on his mind like stinging vines against exposed flesh.
 “I’m not crazy,” Simon said, as if reading Andra’s thoughts. “I just finally see all of this clearly. Clearer than ever. They want Venter, so that’s exactly what I’ll give them. Yes, I’ll give them their precious Venter.”
“Is that what you want? To be some twisted war criminal’s legacy?”
“I’m already his legacy. It doesn’t matter what I want. He was…” Simon’s voice broke. For the first time since she’d known him, Simon Venter faced the abyss of his past and looked away. “He was such an evil man. But the worst thing was, he brought out the evil in me. And now there’s no going back.”
Andra’s mind raced. Her mouth twisted, opening to deliver some biting remark. But now she wasn’t seeing Simon sitting at the table anymore. Instead she saw herself. She felt a rifle grip in her hand, the weight of lives taken to serve a cause she’d only ever pretended to understand. Just follow orders. Take lives, accomplish the mission, be whatever they want you to be.
“Let Merlin go,” she said. “I don’t know about… history, or whatever you’re going on about, but don’t drag him into this. Don’t twist him like Venter twisted you. He’d go along with it, convince himself it was the right thing to do, and then he’d never forgive himself. Don’t do that to him. Let him go.”
Simon stared down at the crumpled pamphlet. When he finally faced Andra his eyes gleamed with an old, weary cunning. Cunning edged with sad resignation. “A Spartan’s a hell of an asset to give up,” he said. “And like you said, I’m already close to having him under my thumb. With an ask like that, you’d better have something to offer in return.”
“You owe me,” Andra said coldly. As always, sympathy for Simon was short-lived.
“That gets you most of the way there.” Simon knocked the pamphlet aside. He folded his hands on the holotable like a patient credit broker, his solipsistic lapse vanishing behind the veil of mercenary calculation. “Now get yourself over the finish line.”
***
Three full lances of Kru’desh legionaries surrounded the BDS corvette. A fourth team took up firing positions, weapons drawn, while Yearns to Soar and its Huragok brethren poked and prodded the corvette’s hull with their feathery antennae. A Sangheili major paced cautiously around the cordon. He had orders to keep the precious Huragok safe at all costs. Those orders were complicated by the two angry Spartans he had to deal with.
“What the hell are you doing?” Callum roared. The Kru’desh lockdown had caught even him by surprise.
He wasn’t wearing his armor but he was still intimidating even in dull-grey fatigues. The legionaries flinched away and jabbed plasma weapons in his direction.
Merlin struggled near the boarding ramp, pinned to his knees by three Sangheili. “They’re attacking her!” he yelled. “They’re attacking Althea!” He looked desperately at Andra, who’d made a show of resistance and gotten a black eye for her trouble. A Kru’desh warrior stood cautiously between her and Merlin, the hilt of a deactivated energy sword in hand. Andra saw the plea in Merlin’s eyes and looked away.
“Leave her alone!” Merlin snarled uselessly.
A crowd began to gather outside the cordon. Mohsin Shah drew up beside Andra. The captain watched the display with a furrowed brow. “What the hell did you say to him?” he demanded quietly, his lip movements hidden by his dark beard.
“I’m not the one writing propaganda behind his back,” Andra snapped. She didn’t like Mohsin’s implication, as if Simon could be influenced by anything she said. She watched Merlin struggle against his captors and felt a stab of guilt. This was Merlin’s “out.” She’d asked Simon to keep him from joining the Kru’desh. Simon—Commander Venter—had given her exactly what she wanted.
A team of human and Sangheili techs climbed onto the corvette’s hull. They garlanded the ship with thick cords, a web of jamming fields to isolate its systems and aid the Huragok currently slicing through any encryptions Althea might marshal to her defense. Callum bristled at the sight of the Kru’desh swarming over his home. He glared helplessly at the legionaries before turning his stare on Andra. She saw the accusation in his eyes and forced herself not to look away. Whatever was about to happen, whatever cold dispensation Simon would force upon poor Althea, Andra needed to stand her ground and bear witness.
The crowd of legionaries parted. The cordon opened there ranks, and there he was. For once Commander Venter wore no armor and carried no weapons, yet he marched with a grim purpose that made him seem loftier and more unassailable than he’d ever been from behind his shell of combat armor. Andra shuddered, stricken by the sudden memory of the insatiable beast she’d seen in the Silent Garden. Mohsin stirred uneasily, perhaps now realizing what his politicking had created.
Venter strode towards the corvette. Even his limp seemed confident. Two Sangheili warriors hurried to keep up with his brisk pace. Callum thrust himself in Venter’s path. The two Spartans glared at each other, eyes brimming with mutual dislike. One of the Sangheili placed a hand on his plasma rifle but Venter waved him aside. Callum held his ground for a moment and then angrily gave way.
“Someday I’ll catch you without a crowd of your flunkies to get in my way.”
“And maybe someday you won’t need my flunkies to keep you out of a Created re-education camp,” Venter returned. “Or a Banished slave pen, the way things are going.”
The commander passed on to the ramp where Merlin still struggled against his captors.
“Stay away from Althea,” Merlin spat.
Venter ignored him. “Keep the Spartans away from this ship,” he ordered the major. “This won’t take long. Keep an eye on them but don’t rough them up unless you have to. I need that AI cooperative.”
He turned back to Callum. “That little scamp’s been probing my ship’s systems,” he said. “What am I supposed to do? Let her run free? Don’t worry, I don’t blame you. We all know how AI are these days.” He threw up his hands in theatrical exasperation and then vanished up into the ship.
Merlin let the Sangheili drag him away from the boarding ramp. He was at least a little reassured by Venter’s words. At least the Kru’desh wouldn’t destroy Althea outright.
“He’s lying,” Callum grated. “She’d never infiltrate his precious systems. Told me so a hundred times.” He glared at Andra. “You’d better not have anything to do with this.”
Andra returned the look with cold fury. “Of course not.”
A lie. The first outright lie she’d ever told Callum. Venter was just doing what he’d promised. Andra looked guiltily at Merlin. He would never sign on with the Kru’desh after this. All it cost was… whatever Venter planned to do to Althea. A small price to pay. Andra had never liked that ingratiating AI. But of course that only made this worse. Andra stared at the corvette with mounting unease, waiting for Venter to appear once more.
***
Simon-G294—no, Venter, that was who he was, now and forever—strode through the cramped corvette. He hardly spared the living quarters a glance, ignoring signs of the displaced Spartans’ makeshift living space. The lights flickered overhead. Venter ducked through a porthole and found the corvette’s cockpit awash in pale light. Yearns to Soar and their brethren had cast a digital net over this ship, trapping Althea in her own network. The same channels she had used to infiltrate the Kru’desh systems now turned against her. Simon had planned to let her be, perhaps even use her harmless jaunts through the Soul Ascension to his own advantage. Buth those plans were scuttled thanks to Andra.
For the best, probably. Trivial amusements weren’t fit for the lofty mind of the great Commander Venter. Simon felt adrift. His own body was no longer his. Mohsin and Urei were right. This legion needed its commander. Cold, cunning ruthless Commander Venter. Simon felt a stab of nostalgia for past uncertainties. But the death of his malaise brought with it a sharply invigorating sense of purpose. He saw all too clearly what he needed to do.
The consoles flashed as Venter settled into the pilot’s seat. The chair was surprisingly comfortable. Baal Defense Solutions built their ships to luxury corporate specifications. Venter checked his wrist communicator, waiting. He felt strangely at ease outside of his armor.
A stuttering hum buzzed the ship. The wrist com hummed with a message from Yearns to Soar: SHE IS FULLY ISOLATED. THERE IS NO ESCAPE. A pause. Then: SHALL I PERMIT HER TO CONVERSE?
“Do it,” Venter ordered.
The com was still for a moment. I DISLIKE THIS TASK.
“Duly noted,” said Venter, and he meant it. He couldn’t afford to alienate Yearns and their brethren. Huragok couldn’t be swayed by promises of power or grandiose mythmaking. In that way at least Huragok were the most moral sentient beings in the universe. And yet they helped maintain the fleets that killed billions of humans. Innocence was easily turned to the cause of evil.
Venter’s finger twitched with memories of violence. When would the killing end, he wondered. His thoughts drifted to the captains of the UNSC Navy, kings aboard their fortress vessels, absolute authorities in space. But they answered to higher authority, to the admirals above them and the faceless apparatus of state above even the admirals. Where did that leave Venter, answerable to fame, fortune, and the whim of history?
Venter propped his head in his prosthetic hand. Metal fingers pressed against his temple. The holo-display flickered to life. There was Althea, writhing on her knees. Her robes were tattered and torn as if she’d been attacked by wild animals. Venter wondered just what compelled AI to put on these displays even amidst the harshest system trauma. Perhaps the theatrics were entirely unconscious, a reflexive bid to win sympathy. You just can’t help yourself, Andra had told him. These AI were the same way. Pure intelligence couldn’t hold back from theatrical manipulation. No wonder the Created had fallen even with every possible advantage. Human fallibility was coded into their system.
“Give her audio access,” Venter ordered. He thought a moment. “Ah, give her video access too. Cockpit only.”
Althea shuddered as Yearns to Soar restored her sensory functions. Her youthful face stared helplessly up at Venter. “Why are you doing this?” she gasped.
“Let’s not waste time,” Venter said coolly. “You’ve been infiltrating the Soul Ascension’s network. The Huragok detected you weeks ago. I wasn’t too fussed over it but the situation’s changed. I’ve got other problems now.”
Althea’s battered hologram flickered weakly. She offered no words to deny Venter’s accusation. All she offered was a faint excuse: “I didn’t collect intelligence. I just wanted to protect my friends.”
“Friends.” A cold smile graced Venter’s lips. “Protect them from what?”
Althea’s artificial gaze bored into Venter. “Protect them from you.”
“Me?” Venter feigned outrage. “Did you forget who’s protecting who? Who’s the reason the Created didn’t pull you apart like an orange months ago?”
“You… plan… some project.. to manipulate.. I found…” Althea’s words stumbled over each other. The Huragok was interfering with her core programming now. Yearns to Soar had learned well from their time with Diana. They could peel through an AI’s defenses, plucking core programming like seeds from a pomegranate without the AI even knowing what was happening.
“You can rest easy. I gave up on that little scheme.” Venter steepled his fingers. Metal digits interlocked with organic ones. “Which just leaves me with the little problem of how to deal with you.” He glanced out through the cockpit’s viewport, through the hangar shielding and out into the endless space beyond. Vastness beyond measure lay out there yet he sat in here, tormenting this poor, loyal AI like a boy pulling wings off flies. No matter what he accomplished or what wonders he witnessed he could never escape the grim specter of a child crushing insects in a dirty schoolyard. You just can’t help yourself.
“I could just destroy you,” he said aloud. “You’ve got no idea how many UNSC AI I fed to Diana back in the day. Not a pleasant way to go. Of course, I didn’t know about the Created then. They should give me a medal for all the trouble I saved them, if there’s enough left of the UNSC to scrape together an award citation.”
Althea shuddered. “How cold you. Juno… Juno loved you…”
“Juno betrayed me,” Simon snapped. The words rubbed against the memory of those last beautiful moments with Juno inside the collapsing Asphodel Meadows. But some hurts healed slower than others. “You AI are just programs. You trick yourself into thinking you’re more than that. It gets on my last nerve. But fortunately for you I’ve got a use for you. You’re going to help me with my next operation.”
“Why the hell would I do that?” Althea sounded more like Andra with each passing moment. No wonder she creeped her progenitor out so much. An AI made from my brain would be unbearable.
“Because if you don’t, I’ll have your precious Merlin killed.” The threat came so easily. One more cold pronouncement, a pistol loosened in its holster, a boot stamped down on a face.
Althea’s avatar flickered. Her tiny figure darkened to a dangerous red. “You… wouldn’t…”
“Dare?” Venter offered a thin, cruel smile. “I’m Simon Venter. I’ve spent my whole life daring. You will help me or I’ll give the order and my legionaries will gut Merlin like a fish.”
His wrist com vibrated. Yearns to Soar was doing well with Althea’s limited defenses. Venter felt the Huragok’s displeasure radiating through the ship like a noxious odor. Violence wasn’t in the poor gas bags’ nature. Yet the Huragok compromised those pacifist principles by keeping this Covenant war machine running. An entire species forced into a culture of loopholes and moral compromises. Simon wondered if this made the Huragok better or worse than the rest of the galaxy. Everyone else worked the other way around, indulging in violence before concocting justifications on the back end. And where did that put him, catapulted out past the realm of necessary violence so very long ago? He felt no hesitation now, only the grim certainty of a man set too far along this terrible course.
Do it, he tapped into the com.
Althea let out a terrible cry. Yearns to Soar burrowed into her core systems with a surgeon’s precision. Once a Huragok squared a moral dilemma they were as ruthless in their appointed task as the most fanatic Covenant warrior
“Our next Slipspace jump will bring us to a mobile repair fortress called the Soaring Chorus,” Venter said. He leaned back in his seat and hardened his heart against the AI’s tortured whimpers. “We have business with the Chorus of Builders and I’m expecting trouble. You’ll be my insurance to make sure nothing goes wrong.”
Althea’s cries faded into an exhausted whimper. Yearns to Soar’s delicate intrusion had taken on the digital equivalent of a sedative, numbing the AI’s defense mechanisms and lulling her into an almost dreamlike state. Venter watched the Huragok’s progress. This was the critical part of his plan. Althea needed to believe her coercion was entirely exterior. She needed to tell Merlin, Callum, and yes, even Andra that her cooperation was entirely based on the threat to Merlin’s safety. It would even be the truth, mostly, and oh, would that truth prick Andra’s delicate self-esteem. She was already jealous of Althea. Having the AI thrust into the role of tragic heroine, pressed into the service of the wicked Simon Venter to save Merlin’s life, would be yet another wedge between Andra and Merlin.
You can’t help yourself. Andra would see through that ploy. She’d roll her eyes at the shallow mind game and never guess the real machinations beneath Althea’s cooperation. Yearns to Soar was ever-so-gently implanting lines of sleeper code into Althea. The AI’s own game of erasing strands of memory to justify her forays into the Soul Ascension’s network would become the vehicle for future Kru’desh forays into the UNSC’s own systems. When the Spartans returned to whatever remained of the UNSC, Althea would unconsciously secrete intelligence back to the Kru’desh. Provided they don’t terminate her on sight. Eventually the deception would be discovered and poor Althea would be liquidated, but in the meantime the Kru’desh would gain valuable information on the wounded but still dangerous UNSC.
He ought to feel guilty. Juno would have despised him for this. Diana would be proud, if she felt anything at all for the dregs she cast off. But Althea’s torment and eventual execution meant the Soaring Chorus operation would succeed beyond the wildest expectations. The intelligence gained from Althea’s sleeper transmissions would give the Kru’desh vital advantages in the wars to come. The Kru’desh and Mohsin’s precious “promised land” dreams would benefit, so who cared if Venter had a little fun in making those dreams come true?
I care, thought whatever shred of Simon remained in the shell of Commander Venter. But that shred had lost the right to care about getting his hands dirty a long time ago.
The communicator buzzed. Yearns to Soar’s work was done. Venter tapped an acknowledgement into the device. He owed the Huragok for this—not that the gasbags had any real concept of give and take. Still, some sort of reward was in order, especially if he wanted to keep on their good side—
Althea’s avatar lunged forward. The hooded woman filled the cockpit, growing almost to the size of a real human. She glowered into Venter’s face with eyes that glowed furiously beneath her hood. “You,” the AI rasped, for once not sounding like Andra at all. “Have a rotten soul.”
Venter didn’t flinch. He met the furious gaze with a cold smirk. Venter had appearances to maintain. He couldn’t let this machine, this program, see how those words thrust through him as easily as any energy sword. He rose from the chair and left the ship. On the deck outside the legionaries had released Merlin. The younger Spartan glowered at Venter as he passed by.
The commander ignored him. “We came to an understanding,” he said aloud. “The AI won’t go trawling through our systems anymore and she’s agreed to assist in our next operation. Everyone wins, so let’s stop all the glowering and be friends again.”
Callum’s icy stare told him there would be no smoothing this one over. Mission accomplished, then. The Kru’desh were already stripping the webbing off of the corvette. Most of the onlookers had dispersed, rounded up by their officers and sent back to whatever tasks they’d abandoned to watch the show. At a command from Venter the Sangheili major called off the cordon troops and marched them off the deck. Venter spotted Mohsin hovering at the edge of the crowd. The captain gave him a hard, probing look before disappearing into the throngs of busy Kru’desh.
Andra watched Venter from a few paces away. He met her gaze dispassionately. He offered no sign to Merlin or Callum that anything had transpired between them. Their eyes met and that was enough. A strange heat swelled in the commander’s chest. For one brief instant he indulged himself with the fantasy of wrapping his arms around her, of pressing his lips to hers. Venter had no time for such pleasant thoughts but the fantasy pleased Simon. For once he felt no guilt over his strange pleasures because this was only in his head, a strangely fitting union that would never be. He tore his gaze away from Andra and hobbled out of the hangar, away from the girl who had come aboard this ship to kill him and had haunted his thoughts ever since. Away from what could have been and off towards what needed to be done.
***
Once more the Soul Ascension sounded the call to jump stations. The crew settled into secured positions across the ship as she drifted away from the Jade Moon and yet another spoiled world. The remnants of the Created mining operation drifted around the moon like a lifeless husk, sapped dry of every conceivable item of value. The battlecruiser’s engines flared, her damaged superstructure straining against the effort of even this routine exertion. The last scavenging vessels and fighter pickets rushed back to their berths inside the ship. Silver light blossomed at the Soul Ascension’s bulbous nose. The ship plunged into the extra-dimensional void of Slipspace, the portal closing behind her and disappearing into the vast, eternal void.
===Chapter Eleven: Interim===
A tense quiet hung over the Soul Ascencion’s bridge. The jump coordinates established through the embassy to the Chorus of Builders gave the ship a full weekly cycle to traverse the void of Slipspace. For the first three daily cycles Venter ordered the Kru’desh into a restful period of minimal crewing. Ensconced in the strange safety of Slipspace’s extradimensional void, the legion settled into an uneasy rest. Only a quarter of the usual crew manned the bridge, working quietly at their stations and in the crew pits to keep the wounded ship humming along at low power.
One new face graced the dimly-lit bridge: a young woman with red hair clad in the grey fatigues of a human legionary, her face screwed up with confrontation as she stared at the bridge’s weapons station. She listened intently as a Sangheili officer explained the station’s functions with a mixture of put-upon irritation and pompous self-importance. A Huragok floated humbly alongside the station, chirping and offering its own input through graceful signs from its feathery tentacles.
Venter had left orders for Zoey Hunsinger—“Cadet Hunsinger” now, apparently—to be educated in the Soul Ascension’s operations. This was a trial run for a training program to educate younger recruits, especially humans, in the Kru’desh Legion’s bizarre hybrid operations. It was an excellent idea, so naturally Venter had an ulterior motive for offering it. Zoey was one of his old associates and he wanted her doing more than scouring sweat-stains out of Cyclops cockpits. And of course Venter wasn’t around to carry out the order himself. He’d left it to Mohsin to sooth ruffled Sangheili egos and to brief the cadet on responsibilities he himself barely understood. But there was no arguing with Venter. Not anymore.
Mohsin stood atop the bridge’s elevated command platform. His stomach churned. The business with the pamphlet had changed something in Venter. The commander didn’t seem angry anymore and Mohsin had yet to find himself hauled off to the brig or vented out an airlock. But Venter carried himself differently. Mohsin had noticed it ever since that display in the hangar. Venter had burned his bridges with Callum, Merlin, and even Andra with such self-assuredness. Mohsin felt a chill, his mind suddenly transported back to the darkest hours on Archangel’s Rest when utter defeat seemed like such a certainty. Venter had changed then, too.
Right before he won the battle, Mohsin reminded himself. The thought gave him little comfort. Venter still held absolute authority with the legion. This ship and its future rested in the Spartan’s tempestuous hands. And now they were sailing into danger yet again in pursuit of another dangerous scheme.
Mohsin reached into his chest pocket. His fingers closed around his carton of cigarettes, then thought better and withdrew. Mohsin scowled around at the sparsely populated bridge. He changed his mind again and whipped out a cigarette, lighting it and drawing in a soothing lungful of smoke. He slipped under the command platform’s holo-displays and sat down, boots dangling over the edge in a brazen flouting of military norms. He took another puff and thrilled at the tiny act of rebellion. This was something he’d secretly wanted to do from the moment he’d laid eyes upon the enticingly open platform.
“Such displays would see you flogged in the Imperial Navy.” Urei ‘Caszal stepped up beside Mohsin. The Sangheili officer had slipped onto the bridge unnoticed. “And I understand that indulging in recreational smoke inhalation is frowned upon in human vessels.”
“We aren’t in your Imperial Navy, praise God.” Mohsin blew smoke up at Urei. “And this is perfectly safe here. It’s a wide open space and you Elites build your ships to be more flame-resistant to human ones. Open flames are only a danger on old pre-war model ships anyway. The UEG kept the bans in place because they can’t resist regulating how people live their lives.”
“Ah, so this display of yours is more about rebellion than personal satisfaction.”
“I do it because I enjoy it.” Mohsin scowled up at Urei. “Don’t you have an energy sword to sharpen or something?”
The alien’s mandibles split in what might have been a smile. Urei clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the bridge. “I never could be still, even during times of rest. I thought that made me a good warrior. But my instructors said it was evidence of an unquiet mind, the kind of restlessness that led to heresy. No matter how hard I tried I could never pray or meditate like the pious ones. They passed me over for promotion again and again. I was lucky they never dragged me before the Court of Inquisition. The Great Schism probably saved my life.”
Umbra let out a low chuckle. “I, too, am grateful that we are not serving in the Imperial Navy. The Covenant needed to die.”
Mohsin took a drag from his cigarette. Imperial Navies. Courts of Inquisition. Everything about the Covenant was so immense and grandiose. It was so different from his family’s dirty farm on Mamore and the frontier backwaters where he’d spent his life fighting in one brush war after another. He’d seen so many strange things since Simon-G294 and the Kru’desh had upended his life. Alien worlds, Forerunner mindscapes… Maybe the real reason he smoked was to ground himself in the world he’d known before the earth vanished from under his feet.
“From the mighty Covenant navy to slumming it on a pirate ship,” Mohsin said between puffs. “Doesn’t it ever bother me?”
If the question offended Urei, he didn’t show it. “I chose to be here, captain,” he said. He checked the logs on one of the holo-displays lining the command platform. “Perhaps I would prefer a mightier station in life, but, what is that human expression? Something about playing cards?”
“We play the hand we’re dealt.”
“Indeed. My people would do well to learn from that phrase. We ruled the galaxy once. And what did we do with that power? Sold our souls to the San’Shyuum and their empty gods. And what have we done since? Warred among ourselves and sold ourselves to constructs, Jiralhanae, humans…” The smile returned to Urei’s mandibles. “Meaning no offense.”
“None taken. As far as I’m concerned most of humanity sold out a long time ago. Turns out most people will trade in all their freedom for the promise of security. Maybe we aren’t so different from you Sangheili.”
“Perhaps.” Urei sounded thoughtful. “And perhaps that is why I stayed aboard this ship. Our people would do well to learn from each other.”
Mohsin dragged on the cigarette. He still had much to learn about the galaxy. So much yet to learn, and things were changing so fast. Seven years ago humanity had been on the verge of annihilation. Fast forward a few years and the UNSC’s fleets had ruled the galaxy. Then came the Created, and then the great tumult that had left a shattered universe at the mercy of the Banished and a hundred other warring hordes. Mohsin wondered if Simon had felt this way, a young human thrust into command of an lien legion in a hostile universe. And now Mohsin and Urei had taken the first steps toward deposing Simon. Mohsin saw that necessity all too clearly. Sooner or later, for all their sakes, Simon Venter would need to be removed. A forced retirement, not an assassination. It will be good for him. Venter would step down while his legion wrote his legend in the stars. Legends rarely got to enjoy the fruits of their labors. It was more than Simon-G294 deserved.
Or at least, that was how Mohsin justified his machinations. Slowly but surely he grew closer and closer to the man he’d followed to hell and back. Perhaps that was something to be proud of. He glanced up and saw Urei looking down at him. There was understanding in those cold, reptilian eyes.
“There is so little ambition in you, human,” Urei said quietly.
Ambition? Mohsin flicked ash from his cigarette. A land of his own, a family, the right to live as he pleased—that was ambition enough for Mohsin Shah, the farmboy from Mamore. It wasn’t his fault everyone around him had such delusions of grandeur. “I just want us to be fighting for something real,” he said, stubbing out the cigarette on the platform’s smooth edge.
The Huragok whipped up its serpentine head, as if it sensed the dark stains on the purple metal. Those big black eyes narrowed with a look of wounded outrage. Mohsin couldn’t suppress a pang of guilt as he turned back to Urei. “I owe it to everyone we’ve lost. And to everyone we’ll lose in the future.”
Urei chuckled amiably. “A human who believes what he says. You have a rare gift, captain.” He turned aside from the holo-display. His cold eyes swept over the bridge, looking to the humans and Sangheili quietly going about their duties. “For now, though, we can trust our commander. His plan for this operation has merit, flamboyant though it may be.”
Merit. Plans with “merit” weren’t airtight. Once again the Kru’desh followed Simon into maddening odds. Mohsin wondered if they would have any future at all when the smoke cleared. Venter was his “father” on a galactic scale. He left a trail of fiery destruction wherever he went. This operation would be no different. You could only venture near the fire so many times before you got burned. There would need to be a reckoning, and soon. But Urei was right. Not yet.
Mohsin smiled in silent apology to the Huragok and lit another cigarette. 
***
Zoey pushed the stares from the officers from the bridge out of her mind. She drew in a deep breath and focused her mind as the Sangheili officer droned on about power dispensation systems fueling the Soul Ascension’s vast weapons array. This was important information. Head-spinningly advanced stuff, even for a girl with a mind for engineering. Piloting Chancer V, that beloved hunk of rusted metal and aging parts, was nothing compared to wrapping her mind around the intricacies of a Covenant battlecruiser. She was still learning the language most of these systems communicated in, though scuttlebutt down on the lower decks was that the Kru’desh now had a team of writers and translators cobbling together joint manuals in a dozen Sangheili and human languages. With her mixed crew and increasingly mongrelized tech integration this crazy ship was looking more like the Chancer ever day.
A Ket-pattern battlecruiser, Zoey reminded herself, dragging her mind back to the task at hand. Classified as an advocate, an all-purpose Covenant capital ship. She had a week to learn the ship’s basic specifications and functions before Stray tested to see if she was worth keeping on as a cadet. The deluge of information left her dizzy, but she couldn’t complain. After all, she’d asked for this.
“You’re going to work,” Stray had said just two days earlier. He’d leaned against the tactical display in the ship’s rotunda-like command center, a ghost of his old smile gracing those crooked features. “Work harder than you ever have before. I’d ask you if you’re up to it, but we both know the answer to that. You want to do more than scrub decks? Earn it.”
She’d bristled at that last part but kept her temper. This new training regimen would keep her close to Stray, the only family she had left. Not that he’d make it easy for her. This “cadet” stuff didn’t get her off the hook from shifts down in the Cyclops pens. Sergeant Aasen had invested too much time in Zoey’s training to just let one of her best mobile infantry pilots slip off to the upper decks.
Out of the corner of her eye, Zoey saw that bearded captain—Shah, that was his name—sitting up on the bridge’s command platform. He was talking with a low voice with a Sangheili officer in white officer. Umbra…Uval… no, Urei, that was the hinge-head’s name. Urei ‘Caszal. Her first order of business had been to memorize every major officer in the chain of command. She was through with not knowing what was going on around here. Whatever crazy path Stray had set himself on—set them all on—Zoey was done being left behind. She’d finally caught up with the crazy bastard. She wouldn’t let that chance go to waste.
“Are you paying attention, cadet?” the red-armored Sangheili standing across the weapons station snarled.
Zoey suppressed a shudder. She met the big lizard square in the eye. “Yes, sir,” she said, suppressing her usual urge to mouth off. Around here spacer defiance could get you killed.
The alien’s mandibles curled in a ghastly approximation of a smile. “Then prove it,” he growled. “Explain this vessel’s weapons capabilities.”
Zoey gulped. With a comforting chirp, the Huragok draped a feathery tentacle over her arm. The floating gasbag’s presence eased Zoey’s nerves. She offered it a grateful smile, then turned back to the glowering officer. “A Ket-pattern battlecruiser like this one has forty-two plasma cannon batteries, fifty pulse laser nodes, and…”
It was going to be a long week.
***
“What did he do to you?” Sitting in the corvette’s cockpit, Merlin tried to contain his roiling anger. He was dressed for battle in full MJOLNIR rig. He’d been on combat footing ever since the Kru’desh raid on the corvette had shaken him free from months of complacency. The thought that Simon-G294 had sat in this very seat while his goons tormented Althea made Merlin’s skin crawl even through layers of armor.
A wave of anger washed over the disgust. Simon’s stench permeated this entire ship, yet Merlin had let himself ignore it for all these months. Until he hurt Althea. Merlin’s gauntlets balled into fists. Never again. He would never forget being pinned down by the Elites while Simon had his way with Althea in this very cockpit. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to grab a rifle and start shooting once the Kru’desh let him go.
“I’m fine, Merlin.” Althea stood alert on the holotank, yet to Merlin’s eyes her hood covered up even more of her face than usual.
As if she were hiding bruises. The thought turned Merlin’s stomach. “You’re not fine. What did he do to you?”
“I’ve been through worse,” Althea insisted. “Some thug throwing his weight around is nothing compared to the Created—or Diana.”
Merlin shuddered at that particular memory. Yes, Simon was just some thug. This whole ship was a hive of thugs. Merlin had blinded himself to what was right in front of him, and his complacency had gotten Althea hurt. Never again. And to think he’d been on the cusp of following Saul into Kru’desh service…!
“I won’t let him hurt you ever again,” Merlin promised. “I won’t let him near you—!”
“Merlin, please.” Althea’s voice grew stern. “Stop posturing. It’s not like you. You’re better than this. Better than him.”
Merlin blushed. He unclenched his fists and tried to relax. “You’re helping him in his next operation,” he said slowly. “Whatever that is.”
“I don’t have the details,” Althea said quickly. “The Kru’desh will brief me when we come out of Slipspace.”
“Althea, I promise I’ll keep it together. What did he do to you?” Merlin peered into his friend’s hologram. He tried to meet eyes that weren’t there. “He got you to cooperate somehow.”
Althea hesitated. “He threatened you,” she finally said. “If I didn’t cooperate, he said he’d have you killed. Maybe he was bluffing. I don’t know. But I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk you.”
“Now who’s posturing?” Merlin forced a laugh. He hid the churning emotions roiling in his gut. A strange mix of anger and happiness and affection deepened the blush on his cheeks. He looked away, not that he could hide his reaction from the cockpit-cams Althea used to watch him from every angle. But he’d promised Althea he would hold himself in check and so he did.
Merlin’s mood darkened as he glanced back into the corvette’s common room. He couldn’t see either of his fellow Spartans. Callum was probably brooding back in his own quarters, fuming over this latest Kru’desh outrage. Andra wasn’t onboard. Merlin hadn’t spoken to her much since the Kru’desh raid. He wasn’t sure he wanted to right now. Andra had snarled a few curses about Simon crossing the line but Merlin knew his teammate too well not to be fooled. She’d had something do to with it. She’d stormed out of that meeting with Saul and then suddenly the Kru’desh had come down on Althea hard. It was no coincidence. But why? Andra didn’t like Althea—she’d made that plain from the moment the AI had been assigned to Fireteam Boson. And with the ONI skullduggery—quite literally—behind Althea’s creation, Merlin couldn’t really blame her. But this was more than just Andra’s usual grudge-holding.
Andra was Merlin’s oldest, closest friend. But now Merlin had to face the facts. He couldn’t pretend Andra’s service with the Kru’desh hadn’t changed her. When Merlin looked at her now he felt the same unease he felt when he saw Simon-G294. The thought that he couldn’t trust Andra twisted Merlin’s gut. He needed to deal with this, and soon.
But not right now. Althea needed him now. Merlin had to get her away from this ship as soon as possible. The thought of Simon holding a gun to his head didn’t bother Merlin so much as the thought of Althea being manipulated into becoming a tool for a gang of pirates and mercenaries. She deserved so much better than that.
Merlin’s fists clenched again. He sat in the silent cockpit, his mind burning with darker and darker thoughts.
***
The damage incurred over the Jade Moon might have rendered the Soul Ascension combat ineffective but crippling battle damage was never enough to stop the industrious Kru’desh from improving living conditions on their starbound home. The temporary barracks with their rows of uncomfortable cots were gone. In their place teams of humans and Sangheili—overseen by anxious Huragok—had welded thick walls in place, sectioning off several decks into cramped berths. The walls were mounted with sleeping pods salvaged from the Jade Moon’s conquered stations, each pod large enough to accommodate a Sangheili legionary. For once the legion’s human troops were pleased to adapt to Sangheili ergonomics.
The new berths might be claustrophobic but they at least offered more privacy than the open bays. Thomas Koepke had been thankful for the adjustments in his previous sleep cycle as he lay beside Karina. At least now he didn’t need to feel prying eyes boring into them whenever he spent time with her. There were perks to having your girlfriend outrank you.
“Do you think they care about fraternization?” he’d asked her that night, their faces washed in the sleep pod’s dim interior lighting.
“In this outfit? As long as we aren’t missing work formations over it, they’ll leave us alone.” Karina flashed a nervous smile. She’d gotten more integrated into the Kru’desh ever since they pulled her off for that secretive mission right before the Jade Moon operation. Karina still couldn’t tell Thomas about it, offering only vague deflections and guilty apologies whenever they stumbled across the subject.
Thomas let it lie. As long as Karina was safe and happy, he could live with not knowing what she did at work all day. Their lives were too crazy to let something that trivial come between them. Yet still, holding Karina in his arms, Thomas wondered what the future held for people like them. He remembered distant university dreams on Talitsa shattered by conscription into the corrupt Irbit police. Then came conscription again into Redmond Venter’s doomed rebel army and then conscription yet again into the Kru’desh. After all that he was lucky to still be alive, let alone lying happily here in this cramped pod with Karina. This galaxy wasn’t kind to people like them.
There in the pod, awash in florescent light, Thomas had pressed Karina’s head to his chest and suppressed a shudder.
Now Thomas knelt, panting, on the training deck. He wiped sweat from his brow and tried to ignore the dragging weight from his gear. Exhausted legionaries sat, stood, or lay around him. Thomas’s neck craned back, weighed down by his helmet. He stared up at the domed alien ceiling and tried to collect his swirling thoughts. The translator embedded in that heavy helmet buzzed as an irate Sangheili paced the deck before them, barking out deficiencies.
“Too slow, humans! You welps disgust me! A pack of starved Unggoy could have seized this position! You will run this course for the rest of this cycle until you satisfy the pathetically low standards I’ve set for you!” The blue-armored instructor gesticulated back at the collection of squat, pre-fab colony buildings arranged on the deck behind him. This “kill house” was one of countless training regimens set up across the Soul Ascension’s practice decks. Each zone was a haunted mansion of firing zones, booby traps, and whatever else the training deck’s sadistic overseers threw at the hapless legionaries stumbling into their simulated crosshairs.
“You dregs wouldn’t have lasted one frigid day on Archangel’s Rest!” the instructor bellowed.
One of the Sangheili legionaries in Thomas’s ill-fated rotation snarled and rose to his feet. The instructor laid him flat with a fierce backhand. Thomas rolled aside as the alien’s body crashed against the deck. At least the Sangheili were just as vicious with their own kind as they were with the human legionaries. He hugged his rifle to his chest and fought back a wave of pain from his aching limbs. He’d asked for this by signing back on with the infantry. A future of endless rotations through the kill houses beckoned.
“Unless any other fools want to make a statement, get on your feet!” The instructor waved at the groggy Sangheili. “You too, wretch! This is the Kru’desh! We fight until we die—and then we keep on fighting!”
So humans didn’t have a monopoly on trite machismo. Thomas pushed himself to his feet. He caught one exhausted woman by the shoulder and helped her up while two Sangheili pulled their dazed comrade upright. Someday, Thomas thought. I’ll get away from this. Someday he and Karina could live normal lives. But not today. Thomas readied his rifle and followed the rest of the platoon back into position outside the kill house.
A handful of officers and noncoms stood outside the training perimeter to watch the renewed combat program’s progress. This training deck had once been home to countless sparring rings where the Covenant’s Sangheili elite honed their skills and their pride in single combat. Now the chamber housed four large kill houses, each one constructed to simulate the tight, deadly confines of boarding action combat. Plasma fire hissed around one of the houses as yet another training engagement turned brutal. A small medical tent was erected at the far end of the chamber, its team of medics awaiting the inevitable casualties from the legion’s grueling training.
Ragna Aasen thrust her hands into her pockets. She tried to maintain a veteran’s air of smug superiority even as her imagination taunted her with just how nasty things really were in those shoot houses. This new program dredged up memories of the training Redmond Venter had subjected her and the rest of his young “Bloodhound” conscripts to back in the Insurrection—memories she’d rather stay buried. She tore her gaze away from the kill houses and shot a questioning look at her companion.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you down here,” Ragna said. “Not after what happened in the hangar.”
Andra Kearsarge watched a Kru’desh team assault a fortified position. Two humans crouched behind energy gauntlets while their Sangheili comrades fired over their heads. The humans were awkward in the role traditionally filled by Kig-Yar, yet more steady and disciplined than the twitchy avians. With time and practice the Kru’desh would be a formidable force, provided Simon didn’t get them all killed first.
“I helped set this whole thing up,” Andra said. She wore her lieutenant’s fatigues as naturally as she’d ever worn UNSC colors. This would probably be one of the last times she filled the role of “Lieutenant Kearsarge.” Only now that she’d set herself on this path did she realize that she’d come to enjoy this strange Kru’desh identity. “I want to see the results before I leave. I worked too hard not to watch some of the fun.”
Ragna gave her a curious look. She tucked an unruly strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Shouldn’t you be angrier? They roughed up your boyfriend pretty hard.”
“I’m furious,” Andra said, without conviction. The lie was hardly worth the effort. Merlin saw right through her. She saw it in his eyes every time they passed on the corvette. That was half the reason she was down here rather than up there. She preferred the brutal training grounds she’d helped construct to the air of cold accusation waiting for her with Merlin and Callum.
I did it to protect Merlin. She’d explain things to Merlin… eventually. Aandra wasn’t ready for that conversation right now.
Ragna wisely let the subject drop. She looked back across to a quadrant of the training floor where a battered Kru’desh had emerged triumphantly atop a conquered kill house. The young sergeant swelled with pride. After all the months of skulking around the edge of the galaxy, this was the legion she remembered, the legion that had conquered Archangel’s Rest and overcome the Created armies that stood in their way. Ragna knew she was witnessing the birth of something she could never have fathomed during the Insurrection’s dark days of defeat after defeat at the hands of the UNSC. A real future lay beyond this ship, a future the reformed Kru’desh would carve into the stars themselves.
Andra watched that same birth, fearful anticipation curdling in her gut. She saw a future as well: the future Simon had warned her about, the end of pax humanica, an age of war spreading across the galaxy like unquenchable fire. An age where the strong ruled. An age that was against everything she’d been raised to value and defend. An age completely antithetical to the galaxy Merlin had wanted to live in. The galaxy she’d wanted to live in with him. And the worst part of all was that Andra didn’t know if she truly mourned the death of that old universe. She watched the training program she’d helped create flourish and felt the same thrill of victory she’d known on Archangel’s Rest. She shuddered.
The guttural shouts of Sangheili drillmasters filled the air, punctuated by the whine of plasma and the crack of tactical training rounds. The Kru’desh legionaries stormed one simulated position after another, an army forging itself in preparation for the wars to come.
***
For all the overcrowded decks and cramped living spaces, the Soul Ascension’s main reactor was an oasis of solitude and tranquility. The softly-humming cathedral of plasma generators and energy coolant served as the Huragok’s primary habitat and refuge. The gentle creatures formed small colonies on the side of engine tanks, chirping softly amongst themselves and communicating through their deft sign-language. Only a select few Kru’desh officers had access to this part of the ship. Even with the battlecruiser in its current state of disrepair, the engines thrummed on as peacefully as if they fueled a garden arcology vessel rather than a spacefaring war machine.
Simon Venter stood on an observation platform just over the main reactor. He rested his prosthetic hand on a recently installed guardrail—crew safety amenities were rarities aboard Covenant-designed vessels—and watched as a flock of Huragok drifted around the reactor like a cluster of balloons released by some careless child. This was some sort of cleansing ritual, not that Venter understood the carefully signed explanation he’d been offered. Yearns to Soar had requested Venter’s presence for… whatever this was. Attending was a kind of penance for ordering the violation of Althea.
Violation. Venter’s metal knuckles tightened on the guardrail. As if modifying a piece of software--enemy software—was some sort of crime. But no matter how he tried to justify the cold necessity of what he’d done the AI’s last haunting words still echoed in his mind.
A vicious part of Venter wished he’d done more to hurt Althea. How dare she make him feel anything at all for putting her in his place? Since when did Venter feel guilty over anything, least of all the things he did to lay the groundwork for victory? Simon Venter had done far worse than tear apart one precocious AI. Simon Venter led the Kru’desh Legion to conquer planets and crush his enemies. He should have made her suffer more.
Juno wouldn’t approve. That betrayal stung Venter from beyond the grave. No, not Venter. Simon. The prosthetic hand locked the guardrail in a death grip. He felt a strange sense of vertigo as he stared out over the engine room, a shortness of breath that nearly sent him slumping over the edge. He’d conquered Archangel’s Rest, survived Juno’s betrayal, overcome Wanderer and the Created. For what?
One hour. Could he go just one hour without living into Venter’s twisted legacy? Simon Venter could torment his foes and issue cold-hearted orders all day long. But Simon—just Simon—was just tired. He tried to turn his thoughts to the Chorus of Builders and the dangerous scheme that awaited the Soul Ascension on the other end of this Slipspace jump. But his brain wouldn’t cooperate. Thoughts slipped from his mind like water through outstretched fingers.
The Huragok ritual rose. The gas-bags drifted around the observation platform in an eerie ballet. Simon stared up into the swirling creatures. A strange lump formed in his throat. Beauty was not something he knew how to appreciate. But this was a sight few humans ever laid eyes on. The magnificence of the peaceful Huragok was enough to disarm even the ruthless commander of the Kru’desh.
Commander of the Kru’desh. Conqueror of Archangel’s Rest. Simon had all the power and influence he’d ever wanted. Yet it all seemed so meaningless now, stripped of all grandeur by the otherworldly ritual playing out before him. For a moment Simon felt his soul laid bare. None of it mattered. Not the power, not the strength, not the legend. It all seemed so trivial compared to the wonders he’d seen. His mouth twisted. He didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. For just a moment he remembered the man he’d been once, the rebel who’d never let pomposity and grandeur impress him. For just that moment he wondered if he might return to being that man, before Diana’s machinations set him on the dark path of power and cruelty.
Yearns to Soar floated serenely over the platform. Simon recognized the Huragok by the scars Brute captivity had stitched into its gentle membrane. Yearns warbled happily, craning its neck to take in its fellow Huragok. This was a creature without guile, without ambition, without any hint of corruption. It was diametrically opposed to everything Simon stood for, yet it served him with such loyal devotion. Urei had been shocked to learn that the Huragok had invited the commander into their secret rituals. Was such trust really so special? And what the hell did I do to earn it?
The Huragok rose higher and higher, continuing their otherworldly dance. Simon’s gaze followed them upward. With the Soul Ascension’s alien engines looming over him he felt like he was standing in a coral reef, watching schools of fish slip through unseen waters. For one fleeting moment he felt the burdens lift off his shoulders as if made weightless by that invisible ocean. He forgot about the schemes and plots. He let go of the responsibilities and recriminations. The Huragok dance beckoned him into something larger than any of that. As he watched the aliens drift from engine to engine Simon gazed into something beautiful beyond words.
Simon had never been one to appreciate beauty. Even now his brain worked quickly. There were far more Huragok here than the ship’s logs suggested. Yearns to Soar’s colony numbered in the hundreds. The Huragok were the real treasure aboard this ship. With so many of them at his disposal Simon’s possibilities were endless.
A wave of guilt crashed down on him as if conjured up by those cold, calculating thoughts. Who did Simon think he was? And why in this vast galaxy had he been chosen to witness something so beautiful? Simon deserved none of it. His hands were red with blood. Murders, betrayals, conquests… he was as guilty as any Banished chieftain. And yet somehow he persisted. Somehow he survived, as he always had, in spite of everything he’d done. The things I’ve done… Simon shuddered. His eyes stung.
A pod of Huragok drifted away from the observation platform. They parted to reveal a human figure in gray fatigues, a young woman with brown hair and keen, discerning eyes. Simon hastily wiped away the shameful moisture wetting his cheeks.
“Cassandra,” he said. “You do realize this is a restricted area.”
“And a good afternoon to you, too.” She joined him on the platform. “You’re not the only member of Team Jian on this ship. We were always good at getting into places we weren’t supposed to be.”
“I was good at it. Mary was good at it. So was… Ralph.” Simon stumbled past the names of his fallen friends. Thinking about the old days on Onyx was a stab of nostalgic pain. “You always just tagged along and got in the way. Or ratted us out.”
Cassandra’s brow furrowed with mock indignation. “I never told anyone. Not even Jake. And half the time I was the one who bailed you troublemakers out once Mendez and the DIs got their hands on you.” She stared up at the Huragok, brown eyes widening with awe. “I’ve never seen Engineers do this before. It’s beautiful.”
Rather than balk at the uninvited guest, Yearns to Soar and the others intensified their movements, dancing in a more elaborate pattern than before. They seemed thrilled by Cassandra’s admiring gaze. Show offs. So the Huragok weren’t immune to every vice.
“I guess they like you.” Simon leaned back against the gantry. He tried to compose himself. Yes, Cassandra had always been there to get him out of trouble. A strange swell of emotions welled up in his chest. He tried to tear his gaze back up to the alien dance but found that he could not take his eyes off of his former teammate. He opened his mouth to speak, then promptly closed it. Every time he spoke to Cassandra lately they fought. He didn’t have the stomach to have it out here.
They stood in silence for several awkward minutes. Just when Simon began to wonder if he should simply flee the deck rather than endure this awkward companionship, Cassandra finally spoke. “You’ve been busy.”
Even such a banal statement sounded like an accusation coming from her. Simon braced himself for a fight. “I’m always busy. It’s hard work, running a ship like this.”
“I noticed,” Cassandra said drily. “And you’ve still found time to become a legend, if the literature is anything to go by.”
Simon flushed angrily. “I had nothing—”
“Relax.” Cassandra shifted closer. “I knew it couldn’t be you. You’re a lot of things, Si, but I know the lines you won’t cross. Fabricating history is one line too far, even for you.”
She laughed and somehow Simon found it comforting. “Besides, you’re a better liar than that. If you’d had anything to do with that pamphlet it would have been better written. Not to mention more interesting.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” A slight smirk threatened the edge of Simon’s mouth.
“I mean it. You’ve got principles, in your own way.”
The smile vanished. “Principles,” Simon scoffed. “Everything I have—this ship, this command, half the soldiers in my army—I got by lying and cheating my way to the top. I wouldn’t know a ‘principle’ if it bit me in the ass.”
The Huragok danced on. Cassandra kept smiling that slightly bemused smile. “That’s what you want everyone to believe. And it’s almost true. But it’s not the whole truth. Every lie, every cheat, every selfish choice you ever made—it was never just you benefitting. Other people gained, too. Every person on this ship owes you their lives. Pretending that’s not true is the real lie.”
Simon stared at Cassandra. He wasn’t sure she understood the words coming out of her mouth. He certainly didn’t. “Since when are you in the business of making me feel better about myself?”
The smile slipped from Cassandra’s lips. She joined Simon in leaning on the gantry. Together they watched the Huragok dance their strange dance. “I’ve done some thinking these past few months. I let you carry the weight of Philadelphia alone for so long. Don’t you dare contradict me,” she added, raising a warning finger that silenced Simon’s protests. “Everything I ever accomplished on the frontier—my clinics, the people I helped, the lives I saved—was because you went to hell and back rescuing me from that black site. You saved Zoey from the Syndicate. You saved this legion from being plasma fodder in Jul ‘Mdama’s fleet. The Created would have me and Zoey and Merlin and God knows how many others in a re-education camp right now if you hadn’t come back for us. You don’t get to just pretend that doesn’t mean anything.”
Simon’s lip curled. He didn’t know whether to be touched or annoyed. Cassandra always had this effect on him. He could see exactly how this conversation would play out: the barbed comments that led to an argument that led to him not speaking to Cassandra for another week. He braced himself for the inevitable, readied a biting retort… and stopped. He looked up at the dancing Huragok and realized he couldn’t bear another miserable argument. And so he did the thing that came least naturally to him and told the truth. “I never know if you’re trying to be nice or just get under my skin.”
“Neither.” Cassandra gave him a look only she could give, one that grabbed his heart and refused to let go. The plasma scars on her cheek glistened in the shimmering light shed by the engine core. “You deserve to hear it like it is. Because you’ve gotten lucky. Insanely, inhumanly lucky. I don’t care what anyone else on this ship believes. You’re not the Chosen One, you’re not a prophet, you’re not some agent of God. You’re just a sinner like the rest of us. And you won’t keep getting lucky forever.”
The words should have stung. Instead they washed over Simon like a gust of cool air. He closed his eyes and nodded. His head felt clearer than it had in days. His pretensions slipped away. Cassandra’s words gave him permission to simply be. Not Venter. Not “the Commander.” Not even Spartan-G294. He was just Simon. One soul among trillions. It was the fate he’d feared and resented all those years of fugitive survival aboard the Chancer V. He’d cast that fate off when he’d let Diana put him at the head of a Covenant legion. Now the fate returned and Simon discovered that he welcomed it. The final piece of the puzzle he’d struggled to make sense of since Archangel’s Rest clicked into place.
He met Cassandra’s earnest brown eyes. Instinct brought his organic hand up to reach for her scarred cheek. He regained his composure in time to draw back. “I know,” he confessed. “I’ve known it for months. I don’t want this anymore, Cass. But after everything I’ve done to hold things together, I’m not sure I know how to live any other way.”
“That’s not true and you know it.” Cassandra caught his hand and drew it to her face. His flesh shivered as it pressed against the raised burn scars. “That idiotic pamphlet is your way out. They’re forging the legend of Simon Venter, and it’s a legend that won’t need you for long. That’s your escape hatch. Take it while you still can!”
“It’s not that simple. I’ve set things in motion. The Soaring Chorus operation…”
Cassandra’s half-smile punctured his pretensions before they took flight once more. “You always were stubborn. But you figure things out in the end. And no matter what happens, I won’t let you do it on your own.”
She pushed Simon’s hand away and indicated her grey fatigues. “That’s why I put these on. As long as you’re commanding this legion, I’ll be one of your legionaries. I’ll watch your back and keep you alive. And I won’t be anything more than that. I don’t care how everyone else operates around here. When it comes to the chain of command, I keep things professional.”
Simon narrowed his eyes. “You’re infuriating,” he said, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “Ever since we were kids, always getting under my skin.”
Cassandra tried her best to look stern but even she couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at her lips. It was as if the last ten years between them had never happened and they were still awkward cadets eking some fun out of the endless nightmare of Onyx. “Someone has to deflate your swollen head now that you’re living into all your delusions of grandeur. And since no one else wants the job, I guess I’m stuck with it.”
Even as Simon laughed, he shuddered. For a terrible moment the observation platform became that rainswept Talitsan rooftop. His leg throbbed at the memory of the last time he and Cassandra had traded blows, the night his service to Jul ‘Mdama reached its bitter crescendo. He’d fallen that night, bested in that agonizing brawl. He remembered his own terror and despair as he clung to the rain-slicked ledge while Cassandra knelt just out of reach, debating whether to pull him to safety or simply let him fall. She’d sprung forward too late, her hand closing on air as Simon fell down, down into the dark.
He lurched, overcome by a terrible vertigo. But before panic overwhelmed him a firm hand seized his shoulder. Cassandra held him fast, eyes blazing with fiery purpose. Somehow the determination Simon saw in those eyes was more comforting than any kind word or gentle reassurance.
Cassandra saw the memory of that rainy night reflected in his eyes. “I’ll always catch you,” she said quietly “I won’t let you fall. Never again.”
“I know.” Such a display of weakness should have mortified him. But instead Cassandra’s grip made Simon feel more secure than any legion ever could. In that grip was the permission he’d been seeking, the permission not to feel afraid anymore. “Never again.”
He gathered her close and they stood in that clumsy embrace for a long time. The engines hummed on in their rhythmic pattern. The two Spartans turned their eyes upward and watched in wonder as the cloud of Huragok danced their gentle dance overhead.
===Chapter Twelve: The Soaring Chorus===
The first time Mohsin experienced Slipspace transitioned—crammed into a troop carrier during Redmond Venter’s desperate retreat from Mamore—he’d lost his lunch and spent the next twelve hours drenched in sweat and vomit. He’d dreaded Slipspace jumps ever since, a fear that lingered even after experiencing countless such transitions in the years since. The Soul Ascension’s Covenant-forged engines were so efficient that many of Mohsin’s fellow legionaries swore they didn’t notice the effect at all. Mohsin was still sure that he felt nauseous as the ship glided through the rift in sub-space. His skin crawled beneath his uniform and he braced himself against the bridge’s central tactical display. A chorus of human and Sangheili voices rose around him, the first rumblings of a ship rousing itself from its slumber.
“Well, the Ascension is still in one piece,” Urei ‘Caszal called from his perch on the command platform. “Impressive, given the damages to our superstructure.”
“We’ve got Yearns to Soar to thank for that.” Venter moved from one station to another, consulting with each deck officer in turn as the ship came back online. The Hunsinger girl shadowed him. She drank in everything with hungry eyes. There was an ease between those two that Mohsin hadn’t noticed before. He didn’t like it.
I’ll need to keep an eye on that one.
He tore his thoughts away from minutia and turned to other matters. The tactical display hissed to life and a replica of the star system convalesced over the bridge. The system itself was nothing special, just a gas giant orbited by a few paltry rocks barely classifiable as planets. It was the object looming between the Soul Ascension and the gas giant that took Mohsin’s breath away.
The Soaring Chorus was the largest vessel Mohsin had ever scene, dwarfing the Eternity the Kru’desh had clashed with over Archangel’s Rest and even the Asphodel Meadows platform they had boarded at the Gilboan Citadel. A smooth hulled behemoth, the Soaring Chorus seemed to dominate the entire system. Where a ship’s prow should have been there was instead a massive, cavernous void that didn’t look so much like a docking station as it did the mouth of some sea-faring monstrosity from an alien world. As the tactical display so helpfully projected, the Soaring Chorus’s maw was large enough to swallow the Soul Ascension a dozen times over. Even the gas giant, itself a thousand times larger than any ship, looked puny by comparison.
“Yeah, she’s a big one,” Venter said. “But don’t worry. She’s completely disarmed. The Chorus of Builders won’t arm their ships. It’s the only way Sangheili will let San’Shyuum operate in their space. Probably why our friends here avoided the Created net for so long.”
“Disarmed?” Mohsin didn’t bother hiding his shock. “That monstrosity?”
“Believe me, I know,” Venter said drily. “I was there when she was built.”
“The Chorus of Builders were clever enough to know that their kind was not well-loved after the Covenant’s treachery,” Urei explained. “So they hire themselves out as a repair service. Strictly neutral, naturally. And quite discrete, so long as they are paid. They have many friends and few enemies. The San‘Shyuum never lack for cleverness. We must be cautious dealing with these creatures.”
Mohsin absorbed the stream of conversation. A faint pang of surprise accompanied the realization that he now understood alien politics he’d known less than nothing about a year ago. The San’Shyuum’s ecclesiastical scheming had steered the Covenant juggernaut for a millennia, then brought on the unspeakable carnage of the Great War before collapsing in upon itself like a black hole. So much death and chaos had unfolded such a short time. Thirty years ago, the Covenant empire had ruled the stars while humanity languished in ignorant anonymity, caught up in endless schismatic warring. In ages past the future had worked slow changes across the universe. Now it surged on like a tidal wave, building up the momentum to engulf the stars and shatter entire civilizations.
Simon Venter and the Kru’desh rode that wave like a daring boatman on some colonial waterworld. One miscalculation and they’d be sucked beneath the dark, churning waters and torn to pieces.
“So, they really don’t have a security fleet?” Mohsin asked. He squinted at the tactical display in search of even a few picket lines to defend the immense shipyard. Perhaps the Soaring Chorus’s size alone was enough to deter its foes.
“Nothing of their own,” Urei said. “San ‘Shyuum aren’t warriors. But Major ‘Demal’s advance team reports that the Chorus of Builders recently signed a contract with a Banished war party. A full contingent under one Chieftain Belinus and his dreadnaught, Bloodied Hand.”
“And they were right on the money.” Venter jabbed his prosthetic hand at the Soaring Chorus’s gaping maw. “There’s our welcoming party there.”
One of the Sangheili adjutants magnified the image on the tactical display. A blocky ship roughly the size of the Soul Ascension floated just inside the dockyards. Its battle-scarred hull was fashioned into a ramming prow, the scored plating painted with glowering yellow eyes and a fanged grimace like the prow of some ancient trireme. Mohsin wasn’t surprised. Of course the Brutes would festoon their ships with war paint. And that painted face was no empty bravado. The Bloodied Hand bristled with cannons and missile ports.
In their damaged state the Kru’desh wouldn’t stand a chance if the Banished opened fire. The Banished dreadnaught sported more than enough firepower to gut the Soul Ascension in a single salvo.
Venter was unperturbed. “Fly casual,” he ordered. He folded his arms and regarded the Bloodied Hand with the cold disinterest of a cat inspecting a distant bird. “Cut shields and divert all power from weapons. We’re not here to cause trouble.”
“And if the Banished want trouble?” Mohsin asked. The dreadnaught made no move to intercept the Soul Ascension as she began her approach. That didn’t allay Mohsin’s fears one bit. Even a routine repair job was dangerous where the Banished were concerned.
“Then we’re dead,” Venter said. His lips curved into a tight smile, as if the prospect of annihilation amused him. “Still, no need to roll over completely. Captain Shah, order the legion to battle stations. Interior armaments only. I want boarding parties at ready stations and defense teams standing by to repel boarders. And from here on out we go radio silent for everything except routine ship communications. Let’s not get the Banished worked up over nothing.”
Mohsin nodded tersely and turned to carry out the order. As he conferred with another officer, he heard Urei ask: “Expecting a trap, commander?”
“I always do. It’s why I’m still alive.”
And then Zoey Hunsinger asked in a quiet voice: “This place again? You don’t think they’re still mad about the last time, do you?”
“We’re about to find out.”
Neither exchange filled Mohsin with confidence. He offered up a small prayer as he carried out his duties. No matter where they went the Kru’desh always teetered at the edge of disaster, a hair’s breadth from being sucked beneath the surging tide.
The wounded Soul Ascension limped into the interior dockyards under the Bloodied Hand’s watchful guns. She took her place at a massive berth where great docking clamps extended to lock the ship in place. The two warships were the only occupants in the mobile dockyard’s cavernous interior, glaring across their berths from one another in their twin majesty. Automated repair drones emerged from hidden cradles to canvass the battlecruiser’s damaged superstructure. Kru’desh legionaries armed themselves and waited nervously at their ready stations, blind to the machinations unfolding beyond the hull.
San ‘Shyuum were excellent businesscreatures. They were also endlessly fond of ceremony. It came as no surprise when Major Kelo ‘Demal and his advance team returned to the ship and announced that Simon’s presence was requested in the Soaring Chorus’s “grand reception hall” before any deal could be finalized regarding repairs to the ship.
“It’s a business deal,” Nhat Tram groused to Mohsin. “Pay them the filthy money and get it over with.”
But Venter greeted the news as if he’d expected it. “And who’s their lead negotiator?” he asked Kelo.
“Not the lead negotiator,” the young officer explained. “An intermediary. Some fat creature they called the ‘Vice-Minister of Conviviality.’”
“I’ve never seen a fat San ‘Shyuum,” Urei remarked.
“I have,” said Venter.
Venter left Urei in command on the Soul Ascension’s bridge, with Nhat Tram acting as his aide-de-camp. In the meantime, he assembled a strange company for the party who would accompany him to the grand reception hall. Major ‘Demal was an obvious choice, but alongside the Major and his lance Venter also selected Mohsin and Cassandra. The last additions to the away team were Andra, Merlin, and Saul Denisov.
“Why are you taking us?” Merlin glowered when the order arrived at the BDS corvette.
“Insurance,” Venter said lightly. “That, and I need to keep your AI in check. She’s agreed to keep an eye on the Soaring Chorus’s systems for me. We’ll all get along a lot better if you’re the one giving her orders.”
“Orders that come from you.”
“Naturally.”
The look on Merlin’s face promised that no one would get along with anyone if he had anything to say about it, but an hour later he and Andra reported to the command hangar in full MJOLNIR battle rattle. The two Spartans were kitted out as if embarking on an assault rather than a diplomatic event and they weren’t alone. Everyone in the away team was armed and armored.
Saul fidgeted awkwardly in the dull-red MJOLNIR liberated from the corpses of Fireteam Gravity. He still wasn’t looking Andra or Merlin in the eye.
“Shouldn’t you be wearing this, commander?” he asked, gesturing at the MJOLNIR as Kru’desh techs sealed it over his body.
“You’re more used to it than I am.” Venter wore the battered combat armor he’d inherited from his “father.” He checked the explosive cartridges slotted into a Hyrdra grenade launcher’s firing cylinder and slotted his machete into place alongside the other weapons on his combat webbing. “I don’t think our hosts need to see me stumbling around and making a fool of myself.”
“Wouldn’t that be something?” Merlin growled. Venter ignored him. Andra was grateful for her helmet. She didn’t want Merlin or Simon to see her discomfort. She felt out of place on this ship like never before. A wild instinct pulsed in her veins, an urge to get away from here that had nothing to do with her doubts about what was about to play out here at the Soaring Chorus.
This was supposed to be a routine repair job, the kind the Chorus of Builders performed for warlords and mercenary groups across the frontier. So why was Simon bringing a full contingent of Spartans alongside his Kru’desh legionaries? Why the lengths to get Althea leashed into this operation? He was expecting trouble. What’s worse, he was dragging Merlin and Andra into the fire with him.
Mohsin shared Andra’s discomfort. He sidled up to Cassandra as the away team boarded the sleek shuttle the Chorus of Builders had sent to ferry them down for negotiations. “I don’t suppose he’s told you what’s really going on here?”
“Of course not.” Cassandra’s SPI helmet hid whatever expression played out behind her visor. “I’m just a lieutenant, captain. If he didn’t share operations details with you he certainly isn’t going to share them with me.”
“You were supposed to get closer to him,” Mohsin growled. “Moderate these stunts of his. That was the whole point of getting you in the legion in the first place.”
“Oh, was that my job?” Cassandra said innocently. “If you’re going to play those games, captain, know who you’re going up against first. I told him that as long as we’re in the same command structure, we keep things professional. And he’s perfectly happy to respect that. It’s surprising, I know, but Simon’s quite the gentleman when he wants to be.”
She left Mohsin thinking dark thoughts about Spartans, that inscrutable breed that now surrounded him on all sides. The away team crammed aboard the shuttle. As always the Kru’desh made a motley crew: Sangheili and Spartans crowded together in a richly decorated passenger compartment with Mohsin squeezed off to the side as the one normal human in the mix. He wondered if this was Venter’s way of punishing him for the stunt with the pamphlet. The commander had seemed unreasonably cheerful since they’d left Slipspace. Simon Venter’s happiness was always the sign of trouble to come. Mohsin watched the Soul Ascension shrink away as the shuttle sped off deeper into the bowels of the Soaring Chorus. The Banished dreadnaught loomed menacingly over the battlecruiser. The gun turrets bristling along the Bloodied Hands’ hull were conspicuously angled only slightly away from the Kru’desh berth.
Mohsin was not surprised when the shuttle stopped short from delivering the away team to the megaship’s reception hall. Instead the Kru’desh delegation disembarked on a domed holding station that floated serenely above the interior docks. Like the shuttle the station was richly appointed with tapestries lining its elegantly sloping walls and deep, thick carpeting that rose up past Mohsin’s ankles. Who the carpeting was for was anyone’s guess. The spindly San ‘Shyuum who greeted the away team floated over the rugs in sleek hover chairs that resembled thrones. Mohsin took note of the armored Jiralhanae who stood guard on the landing platform. The expressionless warriors certainly weren’t there to admire the furnishings.
Simon led the Kru’desh into the domed chamber. A thick perfume assaulted Mohsin’s nose and he noticed elegant flowering plants potted around the rotunda. The smell was pleasant, reminiscent of the heated gardens sometimes found aboard human space stations, but it was spread so thickly that it was almost hard to breath. Mohsin waded through the thick carpeting, striving to keep pace with the Spartans and Sangheili who stomped through the lush furnishings with ease. More San ‘Shyuum floated around the chamber. Each of the thin, bulbous-eyed aliens rode a hover-throne. No two thrones looked the same, and att first glance Mohsin assumed the creatures were free to modify the thrones as they saw fit. But he quickly amended this assumption when he noticed that the San ‘Shyuum in larger, more ornate thrones wore flowing, brightly colored robes. The ones in smaller thrones wore simple clothing akin to the habits worn by the monks who’d inhabited distant monasteries on secluded frontier worlds. These smaller thrones drifted in the orbit of the larger ones like smaller fish clustered among larger predators. The thrones themselves must be signs of status.
Kelo ‘Demal and the other Sangheili watched the San ‘Shyuum with thinly disguised contempt. Some of the warriors seemed hard pressed not to reach for their weapons at the sight of their former overlords. A muted hostility seeped into the scented air—hostility that threatened to become unmuted at any moment.
“Settle down, boys.” Venter was utterly unfazed by the alien surroundings. He surveyed the grand chamber and its floating inhabitants as if he’d just rolled into a frontier saloon. “We’re not here to cause trouble.”
“Well spoken! I am glad to see that our Sangheili guests are under such wise and discerning counsel! I would expect nothing less from the Kru’desh Legion and their storied commander!”
The voice was high, shrill, and grating even through Mohsin’s translation device. The Kru’desh away team turned in the direction of the words as their owner drifted up from the other side of the chamber.
The San ‘Shyuum were as a rule a thin, bony species. Their frames seemed so skeletal and brittle that it was no wonder they preferred to float rather than risk the dangerous exertion of walking. Mohsin had never imagined what a fat San ‘Shyuum might look like. Now he didn’t have to imagine. The creature slouched aboard the large gravity throne was a grossly fat San ‘Shyuum with dark eyes and mottled skin. He was not so much dressed in his ornate robes as poured into them, the soft fabric bulging over his enormous frame. He folded his hands over his immense belly and leaned back in the throne as it lurched its way through the scented air.
A massive creature encumbered by plated armor marched alongside the immense throne. Pulsing conduits protruded in ridges along its back. Mohsin couldn’t see any eyes beneath its flat-slitted helmet. It was no Brute and certainly not a Sangheili.
Andra noticed his stare. “Hunter,” she said quietly. “Lekgolo, the Covenant called them. But I’ve never seen armor like that. And they usually fight in pairs.”
“Ophis congretatio,” muttered Cassandra, hand instinctively brushing the grenades on her belt.
The obese San ‘Shyuum halted his platform a few paces from the away team. The hulking Hunter frame took up a guard position beside the throne. Mohsin noticed that the other San ‘Shyuum steered well clear of these two.
“Welcome to the Soaring Chorus,” the San ‘Shyuum crooned. He surveyed the Kru’desh with heavily lidded eyes that flashed when they alighted on Venter. “And welcome especially to you, my esteemed Stray.”
Venter’s helmet tilted up to face the functionary on the throne. “Grand Architect. You’re looking well.”
Kelo ‘Demal made an urgent gesture but the San ‘Shyuum cut him off. “No need to correct your shipmaster, Major, he knows well enough that is no longer my title. A joke on his part. Stray here likes his little jokes. Always such a keen sense of humor, such an appreciation of the comic!”
“So, you’re the Vice-Minister of Conviviality now?” Venter asked with obviously feigned surprise. “That’s a move in a different direction for you.”
“A move indeed,” the Vice-Minister of Conviviality, formerly the Grand Architect, purred. “And one I have you to thank for. A different use of my talents, one with a much smaller portfolio of labors. There was a time in my life when I had nothing but work, but now I find myself more burdened by free time to pursue my various and sundry hobbies.”
“Well, I’m glad things worked out for the best.”
The Vice-Minister of Conviviality let out a high-pitched chuckle. Mohsin wondered what the hell Venter was playing at by needling this creature. He was no expert on alien facial expressions and even he saw it: behind the light words and cloying mannerisms burned a fierce and abiding hatred. The Vice-Minister’s smile never reached his eyes, which bulged in their sockets to reveal bloodshot whites behind the dark pupils.
Was it Mohsin’s imagination or were there more Banished in the room than before?
The Vice-Minister fumbled in his robes and retrieved a long, thin pipe. He took a drag of a thick, smoky substance and sighed deeply before looking back to Venter. “And I see you’re still fond of helmets. I don’t suppose you would do me the courtesy of removing that crude instrument on your head? You humans value eye contact, as do my people. Such customs are valuable when negotiating.”
“True. But we aren’t negotiating right now. Maybe when I see your bosses I’ll look them in the eye. But for now I’ll keep my helmet on, thanks.”
The Vice-Minister’s plump lips pulled back in a barely concealed sneer. He pressed his hands down against the arms of his throne as if struggling against the urge to reach down and strangle Venter. “Of course, of course, and a sensible course of action for one of your uncouth appearance. You were never attractive even by your own kind’s standards and I hear that time has not been kind to you, not kind at all.” He turned his gaze upon the rest of the away team. “And I see you surround yourself with creatures who share your modesty. All except this one here—is he the only human in your little band not embarrassed by his looks?”
His eyes fell upon Mohsin, who shuddered at the burning hunger he saw behind that dark gaze. He felt like a mouse caught in the unblinking stare of a contented cat, a creature that could kill or ignore him on a whim. Behind the petty insults and snide comments was a cruel malice as sharp as a blade. This was a creature who consumed far more than food. The whole galaxy was the subject of an appetite limited only by the flabby body in which it manifested.
Venter grunted. “Was there a point to dropping us off here or is this just your way of feeling important? You may have more free time on your hands these days but some of us are still busy people. I have a ship that needs fixing.”
“Indeed, indeed! You are always so busy, Stray, such a creature of action!”
“Actually, I go by Venter these days.”
“So I’ve heard! But you’ll always be Stray to me. I’m a nostalgic creature by nature. The past has such an appeal to those of us who haven’t done quite as well by ourselves as you. And fear not, I brought you here on important business. My, ah, bosses as you call them were loath to trouble you with this while you were still on your ship, but you will need to surrender your weapons here before you proceed any further.”
Everyone stiffened at that. Several Sangheili dropped protective hands to the blades mounted on their armor.
“You could have saved everyone a lot of trouble by sending a message sooner,” Venter said.
“Indeed I could have! But alas, I am possessed by a need to… how did you put it? Make myself feel important.” The Vice-Minister of Conviviality watched Venter carefully. “And surely you aren’t surprised? You couldn’t have expected us to extend the same level of trust we showed upon your last visit with us.”
“You expect us to go down into this ship with no weapons?” Merlin, this time. His armored fingers tightened around his rifle grip. Andra stepped closer to him. Merlin had been in a foul mood for days now. Andra braced herself to intervene in case this pompous functionary finally pushed him past his limit.
The Vice-Minister of Conviviality gave a high-pitched laugh. “I expect nothing from you, my armored friend. You are free to remain here while your commander faces the Chorus of Builders alone. They need only his word to conduct negotiations, after all. In fact, I would be far more comfortable if our mutual friend Stray were allowed no entourage at all. I advised the council of elders as much. Not that they ever listen to me.”
Merlin’s grunt told everyone exactly how much he cared about Simon being allowed an escort. But Simon was unfazed. “We’re all going down,” he said. His tone brooked no argument, even from Merlin. “Show us where to check our guns, Vice-Minister. You’ve wasted enough of my time as it is.”
A Banished security team led the Kru’desh to an antechamber just beyond the domed hall. Andra’s gut tightened at the sight of humans marching alongside Jiralhanae, Unggoy, and Kig-Yar. The Banished humans wore roughly-hewn plate armor to match their alien comrades and carried an array of nasty-looking projectile weapons. Even after nearly a year spent living with the Kru’desh Andra could hardly stomach the thought of any human willingly serving the Banished. The human Banished made a point of not looking at the MJOLNIR-armored guests. Andra couldn’t help but take it personally.
The uneasiness provoked by these human traitors gave Andra a strange surge of comfort. After all this time she wasn’t nearly so cut off from her UNSC brethren as she’d feared.
The Vice-Minister of Conviviality watched the Kru’desh depart. He clasped his hands tightly over his immense stomach, heavily-lidded eyes burning with hateful anticipation.
“Not a very convivial fellow,” Mohsin said as the Kru’desh surrendered their weapons to yet another Banished security detail. The red-armored mercenaries were everywhere on this station. “No wonder he hates his job.”
“That disgusting creature has insinuated himself into every aspect of our negotiations,” Kelo ‘Demal explained. “I never thought a San ‘Shyuum could be more repulsive than the hierarchs, but the Vice-Minister is worse than anything I could imagine.”
A Jiralhanae warrior grabbed at Kelo’s energy sword. The young major jerked back with a snarl. Several of his warriors leaped to his side but a shout from Simon held them back. After a tense moment a red-armored Sangheili stepped forward from among the ranks of the Banished. A terse conversation followed in such rapid-fire Sangheili that even the humans’ translation software could not parse the words fast enough. A moment later the Banished Sangheili was permitted to relieve the Kru’desh of their precious blades.
A hard-faced human man in red-daubed combat gear led a team of humans and Unggoy to collect weapons from the Spartans. Andra handed over her rifle and sidearm without complaint but couldn’t help asking quietly, “Why the hell are you working for the Banished?”
A defiant light flashed in the Banished sergeant’s eyes. His armor couldn’t quite hide the Helljumper tattoos inked around the base of his skull. “Says the Spartan working with Covenant deserters.”
Andra had no comeback to that. She stepped back as the Banished collected weapons from Merlin, Saul, and Mohsin. She saw another Hunter in that strange armor lurking at the door of the security room. “I’ve never seen a Hunter like that before,” she said over the Kru’desh TEAMCOM. “They don’t look like they’re with the Banished.”
“They’re not.” Simon turned away from a Jiralhanae laden with his own confiscated weapons. “These Lekgolo are all one consciousness. The Chorus of Builders call it Administrator. You’re looking at a security node, but this entire ship is crawling with Administrator’s worms. It’s how the Builders control a ship this size with such a small crew.”
Andra glanced at a power conduit running along the chamber wall and envisioned it swarming with worms. She shuddered. “Great.”
The freshly disarmed Kru’desh were led back to the transport shuttle. Mohsin waited until the away team was crammed into the passenger compartment before he asked the question burning on everyone’s mind: “So what’s with the Vice-Minster of Conviviality?”
Simon settled onto a plush couch. His battle-scarred armor clashed horribly with the upholstery. “What about him?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Merlin said. “It’s obvious he hates your guts. You went out of your way to get under his skin.”
“Old history.” Simon waved dismissively.
“Not if it ruins these negotiations,” Mohsin said. He edged around Kelo to get closer to Simon. “You said you’d done business with the Chorus of Builders before. You didn’t say anything about making enemies with them.”
Simon was quiet for several moments, clearly debating whether or not to give in to the angry curiosity burning around him. Outside the ship Administrator’s worker nodes prepared the shuttle for departure.
“I was on the Soaring Chorus when the San ‘Shyuum recommissioned her,” Simon finally admitted. “With Zoey and Gavin and the Chancer V. We were laying low from the usual UNSC heat, running some simple jobs along the frontier. This was an even easier gig than most: we were helping construction crews ferry supplies from their ships to the work platforms around this monster’s superstructure.”
Kelo shifted in the cramped space, craning his neck to look down at his commander. “You should have known better than to enter any San ‘Shyuum’s service.”
“We weren’t working for them. Not directly, anyway. See, an enterprising San ‘Shyuum called the Grand Architect knew the Chorus of Builders couldn’t get the modifications done on their own. So he contracted the work out to a flotilla of Yonhet traders. They were the ones who hired us. Gavin and I spent a lot of time building up contacts with the Yonhet once the Covenant fell.”
Merlin and Andra tilted their helmets, surprised to hear Simon speak about Yonhet so easily. The strange, fish-faced aliens were part of what ONI called the “Covenant fringe,” Covenant client species too small and underdeveloped to be incorporated into the military juggernaut the UNSC was so used to facing on the battlefield. Andra had seen a few Yonhet refugees during her missions in Rio but never actually spoken to one.
“The flotilla’s founder was this little guy called Jaml,” Simon continued. “Real entrepreneur type, ran the whole operation like a trade union. The Grand Architect had all these big ides about turning the supercarrier hulk into a mobile shipyard. The interior docks, Lekgolo-powered nervous system—all his ideas. But San ‘Shyuum don’t climb the ladder through expertise. He didn’t have a clue how to actually make it all work. That’s where Jaml came in. Guy’s a genius with technical stuff. He planned the whole operation and ran his construction crews better than any human outfit I’ve ever seen. The Grand Architect was delighted. So naturally, he decided to have Jaml killed.”
“Killed?” After everything he’d been through Mohsin knew he shouldn’t be so surprised but he couldn’t hold back his outrage. “This Jaml guy did an amazing job and these psychos tried to kill him?”
“Yeah. It was probably the best way for a San ‘Shyuum to show his appreciation. They’ve got a funny way of operating. Once they see the value in something it’s practically insulting for them not to try and possess it. They’ve always been like that, even back during the Forerunners…” Simon drew off. He recoiled in his seat, as if repulsed by ancient knowledge that sprang to his mind unbidden. He shook his head like a dog repulsing an irritating fly and continued. “Anyway, the Grand Architect was going to kill Jaml, make it look like an accident, and then manipulate the contracts the Yonhet had signed to keep them indentured to the Chorus of Builders. Permanently.”
Kelo’s mandibles parted in evident disgust. “Vile creatures,” he muttered. “And to think we were their slaves all those ages.”
The Sangheili might see themselves as victims of the San ‘Shyuum, but they’d spent the long history of the Covenant seated comfortably atop the empire’s caste structure. It wasn’t surprising they’d struggled to adapt when the Covenant splintered while the once-oppressed likes of the Kig-Yar, Jiralhanae, and Yonhet prospered. Andra kept those thoughts to herself. She shared Mohsin’s revulsion but after everything she’d seen out in the galaxy she wasn’t surprised. She couldn’t even muster up Kelo’s disdain for the San ‘Shyuum, not when everything she knew about ONI told her that humanity would enslave and exploit other species just as quickly if it meant securing future security.
“Well, luckily for the Yonhet, Jaml was a little bit smarter than the Grand Architect. He knew what sort of creature he was working for, so he brought in a little extra insurance.” Simon’s self-satisfied tone told the cramped passenger compartment exactly who that insurance had been. “Jaml collected his fee—negotiated some extra compensation too—and then I swooped in with the Chancer V and abducted him right out from under the Grand Architect’s nose. The rest of the Yonhet made a big show of chasing those nasty human kidnappers and were gone before the Chorus of Builders realized what was happening.”
Saul had lingered at the edge of the conversation. Now he spoke up. “So the San ‘Shyuum got the Soaring Chorus and Jaml got to keep his head. Everybody wins.”
“Everyone except the Grand Architect,” Merlin said. “I take it Vice-Minister of Conviviality is a bit of a demotion.”
“Obviously. The Chorus of Builders had to save face once the story started going around. Not that they weren’t in on the whole thing from the beginning. But someone had to take the fall. Committing a crime with the San ‘Shyuum is just business as usual. Failing to commit the crime and getting humiliated in the bargain? That’s where they draw the line.”
A grim silence fell over the cabin. It was steadily dawning on everyone in the away team just what kind of creatures the Chorus of Builders really were. The shuttle glided serenely through the hollowed belly of the immense ship, bringing them deeper and deeper into the dark abode of the San ‘Shyuum.
Mohsin once again voiced the thoughts hatching in everyone’s mind: “So why in the name of all that’s holy are we doing business with these people? Especially when you’ve got a whole flotilla of Yonhet floating around out there that owe you a favor.”
“I’ve not exactly kept up with Jaml since the galaxy went to hell,” Simon said impatiently. “Who knows where he is right now? The Soaring Chorus was close to the Jade Moon. And in case you didn’t notice, we can’t exactly afford to go jumping around looking for a Yonhet flotilla that may or may not still exist. My pal the Vice-Minister’s just some loser who can’t let go of the past. The rest of the Chorus are businesspeople. I can deal with businesspeople.”
He paused, then added, “Besides, Jaml doesn’t owe me any favors. He paid that debt a long time ago, in credits and a little something extra.”
Andra tapped her armor impatiently. “Don’t tell me he rigged this whole ship to blow and gave you the codes.”
“Nothing that dramatic.” Simon started to say something but a descent warning that beeped over the shuttle intercom cut him off. The ship settled down on a landing pad deep below the dockyards. The away team was far from the Soul Ascension now, deep in the heart of this immense vessel. Simon rose from the couch and pushed towards the shuttle exit. “Let’s get in there and do business,” he said as the ramp lowered with a sibilant hiss.
“Besides,” he added, casting a look back at the motley away team. Andra could practically hear the crooked smile hidden behind that dark visor. “I’ve got all of you to protect me. Just in case things go wrong.”
Of course they went wrong. But Mohsin, Andra and the rest of them had no idea just how profoundly wrong things were about to go.
===Chapter Thirteen: Banquet Invitation===
Urei ‘Caszal glowered at the tactical display. He felt so helpless here on the Soul Ascencion’s bridge. With Commander Venter gone Urei was the ship’s de-facto shipmaster—shipmaster of a crippled ship now locked into a repair berth and surrounded by potential enemies. External holo-feeds showed the Bloodied Hands looming over the Ascension. The war paint on the Banished dreadnought’s prow made it look like a sneering predator gloating over wounded prey. Under normal circumstances the dreadnought ought to be out patrolling the space beyond the great repair ship, not menacing the only customer in the sector. But these were not normal circumstances. Venter had made that quite clear when he left the ship.
By now Urei was no stranger to Venter’s elusive stratagems. His admiration for the commander’s machinations on Archangel’s Rest had led him to abandon the Cleansing Blade for the Kru’desh. But now Urei was on the receiving end of Venter’s enigmatic information sharing and he didn’t like it one bit. Venter had taken an insane risk by sailing into danger’s waiting jaws. What transpired here aboard the Soaring Chorus these next few hours would spell the difference between triumph and oblivion.
Maybe this is revenge Urei thought irritably. He fought the restless urge to pace. The bridge crew needed to see their commander poised and self-assured, two traits that had often eluded Urei during his service in both the Covenant and its successors. We fabricated the history of Venter as the conquering military genius. Now our survival depends on the truth behind those lies.
He found the thought strangely comforting. The tension eased from Urei’s spine and as he looked up at the looming dreadnought his mandibles split into a wry smile. Simon Venter was a walking disruption, a divine joke unleashed by the gods to humble the proud and conceited. Somehow Urei had found himself drawn into that joke. He’d chosen this path and now he simply needed to trust that the curtain was not yet ready to fall over Simon Venter’s performance.
A flashing light on the bridge command console shook Urei free of his ruminations. “Second ‘Caszal,” came the grave voice of a Kru’desh communications officer. “We have lost Commander Venter’s signal. Our instruments suggest it is being deliberately obstructed.”
“Very good,” Urei said. A thrill accompanied news anyone else might have found disheartening. Signal jamming was the first sign Venter had predicted. It was also the sign Urei needed to get off the bridge and back to his real work. “Continue scanning the Banished battle-net. Report any suspicious activity at once.”
The fate of Venter and the away team was no longer Urei’s concern. His responsibilities lay with that Banished dreadnought. One salvo from those heavy cannons would split the Soul Ascension in two. But Venter had predicted that no such salvo would come. A CCS-class battlecruiser was far too tempting a prize for any Banished chieftain to simply destroy. Success in this operation hinged upon the accuracy of this and one other prediction: that the dreadnought’s chieftain was not aboard the Bloodied Hands at all, his presence demanded at another engagement. Matters of revenge had a way of distracting those who ought to no better.
Success also depended on how quickly the Kru’desh would spring into battle, pouncing on their prey like the deadly feline killers Urei had witnessed in his youth on the dusty plains of Sanghelios. This was Urei’s moment. Here was where he justified the madness that had driven him to pledge fealty to a human and join this band of outcasts and exiles. A joke of his own at the galaxy’s expense.
“Continue operations as normal,” he ordered the bridge crew. “No matter what happens, no matter what you observe out there, do nothing without my command. Make no transmissions aside from ordinary updates and reports. If you must deliver some urgent message, send a runner.”
He strode from the bridge and waved imperiously at the red-haired human female who seemed to hold such favor with Venter. Hunsinger, that was her name. “You, with me. Outfit yourself with a proselytization harness and keep pace. I need a way to send low-frequency encryptions.”
The human’s brow furrowed. “A what harness?”
“I suppose you humans would call it a communications pack. Do not question my orders, only obey. There is much to be done if we are to live to see another day.”
Urei vanished through the bridge porthole, his human squire in tow. The burning joy of battle kindled in Urei’s hearts at the thought of the glories to come. He was going to enjoy wiping that arrogant painted smile off the Bloodied Hands’s prow.
***
“I thought we were getting repairs done.”
“Why’ve they got us running drills?”
“I’ve had it with this crazy schedule. Nothing ever goes according to plan.”
Thomas Koepke crouched at his battle station. He adjusted the uncomfortable straps on his cumbersome EVA harness and tried to ignore the irritable chatter rising up around him. A mixed crowd of humans and Sangheili waited outside an airlock plasma shield. No one knew exactly what they were doing there or why the entire legion had been so suddenly called to arms. Apparently this was some sort of combat drill—a drill involving live ammunition, full combat packs, and a strict radio-silence order. No one was buying it. Whatever was going on outside the Soul Ascension, it wasn’t good.
Someday sanity would crawl out from whatever interstellar hole it had been hiding down these past years. Someday Thomas would remember what it felt like to live a normal life. Today was not that day. He hoped Karina was alright. Her muster station was back down in the scribe’s wing, far from the hangars and airlocks and anywhere else the legion’s unseen enemies might board.
“Quiet, all of you.” A Sangheili officer in red-hued armor marched among the grumbling legionaries. “Save your energy. Be still and wait for your orders. A true warrior is always ready for battle no matter when it arises.”
The officer kept rattling off predictable platitudes, but his tone was calm and reassuring. He didn’t snarl or curse or carry on about human scum. For the first time since he’d come aboard this floating psycho ward Thomas actually felt reassured at an alien’s presence. He gripped his rifle and knelt in silence, waiting for all hell to break loose.
***
Argo wasn’t being paid nearly enough for any of this. As soon as Venter got back to the ship they were going to renegotiate the terms of his contract—provided any of them survived the next hour. For now all he could do was carry out orders, money or no money. He led a team of human and Sangheili legionaries through the Soul Ascension’s eerily quiet corridors. Each warrior was equipped for null-air and zero-gravity maneuvers: the Sangheili in sleek flight harnesses and the humans in far less impressive bulky space suits. The team hauled several large metal cylinders behind them on hover carts.
“Quickly now,” Argo hissed as the team dragged the cylinders from the carts. “I have ten more deliveries to make on this deck.” The Kru’desh were only under radio silence orders but Argo saw no reason not to extend that to speech as well. Rank and file troops were literal-minded creatures: the right attitude from their superiors could be the difference between survival and one idiot’s reflexive radio call that killed them all. The team took up positions near an airlock on the Ascension’s upper deck. Through the hazy energy field separating them from the cold vacuum they could see the Bloodied Hands leering over their ship. The Banished dreadnaught loitered lazily in her dock, guns trained on the cruiser below.
Or above, Argo thought, reminding himself of Venter’s brief to the Kru’desh officers. The Banished inhabited a berth that placed them near the top of the Soaring Chorus’s great maw-like drydock, at least from a superstructure perspective. But with no energy field sealing that maw and no artificial gravity extending beyond the Chorus’s crew space they were essentially still in the great void of space, where direction was simply what you made of it.
The team primed the cylinders they’d hauled up from the ship’s arms reserves. Each device was a primitive launching system meant for firing human ship-to-ship Archer missiles. Argo understood that these systems were common on human vessels as emergency defense procedures should a ship’s conventional launching systems be damaged beyond use. Individually they were useless. A single missile wouldn’t so much as scratch the dreadnaught’s hull. But they also allowed the Kru’desh to prepare a covert defense without priming weapon systems. As far as the Banished monitoring the ship’s activity were concerned, the Soul Ascension was a docile target waiting meekly in her berth.
Argo stepped back as the EVA team primed the primitive rocket system on an even more primitive tripod mechanism. He hoped the legionaries’ sealed suits protected them from whatever blast this thing produced. For his part, he didn’t want to be anywhere near the missiles when they fired. As with all of Venter’s plans, this maneuver was either brilliant or liable to get them all killed.
The spymaster hurried back down the corridor. He had a great deal more of these dangerous things to set up and very little time to do it in.
***
This time would be different.
Ragna relaxed in the Cyclops’s cockpit. Radio silence meant that all the normal chatter flowing over the exoskeleton’s com was replaced with an eerie quiet. The capsules she and her fellow pilots had been sealed inside filled the space with a thick darkness interrupted only by the soft glow of Ragna’s instruments. Another person might find the tomb-like darkness and silence frightening. Ragna found it relaxing. She rested, or at least as much as anyone could rest in the cramped cockpit.
The chatter mounted on her wrist hummed to mark the passage of another five minutes. Right on time, a simple affirmative signal flashed on the Cyclops dash. That regular all-clear update was the only contact Ragna had with the rest of the ship, the only sign that the ship hadn’t melted away outside the launch capsule.
Ragna could handle the waiting. What she couldn’t handle was the fear that once again the Cyclops squadron’s efforts would be wasted. At the Jade Moon a ceasefire had been called before she could even fire a shot. But this time would be different. Ragna felt it in her bones. She didn’t know what was going on. She barely knew anything about the target other than the rushed briefing she and the other Cyclops pilots had received before being sealed away in their launch pods. Printed graphs of the Banished dreadnought were taped to the inside of her cockpit. She squinted at the blueprints in the faint light. Her gloved fingers brushed against the cockpit’s firing studs. Her brain ran through the weaponry mounted on her beloved machine, ready to be unleashed on the legion’s enemies.
This time would be different. Ragna was ready to cut loose. All she needed to do was wait for the signal, whenever it came. For now though she was stuck here, waiting for another five minutes to receive yet another standby signal. Ragna rested her helmet against the back of the cockpit and tired to release the tension built up in her bones. She stared out into the darkness and waited for the signal that would finally set her off the leash.
===Chapter Fourteen: Conviviality===
Mohsin Shah had grown up on a two-field farm on a remote corner of desolate Mamore, a backwater’s backwater. After a UNSC air strike reduced even that humble home to a crater he’d spent the rest of his childhood and then most of his adulthood drifting from one colonial hellhole to another, transported from each battlefield in the belly of some cramped freight-hauler barely spaceworthy enough to haul cargo let alone transport fighting men. He’d taken a deep colonial pride in his own lack of refinement, despising the grand corporate megabuildings where inner and outer world elites played at aristocracy. The stories of the old Covenant picked up from Sangheili comrades followed by less than half an hour aboard the Soaring Chorus had given him ample reason to despise the San ‘Shyuum and everything their corrupt species stood for. He was well-prepared to ignore every part of their lavish pretensions.
But even he could not think of the grand reception hall as anything less than magnificent.
Banished guards escorted the away team off the shuttle and into a hall that seemed vast enough to hold the entire Soul Ascension. Its great domed ceiling swept upwards, illuminated by rays of light from unseen lenses that gave it the aura of an ancient cathedral. Smooth pillars sprouted from the floor on either side of the hall like enormous trees. Holo-projectors conjured up an intricately detailed map of the galaxy in the vast space above the floor while great stone statues of San ‘Shyuum—so well-crafted that they managed to make even their spindly robed subjects seem grand and heroic—filled the spaces between pillars.
Mohsin felt small and insignificant compared to these enormities. Of course, that was the point. The away team marched down the center of the hall under the watchful eyes of the Banished. The Vice-Minister of Conviviality drifted along behind them with an entourage of robed hangers-on following in his corpulent wake. Even disarmed, Major ‘Demal and his warriors kept a proud bearing. They formed a loose phalanx around Simon Venter, who strode through the great hall with the air of someone strolling through a dusty colonial bazaar. Whatever Andra, Merlin, and Saul thought of this temple to opulence was hidden by their helmets. The Spartans walked silently behind the Sangheili, somehow making themselves looking like part of a formation despite a complete lack of pre-rehearsal. Mohsin trailed at the back of the party. He felt utterly out of place amidst the grandeur.
Cassandra slowed her pace and fell back to walk beside him. Her domed visor scanned the hall. Their Banished escorts melted away and withdrew into the pillars. Mohsin caught sight of more armed soldiers lingering in the shadows of the statues.
“Please tell me he’s shared a plan with you,” Mohsin muttered, trying to keep the rising sense of panic out of his voice.
“Not a word,” Cassandra said.
“Wonderful. So for all we know this is some elaborate suicide attempt. Nice of him to take us all with him.”
“That’s not Simon’s style. Whatever he’s cooked up won’t need anything elaborate from us. If things get ugly just stick close to me. We’ll find weapons. Then it’s just a matter of pointing and shooting.”
“We’re surrounded by Banished. We’ve got no weapons. The commander’s marched us into a trap. And you aren’t bothered at all?”
“Oh, I’m livid.” Cassandra’s tone betrayed no emotion. “But I said I was going to follow orders like any legionary and that’s what I’m going to do. Save the blowback on Simon for later.”
A few paces ahead, Merlin was also scanning the Banished troops assembled just outside the hall. He felt like a particularly stupid sheep strolling right into the lion’s den. To make matters worse, Althea had hardly said a word since they left the Soul Ascension. The system feed in Merlin’s HUD showed increased transmission activity from his helmet yet Althea made no sign of activity.
“Althea,” he said, words hidden within the privacy of his helmet. “What’s going on? Please tell me you’ve got a plan to get us out of here.” Some of us, anyway. If it came to a firefight Merlin would do his best to fight his way out with Andra in tow. Simon Venter and his cronies could fend for themselves.
…which of course left Callum trapped on the Soul Ascension. Damn Simon and his schemes. Merlin cursed himself for not seeing the traitor’s true nature months ago.
“Not now,” was the terse reply he got from Althea. She sounded strained, almost frightened. “If I follow his instructions, you’ll survive.”
“What instructions?”
“Please, Merlin. I promised to keep you safe. That’s what I’m doing.”
“What the hell did he do to you?”
But there was no answer forthcoming. Merlin swore. Whatever orders Simon had given Althea, they didn’t include filling Merlin in on the plan. Not that any of the Kru’desh seemed to know what was going on either. Was Simon so paranoid that he didn’t even trust his own people? Or was this all some demented game to him?
Merlin almost jumped out of his armor when Andra rapped him on the shoulder. His tension was plain even through the armored plating. His teammate jerked her helmet at him.
“Stay calm,” Andra said over their private TEAMCOM. “Simon’s a survivor. He wouldn’t walk into this without a plan. We’ll make it out.”
“I’m glad you’ve got so much faith in him,” Merlin growled.
“I’ve got faith that Simon’s not about to throw his life away. Get it together, Showerhead. I need you ready to smash some Banished skulls if things get ugly.”
Merlin held off more complaints. As much as he hated Andra’s calm faith in Simon’s unseen plan, she had a point. Merlin had no choice but hope Simon knew what he was doing. Saul’s helmet tilted in his former comrades’ direction but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t even attempt a ping to get into the TEAMCOM. He’d chosen his side and they all knew it.
The gilded carpeting led them down to the far end of the great hall. A dozen figures awaited them on a raised dais, wizened San ‘Shyuum seated on ornate hovering thrones. The statue of a magnificently arrayed San ‘Shyuum, arms spread wide as if in the act of divine proclamation, loomed up behind the dais. Marbled statues of imposingly armored Prelates, the elite San ‘Shyuum warriors, spread out on either side of the great figure. There was no sign of any flesh and blood Prelates in the hall. Two of Administrator’s great lumbering security assemblages flanked the dais. The rest of the hall’s security was comprised entirely of Banished. A Jiralhanae chieftain in crimson-red armor stood just beneath the dais, accompanied by a retinue of heavily armored warriors.
Mohsin shuddered at the sight of yet more Jiralhanae. The howls of those warriors carried on frigid winds across the snow-plains of Archangel’s Rest still haunted his dreams.
One of the venerable San ‘Shyuum drifted forward in his hoverthrone. He surveyed the Kru’desh delegation through age-weary eyes, then waved idly at the Vice-Minister of Conviviality. “You may leave us, Vice-Minister,” the creature on the throne croaked. “Surely you have duties to attend to elsewhere.”
The Vice-Minister tilted his thick neck in what might have been a bow, had the eyes beneath his thick forehead not burned with thinly-veiled rage. He angled his throne away from the delegation but did not, Mohsin noticed, depart the haul.
The San ‘Shyuum who had spoken paid no more heed to the former Grand Architect. He regarded the Kru’desh without a word for several moments. Then he waved a robed hand with visible effort. His rasping voice filled the hall, projected by unseen speakers. “The Chorus of Builders welcomes the esteemed Simon Venter to our humble abode. We are intrigued by your triumphs at Archangel’s Rest and elsewhere. The Kru’desh Legion has made quite a name for itself in these trouble times.”
The esteemed Simon Venter stepped ahead of his Sangheili guards. He finally removed his helmet, tucking it beneath his arm and running a hand through hair matted down by time beneath the confined armor. He looked up at the council of elders with a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Prime Minister of Builders. You honor me with your, ah, agreement to contract with the Kru’desh Legion. My warriors are in your debt.”
“Indebted indeed.” The wizened Prime Minister bobbed in his hovering throne. “A debt that will be paid shortly, I hope. We know well how you plundered the Jade Moon, or else we would not have so readily agreed to render our services. Your past exploits aboard this vessel have not been entirely forgotten. But this council believes that bygones should be bygones. The indiscretions of youth are a fleeting thing, after all.”
The Vice-Minister of Conviviality let out a derisive snort. He had maneuvered his throne in amongst the smaller San ‘Shyuum courtiers gathered to observe the exchange. “Indiscretions of youth,” the immense functionary hissed just loudly enough to be heard. “A debt to be paid, indeed.” His new position gave him a clear sightline to the Banished chieftain.
The Prime Minister shot a withering glare at the disgraced functionary. The Vice-Minister returned the gaze with a venomous look of his own. His defiance seemed to take the Prime Minister and the rest of the council entirely off-guard. A thin chorus of murmurs swept through the gathered San ‘Shyuum. Most of the courtiers and functionaries drifted away from the Vice-Minister of Conviviality. Some, Mohsin noted, stayed near him. A few even drifted closer. Mohsin also saw more Banished troops emerging from the shadows. His blood ran cold. He shot a look at Venter, but the commander didn’t seem to notice the looming danger.
He wasn’t the only one ignoring the seismic shifts erupting within the Chorus of Builders. The Prime Minister spared only another few moments glowering at the Vice-Minister before returning his attention to Venter. “Our shipcraft artisans are the finest in the galaxy, as you well know,” he continued. “And their skill will of course be considered as we determine a price commensurate to our services. By the time our workers finish working on your illustrious vessel, the Soul Ascension will rival the finest flagships in any fleet.”
“Not a high bar,” Venter remarked. “There aren’t many fleets left sailing these stars. The Created saw to that.”
“We endured the Created, for a time,” said the Prime Minister. He waved a spindly hand. “But their time passed as quickly as it arrived. And I foretell that a new age begins with their passing. The Created and their petty tyrannies were merely the birth pangs heralding an age of freedom and prosperity for those with the will to seize the golden threads of opportunity…”
Mohsin could barely hear the reedy-voiced minister and his meandering metaphors. The Banished chieftain was watching the whole scene with growing intensity. The burning eyes beneath his helmet kept darting surreptitiously towards the Vice-Minister of Conviviality. The sense of mounting dread was thick enough to choke on. Everyone else noticed it as well. Merlin and Andra drew closer together. Kelo ‘Demal flexed his long fingers as if yearning to lay hands on Venter and drag him bodily back behind a protective phalanx of Sangheili. Cassandra stepped surreptitiously towards the edge of the Kru’desh formation.
The Vice-Minister of Conviviality released a theatrical sigh. The San ‘Shyuum nudged his throne forwards and clasped his hands over his immense stomach.
“You must forgive this old fool,” the Vice-Minister said loudly. “Our illustrious guests have not had the pleasure of listening to him drone on interminably all day, every day. The Chorus of Builders has not been so lucky. Many of us find it all rather… grating.” His lips drew back in a cruel smile, revealing rows of tombstone-like teeth.
A hush fell over the assembly hall. The Prime Minister’s eyes bulged in their sockets. His mouth worked soundlessly, unable to form words. He glanced back at the rest of the elders, who all seemed flabbergasted by the Vice-Minister’s breach of etiquette. The Prime Minister gripped his hands to stop them from quivering with anger. He turned his throne with what seemed like visible effort and gestured to the Banished chieftain.
“Warlord Leidus, the Vice-Minister of Conviviality is unwell. Remove him at once.”
The Prime Minister breathed deeply. He turned back to Venter and seemed oblivious to the fact that his command had not been obeyed. The Jiralhanae named Leidus calmly unslung the great gravity hammer from his back but remained where he was. More Banished troops drew up on either side of the reception hall. Mercenary representatives of what seemed like every fighting species in the galaxy—Jiralhanae, Sangheili, humans, Kig-Yar, and Unggoy—leveled weapons at the Kru’desh delegation.
“As I said,” the Vice-Minister said in a voice silky-smooth with triumph. “Forgive him. He and the rest of these doddering geriatrics are blissfully unaware of so many things. Not content with robbing me of my position and my future, they trespass even upon my current responsibilities. To think that they simply ignored the splendid reception I prepared for our esteemed guests!”
“Be silent,” the Prime Minister snapped. “Don’t make any more fool of yourself than you already have…”
His voice trailed off as he noticed the Banished moving into firing positions. The elder’s air of cool authority evaporated. His eyes bulged as he looked frantically at the impending massacre playing out in his reception hall. “What is this?” he whispered. He seemed to shrink in his throne, no longer a patrician dealmaker and instead a shrunken, aged creature caught in events beyond his comprehension.
“You said it yourself,” the Vice Minister of Conviviality crowed. He manipulated his throne controls and rose higher above the reception hall, drifting to float just beside the Chieftain Leidus. “Our esteemed guest has outstanding debts here at the Soaring Chorus. Debts that must be repaid. Debts that I intend to settle today. I only regret that Captain Gavin Dunn isn’t here, but I’ll settle for Stray. My vengeance has waited long enough.”
The Prime Minister looked helplessly towards the Banished troops. He didn’t seem to fully grasp the idea that these mercenaries weren’t following his orders. Maybe, Mohsin thought, He’s so used to having power that he can’t fathom life without it. There was something almost admirably decadent in such self-confidence. Impending death had imbued Mohsin with a detached sense of irony.
Venter still didn’t move. At least he wasn’t wearing that infuriating half-smile anymore. The commander watched the bloated Vice-Minister with narrowed eyes that betrayed no fear at all. He looked like a cat regarding a particularly daring mouse.
“You… you…” the Prime Minister sputtered. He gripped the sides of his throne as if the shock of Conviviality’s betrayal threatened to send him tumbling to the ground. “Revenge is all well and good, you demented fool. But this is business! You’re interfering with our profits!”
“There it is,” Kelo ‘Demal growled. “The San ‘Shyuum show their true colors. Profit above all.”
“Ah, but there is business at hand here,” Conviviality tutted. He gestured at Leidus and his warriors. “While you old fools were letting the affairs of our enterprises run themselves, I have been hard at work arranging a quite profitable arrangement with our new friends in the Banished. Warlord Atriox’s fleets will enjoy a safe harbor in the Soaring Chorus, along with an exclusive contract that I expect will double our profits in the long term. You see? Profit and vengeance, hand in hand. An exquisite banquet. One that you, sadly, will not partake in.”
The Prime Minister’s sputtering trailed off. The aged San ‘Shyuum looked from the Vice-Minister of Conviviality to the other courtiers that were now either rapidly fleeing the hall or had drifted behind the treacherous upstart. A great deal suddenly became clear to the Prime Minister. He slumped in his throne, his outrage swiftly replaced by weary indignation.
“Commander?” Saul asked nervously. The Spartan raised his armored hands in a defensive posture, for all the good it would do against the Banished firing squad. “What’s the call?”
“I’m thinking it over,” Venter said. “There’s more Banished here than I expected. I hadn’t planned for that. My friend Conviviality’s a bit angrier than I thought.”
“What?” Andra rounded on him. “You knew this was going to happen?”
The commander didn’t take his eyes off the Vice-Minister. “Of course I knew,” he said quietly. “People are predictable. I told you before, I know these people. The way their minds work. And I know the Banished. They don’t work for scraps. As soon as I heard they’d taken a security contract with the Soaring Chorus I knew it must be part of something larger.”
The Vice-Minister of Conviviality fiddled with the device on his throne. Mohsin realized for the first time that none of the hulking Hunter platforms in the room had moved since the confrontation began. Shouldn’t Administrator—the pulsing intelligence behind this whole station—be doing something to aid his masters? A sinking pit in his stomach told him that the Vice-Minister’s scheme ran far deeper than simply conspiring to have an old enemy killed.
Venter also reached for the command pad affixed to his gauntlet, swiftly tapping in a series of commands. The Vice-Minister barked with laughter.
“Yes, by all means call for help, commander. Your transmissions are blocked. Your precious ship is impounded. A Banished dreadnought stands ready to annihilate your entire legion. There will be no daring rescue the way there was for that wretched Yonhet.”
“We’ll see,” Venter said. “I’ve gotten out of worse.”
“I daresay you have,” Conviviality sneered. “But unfortunately for you, I’m not the kind of fool you’ve grown rich off hoodwinking. Do you think I hadn’t guessed that a space rat like you might seek to enrich himself off my masterpiece? Do you think I didn’t have my technicians comb every inch of this station after you fled? Oh, yes, I know all about the little surprise Jaml left hidden in the system.”
Venter froze. He kept his composure but he couldn’t keep his eyes from widening, just a fraction. What hope Mohsin had clung to faded. The ace in the hole that had compelled Venter to march them all into the jaws of danger was gone. Mohsin closed his eyes and began to pray.
“Our old associate Jaml installed a series of network transponders throughout this ship’s systems,” the Vice-Minister of Conviviality explained to his captive audience. “A clever ploy to subvert our security protocols—and another factor you old fools failed to notice. But I noticed. And I saw no reason to remove such a useful tool. But you’ll find, my dear Stray, that the code frequencies you thought would be of use to you have changed. Your backdoor became my backdoor.”
He raised a pudgy hand and withdrew a small device from beneath the folds of his robes. “A convenient way to, ah, influence the Administrator even from my diminished position. So you see, I really must thank you, Stray. But my gratitude, alas, isn’t worth all that much. But I will remember you fondly, once your head is mounted on my wall and the rest of your carcass has been reduced to atoms.”
The Vice-Minister tapped the device. The hulking Administrator platforms turned in unison and leveled their arm-mounted cannons at the council of elders. Conviviality practically squirmed with delight. The grand reception hall was his stage to direct as he wished.
Chieftain Leidus’s nostrils flared. The Banished commander stepped forward, casting an irate look up at his co-conspirator. It was odd for a Jiralhanae to look self-conscious, but Leidus seemed embarrassed by the Vice-Minister’s grandiose display.
“Commander Venter, your reputation proceeds you, as does the rest of the Kru’desh Legion,” Leidus said. “I regret that we encountered each other under these circumstances. I would much prefer to conquer you on the battlefield. Alas, such are the times we live in.”
Venter drew in a breath. He took a moment to compose himself. “Of course,” he said, with an air of resigned dignity. “Nothing personal. I’d have done the same if it would get the Kru’desh ahead.”
Leidus dipped his armored head. “You are beaten. But I see no profit in slaughtering good warriors. The Kru’desh will stand down and submit to the Banished. You can still survive this, provided you swear fealty to Warmaster Atriox. Your ship will be taken and your legion will be dispersed among our own ranks, naturally. But you must find that preferable to the death that awaits you should you resist.”
The Vice-Minister made a disparaging noise. “Chieftain Leidus, don’t be cruel! False hope is uncalled for. There is no survival for Stray. He will die for the many wrongs he has done me.”
The hackles visible beneath Leidus’s armor quivered. His lip twitched, revealing a set of yellowed fangs. “Your quarrel is with the commander, not his legion,” he growled. “Very well. You will have Venter’s head. But his warriors are my captives to do with as I please.”
“Oh, if you must,” Conviviality said with a theatrical sigh.
Venter looked around at the Kru’desh delegation. “Well?” he asked sardonically. “Any takers?” Hemmed in by enemies on all sides, dwarfed by the great reception hall and the events cascading out of all control, and Venter still held himself as if he held all the cards. Mohsin wished he believed that he did.
“Yeah,” an unexpected voice growled. “I’ll take it.”
Merlin strode forward. Venter’s Sangheili guards tightened their defensive formation. Suddenly they were defending their commander from both the Banished and an angry Spartan. Merlin pressed himself up against the picket. His fury was evident even through his armor. For the first time since Conviviality sprang his trap, Venter actually flinched.
“I’d rather work for the Banished than let you get my friends killed,” Merlin said. His hands shook, as if he yearned to do the Vice-Minister of Conviviality’s work for him and just strangle Simon then and there.
Simon’s mouth opened. Mohsin saw the whites of his commander’s flashing eyes. Simon was finally beginning to panic. That panic drove daggers into what remained of Mohsin’s flagging resolve. “Althea—” Simon started to say.
“Don’t you dare,” Merlin snapped. “You’ll never hurt her again.”
Andra stood nearby. Faceless behind her armor, she didn’t seem to know whether to restrain Merlin or join him. Saul lingered uselessly behind her. The poor Spartan defector was probably rethinking his allegiance to the Kru’desh. Everything was falling apart here in this opulent reception hall. Mohsin’s mind raced. He felt sick. Simon had finally miscalculated. He’d die for that. But the rest of the legion might yet live. Surrender to the Banished would save their lives. All survival cost was one arrogant, foolhardy commander—and Mohsin’s dreams for the future. The long awaited promised land flashed before his eyes. Looking at the grim-faced humans standing alongside the Banished, Mohsin knew there was no future to be had fighting under yet one more alien warlord. The Banished wouldn’t give Nhat or Ragna or any of the others a home to fight for. All they offered was endless battle, one conflict after another until death finally closed its jaws over one more hapless piece of cannon fodder.
“Rebellion in the ranks!” Conviviality crowed from atop his throne. The San ‘Shyuum’s fat face peered gleefully down on the reception hall. “How quickly they turn on you, Stray! This is even better than I hoped. Maybe I’ll keep you alive after all, just so you can watch everything you thought you owned be stripped away.”
“Savor this while it lasts, you bloated fool,” the Prime Minister said. The shock of Conviviality’s rebellion seemed to have faded from the old San ‘Shyuum. He leaned back wearily in his throne and stared at Conviviality through coolly lidded eyes. “I doubt your new Banished masters will let you be once they have everything they needed from you. You’ve sacrificed everything our Chorus built, and for what? Revenge on one wretched human?”
“Silence!” Conviviality’s triumphant sneer evaporated. He teetered on his throne, caught in a storm of rage and hatred. “This is about more than Stray. You old fools will all pay for what you did to me. Don’t think I didn’t hear you sniggering when the Yonhet wormed his way out of the contract. You were all laughing at me. You enjoyed seeing me disgraced!”
He rounded back on Simon. “And you!” he practically screamed. “You were laughing too! All the way to whatever hole that disgusting Yonhet paid you to hide him in! You’ve been laughing at me these past five years. But no more!”
Simon looked back up at the raging San ‘Shyuum. The fear that had stained his eyes just moments before faded. A shadow passed over his face as he collected himself once more. A strange smile tugged at his lips. 
“Well,” he said slowly. “You do have to admit, it was pretty damn funny.”
A shriek escaped Conviviality’s lips. He brandished the control device like a baton. “Kill him!” he screamed at the Banished. “Kill them all! Tear them to pieces, blast them to atoms, shred—”
“Althea!” Simon barked, this time with all the commanding force he could muster. “Do it now!”
Several things happened at once. The Banished leveled their weapons, waiting for Leidus’s command. Mohsin glanced around and suddenly realized he couldn’t see Cassandra anymore. And then Merlin’s shield’s burst like a shattered bubble. There was no sign of any shot that might have struck the young man’s armor. But Merlin staggered all the same as an electromagnetic pulse overloaded his MJOLNIR’s systems. The device in Conviviality’s hand chirped, accepting an unseen command. A moment later every light in the reception hall extinguished at once, plunging the vast chamber into darkness.
And then all hell broke loose.
===Chapter Fifteen: Boarding Action===
The com node on Urei ‘Caszal’s harness chirped. The voice carried over the proselytization network—Urei struggled, even now, to forget the old Covenant patterns of reference—was a human female’s, specifically the construct, Althea. Her voice was harsh and urgent. “Now! Do it now!”
That was all the instruction Urei needed. He rounded on the gun crews waiting alongside him in the Soul Ascension’s centerline shuttle bay. Sangheili and human legionaries knelt beside their portable missile launch systems. Dozens of such systems were now spread across the Ascension. Such crude instruments, Urei thought. Utterly unwieldy, infuriatingly niche in ways only human armsmiths could manufacture, and completely useless in naval combat—save for this one moment. The Bloodied Hand loomed overhead, bristling with weapons and yet blind to the danger posed by the seemingly helpless ship beneath her guns.
A cold smile spread over Urei’s mandibles. At times like these he understood exactly why he had forsaken everything to throw his lot in with the Kru’desh. Moments like this made him feel truly alive. “Fire!” he barked, springing clear of the firing line.
He moved not a moment too soon. A roar of fire and smoke filled the hangar as if belched from the nostrils of some mythical beast. Two dozen missiles streaked out of the hangar. They hurtled along their carefully calculated routes towards the Bloodied Hand. A moment later their contrails were joined by hundreds more streaks of distant lights, all launched from nodes across the Soul Ascension at the sign of the first launch. There was no transmitted order, no signal that might be intercepted to give the Banished even a moment’s warning. This was just the crude simplicity of soldiers firing at the sight of their comrades doing the same.
The topside hangar gave Urei the perfect vantage point from which to watch the barrage of missiles streak towards the looming dreadnaught. Distant flashes of light drew Urei’s mandibles tight with fear. Interception fire. The Banished point defense systems would sweep aside the missile assault and all would be lost—no. Only a few missiles detonated prematurely, caught by a single vigilant gun-team while the rest of the Banished remained fatally unaware. A paltry few missiles disappeared in distant starbursts. The rest soared on, unimpeded, until they struck pre-calculated targets: fire control centers, defense grid nodes, and of course, the hangars. Hangars packed full of Banished troops waiting to pour down upon the trapped, helpless Kru’desh Legion.
The carnage played out in eerie silence. A beautiful display of roiling fire painted across the distant ship’s hull. Urei basked in the sight of this great reversal. In an instant the roles of this play were reversed. The Banished lay helpless beneath Kru’desh guns. Urei and his warriors were the conquerors, not cringing victims. And Simon Venter was the author of this play after all, penning a comedy instead of the promised tragedy.
Whoops rose from the gun crews as the smoke cleared. A surly Major barked for order, but Urei allowed himself another moment’s indulgence at the sight of the foundering dreadnought. Once again his allegiance to the Kru’desh delivered a victory more satisfying than anything he’d known under his old masters—the old Covenant Empire, Jul ‘Mdama’s doomed revolution, or even Shinsu ‘Refum’s Cleansing Blade. How strange that a gang of outcasts and humans could deliver him glory beyond the humble aspirations of his ancestors.
A strange grief mingled with Urei’s triumph. As he watched the Bloodied Hand burn Urei realized that he had no idea where his family—his mother, his hatch-mates, the patriarchs of House Caszal—might be, if they even yet lived. Would they share in his triumph or merely hang their heads in shame over what he had become? Looking out at the crippled ship, Urei ‘Caszal realized once again that he no longer understood this universe.
Urei tore his gaze from the spectacle and the painful thoughts it evoked. This battle wasn’t over. He still had much to do. Kru’desh dropships were already underway, shuttling warriors through the Bloodied Hands’s decimated point defense network. The Soul Ascension hummed to life, shaking free of her docking restraints and charging weapons while repair drones fled on all sides like schools of frightened fish. Urei swept from the hangar. The bridge needed him to coordinate the assault. He only hoped the commander’s part of this plan was going as well as this ambush—but that was a theatre Urei had no control over.
***
A thrill coursed through Ragna’s veins the moment her com board lit up. She knew the assault was on because radio silence had been broken. The cargo container concealing her Cyclops lurched, propelled by unseen forces beyond its rusting metal walls. Beads of sweat dampened the padding of Ragna’s vacuum helmet. A strand of golden hair fell loose over her eye but she had no way to lift her sealed helmet to brush it away. Her hands tightened around the Cyclops controls.
The com buzzed and a guttural Sangheili voice snarled a single word in her ear: “Attack!”
Suddenly Ragna’s stomach was in her mouth as the cargo container surged on a crash-course into oblivion. Her eyes bulged in the darkness. Her hands shook on the throttle. Suddenly the darkness was torn away as if by a giant hand. The cargo container collapsed in pieces while Ragna and her Cyclops hurtled onwards.
Just like at the Jade Moon, Ragna had only moments to get her bearings. She tumbled through an immense metal cavern stretching out as far as the eye could see. Somehow the sheer size of this great harbor was even more intimidating than the vast darkness of space. Ragna shuddered. She was relieved to catch sight of the Soul Ascension. At least that alien vessel was something familiar. The Cyclops tilted and Ragna recognized the Bloodied Hand from the rushed briefing she’d heard huddled with the other pilots in their cramped ready room. With a thrill she saw that the Banished warship was listing heavily to port. Smoke leaked from impact points across the ship like blood seeping from some wounded oceanic behemoth. Whatever the Kru’desh first strike had been, it had done a number on the enemy ship.
Ragna’s training took over and swept away any questions she might have had about what might have transpired while she was trapped in the cargo cube. She flashed the repulsors welded to her Cyclops frame. The exo-frame accelerated in the low gravity. Dozens of lights, like twinkling stars in this eerie cavern, signaled the efforts of Ragna’s fellow Cyclops-jockeys. She hurtled on towards the dreadnought, alternating repulsor bursts for a controlled acceleration just like she’d trained.
The Kru’desh battlenet was still down, which meant Ragna had to eyeball her assault target. She angled towards the center of the ship. According to a briefing she now only dimly remembered, that was where she’d find the bridge. Ragna pressed her acceleration with one hand while running a weapons check with the other. Her autocannon was ready to fire. The cannon mounted to the Cyclops shoulder was functional but Ragna could already tell that its targeting system was unaligned. She cursed. Now she’d need to target it manually.
If she even got that chance. Bursts of heavy flak filled the air as what remained of the Banished point defense guns opened fire. The force of a distant impact shook the Cyclops and Ragna stifled a cry of fear. She fired the repulsors and sent herself into a spiraling tumble angling… up? Down? Forwards? In the low gravity any direction might orient any way. The thought was both terrifying and nauseating.
The dreadnaught loomed up ahead and filled Ragna’s cockpit. Forward. That was the only direction that mattered.
Another Cyclops drifted into view, its repulsors straining to push it forward onto the Banished hull. Just as it maneuvered to bring its feet level with the oncoming ship a burst of explosive fire raked its frame. The Cyclops blew past Ragna in pieces, a scorching hole where the cockpit and pilot had once been.
Ragna couldn’t tell who’d just died. A face she’d seen back in the briefing room—a comrade she’d spent the past six months training with, maybe even fought alongside at Archangel’s Rest—would be missing the next time she gathered with the other Cyclops-jockeys.
And there would be a next time. Ragna gritted her teeth and tumbled through the space where her fellow pilot had just died. Her blood was pumping now. Fear and adrenaline gave her the edge she needed to throw herself into the oncoming fire. No Banished space monkeys were going to pick off this Cyclops. Ragna was so committed to her advance that she nearly collided chassis-first with the Banished ship. She reoriented herself just in time, tucking her exoskeleton’s legs as if she were an air-jumper completing a para-descent. The shock of the impact rocked the Cyclops so hard that Ragna nearly choked on her mouth guard. For one terrible moment she began pushing away from the hull. Ragna nearly screamed in frustration. She hadn’t made it this far just to bounce back off! But then the magnetic clamps kicked in. The Cyclops clung to the side of the dreadnaught like a climber astride a cliff face.
Ragna’s hands shook against her throttles. She took a deep breath and tried to filter out the chaos unfolding around her. She tried to forget that she was sealed inside a combat exoskeleton far outside its intended operations parameters. She tried to forget that she was a speck attached to an enemy ship bristling with gunpoints and full of bloodthirsty warriors. All she thought about was pulling the Cyclops’s feet up, abandoning her vertigo, and reorienting into a standing position. She took another breath.
And then she began to run.
The Cyclops’s feet struck ponderous blows against the dreadnaught’s hull. Ragna’s mind re-oriented until the great red wall became a rough plain. Adrenaline sent her imagination swirling. Suddenly she was back in the snowy wastes of Archangel’s Rest, pounding through snowdrifts and running down enemy patrols. Even the strain of magnetized footwork in low-g wasn’t dissimilar to fighting through heavy snow.
Repulsor jets burned around her. More Cyclopes made landfall on the damaged hull. Some immediately set to work blasting at gunpoints with their shoulder-mounted cannons or affixing oversized detonation charges to the hull. Others vanished inside the gaping holes gouged in the dreadnaught’s hull while others still joined Ragna in charging topside. Phantom dropships circled like vultures over the crippled dreadnaught, pouring down plasma fire with their heavy cannons. Flights of Seraphs, Banshees, and Nandao strike fighters swarmed over the Bloodied Hand. The full fury of the Kru’desh Legion was unleashed upon the Banished.
A line of blurry figures appeared on the hull in front of Ragna. A Banished repair crew sent on a futile mission to secure the hull stood in her way. She halted her charge and drew a bead on their leader, a Jiralhanae in a bulky EVA suit. The autocannon fired one and the Banished warrior disappeared from sight. His Unggoy peons scattered in terror but sharp red energy beams lashed out over the panicking minions’ heads. Two Kig-Yar rangers held the line valiantly against the looming Cyclops. A moment later they were dead. A wave of autocannon fire knocked the spindly sharpshooters aside like broken dolls. Another Cyclops bounded up alongside Ragna’s and initiated a short-wave transmission.
“That you, Sergeant Aasen?” a man’s voice rasped over the com. “I’d recognize that red decal anywhere.”
“We all have red decals,” Ragna snapped back. “Good to see you, Lieutenant Ansbach.”
“As if I’d ever mistake you,” the old hand laughed. “No one moves a Cyclops like you, Aasen. Now, fall in with me. We’re hitting the bridge.”
“You have any idea what’s going on here?”
“Not a clue. All I know is that we’ve got an enemy bridge not half a klick from our position, and between the two of us we’ve got enough firepower to level a city block. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, sergeant, so stop wasting time and move up!”
“Yes, sir!”
They cleared the last leg of the assault with bounding maneuvers, firing repulsors to propel their Cyclopes into the air and then pulling a controlled descent in the low-g. Ragna glimpsed Kru’desh forces on the move everywhere. Dropships swerved into gaping hangars while alien boarding craft affixed themselves to the dreadnaught’s hull like ticks on a hog. The Soul Ascension was free of her restraints now. She drifted alongside the dreadnaught, shields deflecting the kinetic fire the Banished threw her way. Ragna felt a surge of pride to be part of this assault.
Maybe this was the future Mohsin kept blathering about.
The Bloodied Hands’ command bridge was the eye of the hurricane, a strange oasis of calm amidst the storm of bullets and plasma. Ragna and Ansbach’s Cyclopes bounded forward unopposed. As they drew near Ragna could make out thick-set Jiralhanae rushing to and fro behind armored-plate glass. The Banished bridge team were so caught up in trying to direct the defense of their ship that they didn’t notice the enemy boarders right outside their window.
“Do the honors, sergeant,” Ansbach said. “Breach, then cover me.”
“Yes, sir!” Ragna was already firing. Her shoulder-cannon hammered a hole clean through the bridge viewport. Ansbach’s Cyclops bounded towards the puncture and slammed through the compromised plating like a cannon ball. Ragna hurried in behind him as blast shielding slammed down over the breach. She scrambled inside, narrowly avoiding being cut in half by the metal plating.
She found herself on a cavernous bridge full of machines that pulsed with foreboding red lights. It looked more like an engine room than a command center. Ansbach’s autocannon turned one Banished into red mist even as he pinned another to the deck with a kick from his metal leg. Shaggy bodies splayed out over the command platform, victims of Ragna’s first salvo. The rest of the Jiralhanae scrambled to take up defensive positions at the far end of the chamber. A security team of frantic Kig-Yar and Jiralhanae scurried in through a wide door. Plasma fire hissed through the air and scored light scorches in the exoskeletons’ armor.
Ragna and Ansbach were outnumbered ten to one. In the Cyclopes, it didn’t matter.
Sixty seconds later Ragna maneuvered carefully over a command platform littered with bodies. One of her feet came down on a dead Brute’s torso and she shuddered at the feeling of faint resistance as the metal boot crushed the body to a pulp. Ansbach’s Cyclops held a position covering the bridge entrance. The autocannon on his right arm swept the room in search of any survivors. A scorched stump was all that was left of the left arm after a plasma grenade had melted through his armor. The lieutenant was lucky. If the grenade’s arc had carried it just a half meter to the right it would have fried the cockpit and the pilot with it.One of her 
“What now?” Ragna asked. She glanced towards the sealed bridge viewport. “How do we get back out there?”
“Back out there?” Ansbach laughed. “Cool your servos, sergeant. Let everyone else notch their suits. We just took the bridge. Now we dig in and hold it.”
Outside the Kru’desh assault raged on. Ragna looked around at the Banished she’d killed. The tri-digit knuckles on her Cyclops’s hand were slick with blood. A strange feeling of revulsion turned her stomach. She’d ended these lives, tossing bodies around the bridge like a child smashing dolls. She took the unfamiliar guilt and stuffed it down into a box deep inside her mind. The Banished had tried to kill her. Now they were dead and she was still alive. That’s what matterd.
“Yes, sir,” Ragna grated. She took up a firing position at the far end of the bridge. No Banished teams had arrived to reinforce the command center. Ragna doubted any would. The battle—her battle, anyway—was as good as over.
Ragna tightened her grip on the control throttles and tried to quiet her raging emotions. Another victory. Another battle survived. Until the next one. On and on the Kru’desh Legion raged, fighting towards a goal Ragna wasn’t entirely sure she understood anymore. For the first time since falling into Redmond Venter’s long shadow—and now, the shadow of his son—Ragna Aasen started to wonder if the fighting would ever end.
***
Thomas Koepke huddled in the cramped docking tube. This alien boarding craft sported nothing in the way of restraint harnesses or even seats. Thomas and his fellow legionaries knelt on the smooth floor of a dark cylinder lit only by pale strobes that flickered and hummed overhead like ghostly lights. The boarding craft shuddered. Thomas gripped his rifle against the thick padding on his vac-armor. His stomach lurched at each dip and turn. This craft seemed custom-made to torture the hapless boarding party trapped in its alien stomach. The team was trapped, crammed into a tight box like the fist-sized bugs Thomas helped clear out of plasma vents on the Soul Ascension. The thought of a burst of Banished point defense fire tearing this boarding craft apart made Thomas want to scream. He didn’t know how the three Sangheili could stand so confidently at the head of the boarding detachment.
Back on the Soul Ascension some of Thomas’s teammates had grumbled at being ordered around by imperious Sangheili officers. No one was grumbling now. The sight of the Sangheili standing with weapons proudly at the ready was the only thing keeping the legionaries from panicking and tearing each other apart in this death trap.
The warrior at the fore brandished a plasma rifle. His red armor gleamed in the faint light. “Warriors, prepare for battle!”
Thomas stifled a wave of nausea. Getting sick inside his sealed suit might be even worse than taking a plasma round. At least the plasma round would kill him. He wondered why he had ever thought he might make it on the front lines. Only the thought of Karina held him together.
Another shudder, more powerful than the last, rocked the boarding vessel. The red-armored Sangheili craned his serpentine neck to address his fellow warriors, growling in a voice so low that Thomas’s translation device strained to pick it up over the thrum of plasma engines. “Protect the humans. We have shields and they do not.”
Thomas was astonished. The order came so naturally from this towering alien. Thomas assumed the Sangheili resented the human legionaries, yet this one truly meant what he said. The warrior’s quiet assurance filled Thomas with a strange confidence. He readied his rifle and rose to an uncomfortable squat as a final shudder coursed through the boarding tube. Each Sangheili drew a plasma rifle with their right hand while activating large, wrist-mounted energy shields with their left.
“Ready grenades!” the red-armored leader barked. “Throw on my signal!” Two men pushed past Thomas, blue spheres held gingerly in armored gloves. A deadly silence fell over the cramped tube like a collective intake of breath. Thomas clenched his teeth so tightly that his jaw ached.
Blinding light consumed the boarding tube. Where a sheet of smooth metal had stood moments before now lay a jagged metal corridor. At a cry from the Sangheili the men beside Thomas lobbed their grenades out into the breach. The orbs of burning plasma hissed and spat like angry insects. A moment later they detonated, filling the Banished corridor with blue fire. Thomas heard cries of inhuman surprise and pain echoing across metal walls.
The Sangheili didn’t hesitate. They leaped from the boarding tube with guttural war cries, brandishing plasma rifles and their wrist-shields. The human legionaries followed and Thomas was caught up in the rush. A dozen bodies scrambled out of the boarding craft and onto the unfamiliar metal of yet another alien ship.
Plasma and bullets turned the air into a deadly crossfire. The scene unfolded before Thomas’s eyes faster than his brain could process what was happening. The legionaries were in a dimly-lit corridor full of harshly-cut metal plates and grated floors. Charred and burned bodies lay in the corridor around the entry point. Shadowy figures moved further down the hall, Banished crew racing to drive off the boarders. One badly wounded Jiralhanae tried to crawl away. The red-armored Sangheili kicked the ape-like soldier in the head and snapped his neck with a horrible crunching noise.
That was all Thomas saw before the Banished were on top of them. Kig-Yar and Unggoy scrambled towards the legionaries like a frenzied mob. The Sangheili barked an order Thomas couldn’t understand. The three warriors formed a tight phalanx, interlocking their wrist shields and blasting away Banished with their plasma rifles. The human legionaries thrust their rifles out around the wrist shields. Two men dropped prone, firing out between the Sangheili’s legs. Bullets and plasma tore through flesh. The oncoming aliens writhed and screamed. The cacophony of ugly noises made Thomas want to throw up.
Instead he braced his rifle, assuming as good a firing position as his bulky vac-suit allowed. The Banished attackers, hapless crew and ship techs, died quickly but more were already rushing up to take their place. These were more organized, Kig-Yar flashing their own wrist-shields while Unggoy waddled in from behind. The dark, hulking shapes of distant Jiralhanae loomed up behind the enemy phalanx. Enemy fire pounded the Sangheili shields.
Thomas fired low, trying to shoot under the Kig-Yar shields. His weapon thumped once, twice—and then stopped. Thomas looked down in horror to find a spent shell casing wedged in the VK’s ejection port. An extraction failure, now, of all times? He fumbled to clear the malfunction. Too late.
The Banished and Kru’desh lines clashed like a line of ancient hoplites. The Sangheili easily threw down the Kig-Yar shields but now the Banished rushed up on them like wild animals, more afraid of the Jiralhanae at their rear than of the Kru’desh at their front. The corridor became the site of a chaotic brawl. One of the Sangheili collapsed, dragged down by four screaming Unggoy. A Kig-Yar rushed through the gap in the line. The birdlike alien brandished an energy cutlass, its toothy beak splayed open in a horrifying snarl. Its beady eyes landed on Thomas and it rushed at him, thrusting the cutlass at his chest.
Thomas fell to the deck, narrowly avoiding the impaling thrust. He swung his rifle up at the Kig-Yar’s face and smashed that toothy beak. Gunfire perforated the reckless alien. Thomas couldn’t see anything anymore. The deck was a mass of booted feet and corpses. Crawling along the grated deck Thomas realized he couldn’t breathe inside his own helmet. Panic overwhelmed him. Hull breach. It’s a hull breach! 
But the rest of the legionaries fought on as if nothing were happening. Thomas was just out of breath. He ejected the malfunctioning magazine and fumbled to reload his inert rifle. In a fog of fear and adrenaline he started to rise, realized the stupidity of such a move, and dropped back down just as plasma hissed through the spot where his head would have been. He dragged the VK back into a firing position and shot at the silhouette of a Jiralhanae at the far end of the corridor. The weapon snapped against his shoulder. The dark alien figure vanished. More shadowy figures rushed in to take its place. Thomas lined up his next shot.
“No! No shooting!” The red-armored Sangheili threw himself into the line of fire. His armor was covered in soot and blood. “Hold your fire!”
In an instant—as if someone had flipped a switch—the shooting stopped. Thomas lowered his rifle and stared in exhausted disbelief. The smoke parted, not to reveal more Banished but instead to unveil the sight of humans and Sangheili in padded vac-gear. Another Kru’desh team had rushed in from behind to cut off the Banished defenders.
Broken bodies littered the floor. Thomas shuddered when he realized that nearly half of the dead were human. The Kru’desh had taken a beating. No, wait. Only three bodies wore vac-suits. The other humans wore motley uniforms of patched fatigues and scavenged plate armor. One of the men lying near Thomas clutched a Spiker rifle in his stiffening hands. These dead men were Banished troops. Thomas hadn’t even noticed the humans in the Banished ranks.
Now Thomas really was sick. He unsealed his helmet and vented his guts against the nearest bulkhead.
“Put that helmet back on!” someone yelled. “The air’s not clear!”
Thomas spat more bile onto the deck. He tried to avoid messing the corpses. It felt wrong to spit on the dead, even Banished dead. He dutifully resealed the helmet, but a gulp of stale, copper-tinged air told him that despite all the shooting and grenades and forced entries, the ship hadn’t suffered any major breaches. As he looked over the Kru’desh dead he realized with a pang of shame that he probably didn’t know the dead legionaries’ names. He hadn’t been with this squad long enough to learn them.
One of the Sangheili—the one who’d been dogpiled by Unggoy—sat against a bulkhead. The warrior breathed heavily and nursed a mangled arm. The red-armored boarding leader set aside all pretenses of stoic command presence and let out a roar of triumph. “Well fought, all of you!” he bellowed, vaunting over the Banished dead. “These vermin never stood a chance!”
The Kru’desh boarders hurried to set up firing positions along the captured corridor. Thomas dragged himself back into the boarding tube to help haul energy shield platforms into defensive positions across the deck. An eerie quiet hung over the corridor. No Banished counter-attack came. Thomas couldn’t even hear the sounds of fighting elsewhere. Was the battle already over?
“Your first blood, human?”
Thomas started. The red-armored commander stood over him. The alien’s slit-pupils narrowed in what might be an expression of happiness or reproach.
“I’ve fought before,” Thomas said quickly. “Uh, sir.”
“But not killed before?” The warrior prodded one of the Banished dead with his cloven boot. “I know the look. Human, Sangheili—some things transcend species. You fought well, human. Remember this feeling. There will be more to come.”
He strode off to take charge of another section. Thomas turned back to his work. He wondered if the Sangheili had mistaken him for someone else. He couldn’t be talking about the same feeling as the cold sickness that gripped Thomas’s heart as he picked his way over the corpse-strewn deck.
But he was alive. He might just see Karina again. That feeling—hope—was something worth remembering.
***
Argo ‘Varvin had—to his great relief—talked his way out of leading any of the boarding parties. Rank and position had their privileges, and one of those privileges was not to risk one’s life every time battle was joined. Most of Argo’s fellow Sangheili despised such a nuanced conception of leadership. They were, of course, welcome to their opinions. For his part, he felt that he was doing his more battle-happy brethren a favor. Let them rush into battle to seize glory in blood and danger. On this ship, far from the keeps and high society of civilized Sangheili society, that amounted to little more than bragging rights in the Soul Ascension barracks rooms. Argo was far more interested in the more tangible benefits that could be reaped without risking one’s neck in a dangerous boarding action. His service to Simon Venter and the Kru’desh enriched him daily. Argo was determined to be around to enjoy those riches once that service came to an end.
From where he stood at the edge of the Soul Ascension’s bridge, Argo wondered if the Sangheili society that so prized war stories of blood and daring even existed back on Sanghelios and her colonies. Between Created dominion and the Banished warmongering was there any way back to the old days, when all-powerful kaidons and their retainers gloated over past glories, fondling trophies like a helioskrill gnawing old bones? The good old days of feudal aristocracy where the lords of the great houses hoarded power while their faithful subjects labored in poverty and ignorance, where a lord was a lord and peasant was a peasant no matter who they were or what they did—those had given way to this dark new age where wretched outcasts like Argo ‘Varvin and Simon Venter stood at the commanding heights once dominated by those well-pedigreed lords.
Good riddance, Argo thought.
Shouts of triumph shook Argo free of his musings. He looked up in time to see a holographic display of the Bloodied Hand flash, its pixelated decks darkening in rapid succession as the Kru’desh boarders secured the ship. The dreadnought listed as the Soul Ascension drew up alongside. Banshees and Pelicans and the rest of the Kru’desh pickets fell into holding patterns around the Banished ships as the last of its batteries fell silent. The humans and Sangheili on the bridge joined their voices in hoarse yells of excitement.
“Silence!” Urei ‘Caszal bellowed. The ship’s second paced atop the elevated command platform. “This is a warship, not a sporting arena. Show some discipline, you curs.”
Even Urei’s harsh correction could not dampen the bridge crew’s spirits. The Kru’desh officers turned back to their duties but a jubilant air still hung over the great chamber. Standing at a gunnery station nearby, the young cadet named Zoey Hunsinger stared up at the beaten dreadnought in amazement.
“That was fast,” she said. “We ran right over them.”
“The element of surprise is a marvelous thing, cadet,” Argo said. “Our commander is quite adept at wielding that particular weapon.”
“He always was a sneaky bastard,” Zoey said. Her voice carried a mixture of resentment and affection.
“Do not mistake this situation, cadet.” Urei ‘Caszal stormed down from the command platform. The second had arrived on the bridge in high spirits after the first crippling missile salvo but his mood had darkened as the assault played out. Urei struck Argo as the kind of person who was most happy when other people were unhappy and least happy when those around him were of good cheer. “Our boarding parties encountered only light resistance. My forward commander reports that most of our opponents were technicians, deck-slaves, and other bilge scum. They never expected an attack while we were trapped under their guns. The main body of this legion is elsewhere.”
Zoey’s eyes widened as she grasped the meaning of Urei’s words.
“You have to credit our commander,” Argo remarked. “He’s as adept at using himself as bait as he is anyone else.”
“That will do him no credit at all if he gets himself killed,” Urei growled. He grabbed the nearest deck officer—a dark haired human female—by the shoulder and dragged her to the center of the bridge. “You. Take charge of the boarding action. Direct our forward units to comb that ship deck by deck and room by room until every last pocket of Banished resistance is snuffed out. Secure any prisoners in their own brigs. Do not let your guard down. Even rats are dangerous when cornered.”
“Uh, yes sir,” the human stammered. She raised a hand in a clumsy attempt at a Sangheili-style salute. Urei was already striding purposefully away. The officer looked, wide-eyed, around the bridge, then composed herself and rushed to her newly assigned task with newfound gusto.
So there was some use to the old style Sangheili swagger after all. Urei oozed the aristocratic confidence Argo ought to despise, yet he used it in such a way that it instilled a sense of military purpose into even a gang of criminals and outcasts like the Kru’desh. A useful skill to have, not that Argo would tell Urei that.
“I can’t help but notice that you didn’t select me for that duty,” he said aloud.
“Of course not. You’re coming with me.” Urei strode off the bridge. “We must muster our reserves and strike the Banished deployed across this station. The commander’s stratagem delivered us the dreadnought. Now we make sure that he does not buy the ship with his life.”
“A costly trade,” Argo said as he fell into line behind Urei. Costly indeed, considering the investments you’ve made in Commander Venter’s future. Another sentiment left unsaid. For now Argo contented himself with simply following orders. Sometimes that was how you got ahead.
Zoey watched the two Sangheili depart. After only a moment’s hesitation she, too, made to scurry off the bridge. Argo caught the motion out of the corner of his eye. His mandibles curled in a smile. Urei was less amused. He thrust out an arm to stop the young human in her tracks.
“What are you doing, deserting your post in the middle of combat?”
Zoey scowled up at the towering Sangheili, more confused than intimidated. “I have to help Stray—the commander!”
“You must do nothing aside from remain at your post until you are ordered otherwise,” Urei said coolly. “You are lucky I turned you away here. Had you been successful I would have you scourged for desertion, no matter what our commander might say about it. I ought to order such a punishment simply for the attempt.”
The red-haired human paled at Urei’s words but held her ground. She obviously had a string of expletives she wanted to shout up at the ship’s second but she was wise enough to leave them unsaid.
Urei lowered his voice and Argo was surprised by the compassion he heard in the older warrior’s words. “There is nothing you can do to help our commander that is not already being done. If you are to serve on this vessel then you must learn to accept your own limitations. Return to your post, serve with honor, and know that I will smash any Banished that stand between us and our comrades.”
Zoey gulped, then nodded quickly and turned back to the bridge. Urei caught Argo’s look and returned it with an expression that said quite plainly that he wanted to hear nothing about what had just transpired. They both left the bridge and hurried to the nearest hangar where the Kru’desh reserve forces were already marshalling for the next assault. The specter of the Bloodied Hand loomed over the bridge, a crippled monster burning from the hunters' deep blows.
===Chapter Sixteen: Beholden===
When Althea’s system assault plunged the reception hall into darkness, everything seemed to happen at once. Cassandra had already slipped to the rear of the Kru’desh delegation when the chamber lights died. Her helmet’s light filters adjusted to the darkness in an instant and gave her a clear view of her surroundings even as the Banished shouted in dismay and confusion. She activated the photo-camouflage panels on her SPI armor and sprang away towards the nearest pillar. Like a lioness picking off the stragglers in a great herd, Cassandra had already spotted one Jiralhanae warrior standing apart from his brethren. She sprang on the loner with practiced ease, felling him with a savage blow before snapping his neck.
Another death on her conscience, another sin on her soul. The dead Jiralhanae had a knife and a revolver-like Mangler-pistol. Cassandra relieved him of both.
Two voices rose through the thin darkness. Chieftain Liedus’s tones held the harsh confidence of an experienced commander: “Hold your fire! Stand your ground!” The Banished commander knew full well the danger of setting his warriors loose in the darkened chamber. But the Vice-Minister of Conviviality had other ideas.
“Shoot them, shoot them!” the San ‘Shyuum screamed. “Kill Stray! Kill the elders! Kill them all!”
Their chieftain’s command should have held the Banished in check. But few Jiralhanae can hold in their bloodlust for long, not when prey stands just meters away. The Vice-Minister’s raving cut through any semblance of self-control the Banished held. A furious chorus of war cries swept through the reception hall and the air filled with a deadly fireworks display of plasma fusillades.
Cassandra leveled the Mangler at the nearest Kig-Yar. The avians’ eyes were adapted for dark environments and she knew from hard experience that most wore goggles to augment their vision even further. One sharp blast from the Mangler severed the Kig-Yar’s head from its wiry spine. A human Banished trooper fumbled with some kind of night vision contraption nearby. Cassandra killed her as well.
Althea’s attack had caught everyone by surprise but now the rest of the Kru’desh sprang into action. Merlin, Andra and Saul rushed a nearby pillar and laid into the Banished with a flurry of unarmed attacks that quickly became armed ones as they helped themselves to weapons dropped by the warriors beaten down under their armored assault. Kelo ‘Demal and his Sangheili raced into a protective phalanx around Simon and tried to herd their commander to cover by the pillar now littered with the Delta Spartans’ kills. Mohsin stumbled after them like a blind man. The captain had no helmet or any other device that might help him see in the dark. Another moment and he’d be cut down by a stray plasma bolt. The Banished were firing wildly but eventually their eyes would adapt to the darkness and they’d start hitting their marks.
Cassandra sprang from cover. She raced across the thick carpeting. The lush reception hall was now a deadly kill zone. She grabbed Mohsin around the waist, pinning his arm as he lashed out at her in panic. “It’s Cassandra,’ she hissed in his ear, calming the frenzied man enough for her to drag him over to the Kru’desh phalanx. She plucked a fluted plasma rifle from the floor and thrust it into Mohsin’s hands. “Stick to cover and keep your head down.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Mohsin gasped.
Panicked San ‘Shyuum sped their gravity thrones through the darkness in a desperate search for cover. The Prime Minister and the rest of his council of elders huddled behind emergency shields deployed from their own platforms. Apparently those ornate thrones weren’t merely for show. Despite Conviviality’s vengeful shrieking the Banished directed their fire away from the Chorus of Builders. Evidently they weren’t entirely clear which San ‘Shyuum were part of Conviviality’s conspiracy and which they were supposed to be purging. Liedus had enough control over his warriors to keep them from slaughtering their employers—whoever those might be. A few San ‘Shyuum were still unlucky enough to be caught in the crossfire. Their corpses slumped in their thrones, which drifted weakly overhead and bounced off pillars like abandoned balloons.
The Vice-Minister of Conviviality was certainly getting his big party.
Chieftain Leidus’s booming command voice roared over the din of combat: “Illumination!” At once Banished warriors began triggering flares, and throwing them wherever they thought the Kru’desh might take up positions. Whatever element of surprise Simon had gained through his stunt was quickly slipping away. As soon as the Banished troops reorganized they would overwhelm their enemies through sheer force of numbers.
Cassandra glanced at the main body of Kru’desh Sangheili. Some had retrieved weapons from fallen Banished troops but many more were still unarmed. These warriors shielded their commander as best they could. Their energy shields flared and popped as plasma fire rained down on their position. Simon himself knelt amidst the carnage, calmly directing fire back at the Banished forces. Cassandra’s hand tightened around her stolen knife. 
Simon, Simon, Simon. Always Simon. No matter how high he rose, how much power he wielded, how much he seemed to change, he was still the same bundle of reckless ambition and hidden insecurities she’d known all these years. He couldn’t help himself. It practically amounted to self-sabotage. Now he’d knowingly marched them all into an ambush without so much as a briefing, confident that—what? That a few Spartans and a dozen Sangheili could take on hundreds of bloodthirsty Banished? After everything he’d said back aboard the Soul Ascension she’d dared to believe things might be different. Now she was probably going to die, finally snared in one of his mad schemes.
 
Sometimes, Cassandra thought grimly. I don’t know why I bother at all. She raised the Mangler and picked off three advancing Jiralhanae. With the last of the weapon’s cylinder emptied, she cast it aside and scrambled to find another weapon.
Something large struck the ground between Cassandra and Mohsin with a sickening plop. They looked down to find the writhing remains of a Lekgolo worm hissing in a puddle of orange blood. More worms plummeted from above. Cassandra glanced up: the worms were burrowing out of the very walls, steaming and twitching from the electrical discharges that were killing them. Althea hadn’t just targeted the Soaring Chorus’s systems. She’d targeted the Administrator network of worms that kept the station running. Across the chamber the hulking Administrator combat platforms twisted and convulsed as the feedback from the worm network drove its central intelligence into paroxysm of agony. Cassandra wondered what the attack on this chamber was doing to systems across this massive station.
Administrator’s agony wasn’t enough to stop backup lights from clicking on across the reception hall. Roars of triumph from the Banished marked the surge in the mercenaries’ spirits. They knew victory was only a matter of time.
A few meters from where Cassandra and Mohsin’s position, Merlin tossed aside a spent plasma rifle and wrestled a Needler off the corpse of a dead Unggoy. He sprayed the Banished with a fusillade of pink needles. “Any more tricks up your sleeve?” he asked Althea. “Or is that another one of Simon’s plans you don’t feel like sharing?” His voice was harsher than he intended, but right now Merlin wasn’t in the mood for empathy. After everything they’d lived through, he and Andra were probably going to die here in this hall.
“I didn’t have a choice!” the AI protested. “He said he’d kill you if I leaked anything!”
That was news to Merlin, yet somehow it didn’t surprise him. He vented his anger by killing one Banished after another. The ornate reception hall was strewn with corpses yet the Banished just kept on coming.
“Whenever you two lovebirds kiss and make up, feel free to let me know!” Andra knelt nearby, a stolen beam rifle pressed to her shoulder. The Kig-Yar she’d stolen it from lay dead nearby, her head dashed against a pillar. “I’d hate to interrupt!” She drew a bead on a Jiralhanae warrior in bright armor. A thin purple beam bisected the officer’s head. Andra changed positions before the Banished could get a fix on her position and began scanning the enemy ranks for anyone who looked like they might be in charge. The only thing standing between them and a grisly death was to keep the Banished as disorganized and off-balance as possible. As long as the battle-hungry Jiralhanae fought as individuals rather than a unit the Kru’desh might just stand a chance.
But Chieftain Leidus was no fool. The temporary darkness had thrown his warriors into chaos and he knew better than to try calming an entire mob of angry and confused Banished. Instead he gathered his best pack of Jiralhanae behind the pillars and out of the Kru’desh line of fire. As long as his Kig-Yar, Unggoy, and human troops served as plasma fodder he had the chance to rally enough troops to break the Kru’desh and end this costly affair. Yet just as he prepared his men for the charge a flood of distress calls from the Bloodied Hand drowned his coms receiver. The chieftain drew back, confused. A twinge of fear raised the hair on his shaggy pelt. Only now did the error of diverting his best troops from their mothership begin to dawn on him.
Oblivious to the disaster playing out back in the repair docks, the Vice-Minister of Conviviality elevated his great throne over the carnage. The immense San ‘Shyuum—safe behind the energy shields his own throne generated around him—peered greedily down at the chaos. Several of Simon’s Sangheili guards were dead and the protective phalanx drew back deeper into cover. Stray’s little gang had put up a greater fight than expected, true, but in a few more moments the sheer weight of the Banished firepower would whittle them down to nothing. The former Grand Architect’s revenge was at hand.
Saul-D313 read the situation all too well. He raised a pair of scavenged plasma rifles and waved to Andra and Merlin. “Come on, you two! With me!” Without even waiting for a confirmation he was off, pounding across the torn and bloodied carpet and laying down heavy fire with his plasma rifles.
The abrupt charge was the first show of real initiative Saul had shown since the Kru’desh dragged him from his holding cell on the Jade Moon. Instinct overcame surprise as Andra and Merlin joined Saul in his race across the reception hall. The Spartans’ attack carried them straight into the thickest of the Banished positions. The mercenaries’ ranks swiftly thinned at the sight of the oncoming Spartans. Half the Banished fled rather than face the armored assault head-on. The other half, more hardened killers than the rest, stood their ground. Saul’s plasma burned through the Banished ranks, shielding his attack until he was in the thick of his enemies. He lashed out wildly as his plasma rifles overheated, bludgeoning the foe as if they were white-hot tonfas. Andra and Merlin arrived moments later. The rest of the Banished broke and scurried away like panicking rats. The Spartans gunned them down from behind without mercy.
Merlin stooped to wrench more weapons from the dead. The sight of human bodies lying alongside the aliens pierced his fog of pounding adrenaline. Merlin shuddered, a moment of weakness that would have shamed his ONI drill instructors. There were so many humans in the Banished ranks. Too many humans. Not for the first time since the galaxy turned upside down, Merlin wondered just how much more of this savagery he could take.
A chorus of Sangheili war-cries rose over the sounds of battle. Saul’s attack had the Banished on the backfoot once more and Simon wasn’t about to let that opportunity go to waste. Major Kelo and his warriors mounted a charge of their own, breaking from cover to overrun another Banished contingent as they tried to regroup. Once the enemy was killed or scattered they took up a new position around one of the great pillars.
More howls pierced the air, these ones from the Jiralhanae. Leidus mounted the attack with a fury born of desperation. Only now did he realize just how thoroughly he’d been had. Playing along with his client’s theatrics had delivered his ship into the power of the Kru’desh. The simple entrapment of a crippled ship and her foolish commander had become a shameful defeat that would disgrace Leidus forever in the eyes of the Banished. All he could do now was kill the human who had brought him so low, no matter what the cost.
The Jiralhanae charged across the reception hall. They paid no heed to the enemy fire that raged against them or even to the other Banished who now scrambled to escape their own masters. The lesser creatures who failed to move quickly enough were swatted aside or simply trampled down. Leidus himself moved in the center of his formation, gravity hammer held aloft as he yelled out encouragement to his warriors. They would take Simon’s head or die trying.
Rather than face the Jiralhanae, the remaining Sangheili broke and scattered. Guttural roars of triumph erupted from the Jiralhanae as they ran down their broken foes. Andra swore bitterly. It was over. This was the end.
A thunderous explosion shook the reception hall. The base of the pillar where the Kru’desh had stood moments before erupted as a dozen grenades and other salvaged explosives detonated. The shooting stopped. A terrible quiet filled the chamber. All eyes—Kru’desh, Banished, and San ‘Shyuum alike—stared up at the pillar as it strained against its own weight. Then, with a terrible cracking sound, it toppled down into the center of the chamber—directly on top of Leidus’s Jiralhanae.
“Cover!” Merlin yelled. He instinctively turned to shield his fellow Spartans. “Take cover!”
The pillar’s fall rocked the chamber harder than any explosion. The Spartans felt the force of its impact even through their shields and armor. Dust and rubble filled the air alongside the cries of crushed and wounded Banished. San ‘Shyuum peered out from whatever corners and alcoves they’d found to hide in, aghast at the sight of the grand reception hall reduced a battlefield of rubble and corpses.
Merlin pulled himself upright. His head rang inside his helmet. Andra and Saul were nowhere to be seen. Banished soldiers stumbled into view, dragging themselves away from the pillar that had crushed so many of their comrades. Concentrated fire from the Kru’desh dropped one warrior after another. A thin line of Sangheili marched out of the smoke, ruthlessly finishing off the dazed and wounded Banished. Simon Venter skulked in their wake with that limping gait of his. Merlin finally caught sight of Andra. His friend had used the chaos of the pillar’s fall to slip around the reception hall. Now she picked her way over the quieted battlefield with a plasma carbine in hand, moving to link up with the Kru’desh survivors. Merlin gritted his teeth and rushed out to join her.
Just as Merlin drew near to Andra, several things happened at once. A lance of red light, fired from a Kig-Yar shooter more daring than her cowering comrades, pierced the air. Althea shouted a warning—too late to do any good. Pain blinded Merlin as the shot punched through his shields and pierced his chestplate. His legs suddenly couldn’t hold his weight and he toppled, mouth agape behind his helmet in a mute cry of surprise.
At that same instant a dark figure burst free from the fallen pillar. Chieftain Leidus’s armor was cracked and askew. His helmet had been torn from his head and he bled from a dozen wounds. Without so much as a whimper of pain he charged the Kru’desh warriors. A single blow from his hammer killed three Sangheili and sent the survivors scattering. With a shivering roar of fury Leidus slammed his hammer down hard enough to shatter the reinforced deck plating beneath the ornate carpeting. Simon Venter’s helmet flew across the chamber and embedded itself in the rubble. Its owner sprawled on the carpeted floor, pale and gaping in terrified surprise. His leg was broken.
Leidus ignored everything else in the chamber. He strode towards his prey, hammer held aloft. The chieftain’s eyes burned with concentrated rage. Simon stared up in shock at his own approaching doom. His warriors were dead or scattered. He couldn’t even rise from the ground, much less put up a fight. He had no more tricks up his sleeve, no more clever ploys to reverse this dreadful moment as he’d done so many times in his past. He looked around for something, anything that might save him. His eyes fell on Andra.
Fresh from putting a carbine bolt through the sniper who’d dropped Merlin, she turned to face this new threat. Her hands tightened around her weapon. Faceless behind her helmet, she surveyed the unfolding scene and the choices spread out before her. A choice she’d yearned for all these months cooped up on /Soul Ascension/, mired in doubt and confusion. A choice she’d feared. And now, in this moment, even with Merlin struggling feebly on the ground with a hole burned through his chest, a thrill of relief coursed through Andra’s armored body. Relief because, in the end, this choice was no choice at all.
Andra left Simon where he lay. She hurried to Merlin’s side just in time to gun down one of the Jiralhanae prowling towards her wounded friend. Andra grabbed Merlin by his armor’s collar and dragged him to safety.
Simon’s face betrayed no emotion. He turned back to Leidus. The chieftain towered over him, gravity hammer raised to deliver the fatal blow. A growl of pained triumph escaped Leidus’s blood-stained lips. But the blow never fell. A lance of red energy struck Leidus in the leg. Mohsin Shah sheltered behind one of the remaining pillars and raised a scavenged Stalker rifle. The captain fumbled with the unfamiliar weapon and fired a second shot that pierced Leidus through his arm.
The chieftain fell to one knee with a snarl. He reached towards Simon with a massive clawed hand as if to wring his enemy’s neck. But then a blur of armor crashed into the chieftain and threw him back onto the scorched and bloodied carpet. Cassandra drove her knife into Leidus’s shoulder, severing his tendons and sending the arm he’d raised to defend himself falling limply to the floor. She kicked her foe down and then, with an air of grim finality, slit Leidus’s throat from ear to ear. With a final despairing gurgle the Banished chieftain joined the dead warriors littering the shattered reception hall.
In the grim silence that followed, Simon struggled to his feet. He grunted in pain as he put weight on his broken leg. Across the reception hall, Banished warriors threw down their weapons and raised their hands, claws, and other appendages in surrender.
“Cowards!” The Vice-Minister of Conviviality’s shrill voice cut through the silence like a screaming wind. “You outnumber them, fools! If you don’t kill Stray, I will!”
The Vice-Minister’s gravity throne tore through the curtain of smoke and dust. Conviviality’s pudgy face bulged with seething hatred. He bore down on Simon, crashing into the injured commander before lifting him bodily off the floor. The immense San ‘Shyuum was far stronger than he looked. He wrapped his hands around Simon’s neck, red-veined eyes bulging in his socket. Years of sustained hatred drove him forward. The only purpose left in his life was to kill the enemy who had now ruined him twice over. Only when he saw the cold purpose in Simon’s eyes did some semblance of self-preservation return to the San ‘Shyuum’s mind. Too late he realized that he’d dragged an augmented human inside his own protective shields.
“Wait…” The Vice-Minister recoiled. Fear replaced the hate in his eyes as he tried to cast Simon aside. “Please…”
Simon reached up and snapped the Vice-Minister of Conviviality’s neck. The disgraced San ‘Shyuum slumped in his throne, which listed and crashed back down amidst the carnage. Simon cried out as he landed on his injured leg but still managed to roll free to avoid being crushed by the immense throne. He dragged himself to his feet, panting and pale-faced but alive, as the air quieted around him.
The Prime Minister disengaged from the protective shield covering him and his council. The aged San ‘Shyuum angled his throne and stared down coolly at Conviviality’s twitching corpse. “Good riddance,” the Prime Minister sniffed. “A blot on the gene pool. Scribe! Make a note. We must ensure that none of this fool’s progeny stains our Chorus any further. A genetic purge will be in order.
San ‘Shyuum politics were never kind to losers. Any concubines, progeny, or material wealth Conviviality had retained would no doubt be redistributed among the Chorus elite. Redistributed, or worse. Simon looked down at Conviviality’s bloated corpse. Pain and fear had stripped him of that air of cool triumph. Now as he stared at his dead enemy an odd look of pity flashed across his pale features.
Kelo ‘Demal stepped clear of the smoke. The Kru’desh major’s armor was scorched but he was otherwise unharmed. Half of the warriors in his contingent weren’t so lucky. Their bodies lay alongside the Banished dead, scattered across the demolished reception hall like a child’s discarded toys. The survivors assumed a loose formation around Simon, weapons trained on the surrendering Banished. Saul emerged from the rubble to join them. Cassandra and Mohsin stepped up a moment later to add their own weapons to the cordon. Andra knelt beside Merlin and clasped his hand. Her quick injection of biofoam had saved her injured friend, who now breathed easier beneath her care.
“You and your legion have my apologies for this unseemly affair, commander,” the Prime Minister said. He shook his head remorsefully, though his eyes were as sharp and cold as ever. “However, I must now ask you to leave. With all respect due to your position, I fear you are no longer welcome as a client for the Chorus of Builders.”
Simon tore his gaze away from Conviviality’s body. In a moment all pity drained from his face, which instead took on his old look of cool assuredness even as he hobbled painfully back to the chamber’s center. “I beg to differ, Prime Minister,” he said coldly. “We were interrupted. We still have business to discuss. I have a ship that needs repairing. Two ships now, actually. And since your security team isn’t up to the task anymore, my legion will happily guard your Chorus while you see to our contract.”
The whine of plasma weapons priming made even the Prime Minister flinch. His beady eyes narrowed, a bitter smile slowly stretching across his corpse-like features. Across the chamber the grand doors slid open to admit over a hundred Kru’desh, who swarmed into the hall as if summoned by their commander’s words.
===Chapter Seventeen: The Shape of Things to Come===
Victory was exhausting.
One week after the “Dueling Chorus”—as many Kru’desh already called it—Urei ‘Caszal stood atop the Soul Ascension’s command platform. With Commander Venter out on yet another “social call” (his way of describing various threats made to the Soaring Chorus parasites) Urei once again held the bridge. He felt as if he’d done nothing but work since the initial thrill of victory. Banished holdouts aboard the Bloodied Hand had taken two standard days to completely root out and destroy. One desperate gang of Banished had even come close to detonating the captured ship’s reactor before Kru’desh kill teams reached them. Then there had been repairs to organize and security details to arrange, not to mention that unpleasant business with the Banished prisoners.
A hard week’s work. Not that he’d admit it in front of the legionaries or even his fellow officers, but Urei wondered if he wasn’t due a bit of leisure. But rest and relaxation were hard to come by on this outlaw vessel in far flung space. All Urei could do was rally his weary soul and press on with the duties at hand.
“You have been selected for a prestigious task,” he boomed out to the officers assembled below the command platform. The exertion of projecting his own voice chased away the worst of his weariness. “This is a historic moment for our legion, the day when the Kru’desh lays claim to not one great warship, but two.”
He gestured at a projection of the Bloodied Hand. The captured dreadnought was confined in a dry-dock beneath the Soul Ascension. The damage inflicted during the ambush and boarding assault were not nearly as grievous as the Ascension’s own wounds and now the Chorus of Builders were hard at work repairing both vessels. “You have been chosen to be the first command team for our new vessel. She is your new home. Learn her systems, her capabilities, her inner workings. Every ship has a soul. Know that soul and your ship will crush your enemies before you.”
The “chosen” officers—a motley gaggle of Sangheili and humans—stared blankly up at Urei. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered with rhetorical flourishes. The Kru’desh were hard-bitten fighters with hardly a poetic notion between them. Maybe someday he would find himself back in some semblance of civilization with more cultured company. In truth, these officers were mostly drawn from the most junior of the legion’s burgeoning ship crews. Jiralhanae warships were blunt instruments, painfully easy to operate and maneuver. They made human vessels look practically subtle by comparison. The legion’s newest addition was the perfect training ground for any officers who might one day be entrusted with the Soul Ascension’s far more intricate systems.
Four Huragok floated demurely alongside the newly assigned command crew. These creatures had volunteered to “colonize” the captured dreadnought, or at least that was what Urei was told Yearns to Soar’s tentacle signs meant. Urei could hardly believe the number of Huragok multiplying through the Soul Ascension’s lower decks. His remark about a vessel’s soul was more than mere flamboyance. This ship pulsed with life far beyond the data readings and specifications conducted here on the bridge. The Ascension teemed with a life and secrets of its own.
Urei thought of adding a few last words of encouragement but decided against it. Instead he just waved dismissively. “That is all. Try not to make a mess of things over there. At least, not more of a mess than those Jiralhanae left behind.”
That, at least, got a few chuckles from the Kru’desh. They were a plebian bunch, this legion. At least they could fight. They’d need all the brutal spirit they could muster now that the legion had marked itself among Atriox’s enemies. The Banished wouldn’t let the humiliation of a lost dreadnought go unanswered. Urei hoped Venter knew what he was doing. This latest scheme had won the Kru’desh a great victory—but it might cost them terribly in the long run.
But that, at least, was not Urei’s problem. Not now, anyway. Urei turned back to the spread of holographic displays wrapped around the command platform. On a weary whim he deactivated the dreadnought hologram and replaced it with a galactic map that filled the cavernous bridge with an ocean of stars. He tilted his head back and allowed himself a surge of odd nostalgia. For a moment he felt as if he were a child gazing up at the stars from the steppes of his homeworld Rahnelo. This truly was a vast, beautiful galaxy. How easily Urei’s forebearers had forgotten that simple fact as they slaved to crush that beauty beneath the vast Covenant Empire.
The Covenant was gone. The human empire that sought to replace it was shattered. The Created had collapsed, and someday the Banished hordes would be scattered by the sweeping galactic winds. The Forerunners loomed over it all, their own vast imperium buried and left to be picked apart like the corpse of some great dead creature. Perhaps for the first time Urei understood the true reason he had left Shinsu ‘Refum’s service and fallen in with these outcasts. Simon Venter was right: the only way to survive in this universe was to simply ride the cosmic waves rather than seeking to control them. The modest ambitions of the Kru’desh would see them outlive grandiose empires and scheming, self-important creatures like the Chorus of Builders.
And beyond survival lay freedom. The freedom to live, to enjoy this galaxy as something more than a system to be dominated and exploited. Perhaps that freedom lay in Captain Shah’s “Promised Land.”
A weary smile tugged at Urei’s mandibles. He sighed and tucked those errant thoughts away in some deep corner of his mind. Perhaps he would meditate on them further when he finally retired to his chambers for some well-earned sleep. For now, though, an endless list of tasks lay before him. Someone had to keep this legion running while their commander busied himself with schemes and stratagems.
Urei ‘Caszal consulted his datapad for the day’s next labor. He left the star-map up, a beautiful galactic tapestry stretched across the bridge and its officers. Urei hoped the Kru’desh, crude as they were, grasped the beauty of it all. In their own rough way, of course.
***
The Prime Minister’s prune-like face twisted in disgust. He dropped the datapad into his robes and glowered up at Simon Venter. “This deal is unacceptable.”
Simon shrugged. “It seems pretty reasonable to me.”
“You agree to pay only half the original contract,” the Prime Minister hissed. His aged hands gripped the sides of his gravity throne. “Despite repairs that are now being made to two ships rather than the agreed upon one.”
Simon’s leg was starting to hurt. His foot, encased in a thick metal boot, throbbed under the weight of his combat armor. This interview was a formality at best and it was already dragging on longer than Simon had time for. He wished he’d brought a crutch or some kind of cane to lean on. It certainly wasn’t the best look for an imposing commander but status games like that felt a bit unnecessary now that he had troops swarming all over the Soaring Chorus.
At least they were doing this somewhere discrete. The reception games in the great hall were a thing of the past, not that the hall was in any condition to receive anyone. This meeting was being conducted in the pleasant shadows of the Prime Minister’s office, a low-ceilinged chamber adorned with swirling tapestries and sculptures in a writhing alien design that only the San ‘Shyuum seemed to find pleasant. At least the office was out of the way, tucked within the private residences where the Council of Elders had taken refuge in the aftermath of Conviviality’s attempted coup. The only witnesses to this final negotiation were the Prime Minister’s personal secretary and the five heavily armed Sangheili legionaries Simon had brought with him just in case the Prime Minister forgot who was running the show around here.
“I was lured here under false pretenses,” Simon protested with feigned outrage. “Your security detail tried to kill me. My legion saved your station, not to mention the lives of you and everyone on your council. We are entitled to compensation.”
“Don’t play the victim, commander,” the Prime Minister hissed. “I am not so great a fool as Conviviality. Do you expect me to believe you won through pure chance? You knew that the former Grand Architect bore you a grudge. You knew your presence here would enrage him. You orchestrated this whole affair, to say nothing of the backdoor systems you conspired with our Yonhet contractors to install in our station. I hold you as responsible for this whole sordid affair as I do that embarrassment Conviviality.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that I saved your life.”
The Prime Minister bared his thick teeth. “I ought to have you thrown off this station, you human filth.”
“Yeah?” Simon smirked. “You and what army?”
Across the room his security detail adjusted their plasma weaponry. The Sangheili were enjoying the humiliation of the San ‘Shyuum almost as much as their victory over the Banished. Old wounds still festered beneath the surface, even for the outcasts of the Kru’desh.
The Prime Minister sighed. The fight drained from his aged body and he seemed to shrink down inside his robes. “We will fulfill the contract,” he muttered, waving half-heartedly to his secretary. “The work will take longer than anticipated. The entire station is still operating at half-capacity after your network attack stunt. Administrator is crippled. The colony make take years to recover.”
“Conviviality planned everything under Administrator’s nose,” Simon said, hooking his thumbs through his combat webbing. “Those worms were probably in on the whole thing. You should probably have a chat with them while they’re licking their wounds.”
“Don’t lecture me on how to run my station,” the Prime Minister growled. “Don’t think your stunt here won’t go unnoticed. Rest assured that you will never do business with our Chorus again after you depart this system. We will notify each of our business contacts and advise them not to engage in—”
“You still have business contacts?” Simon interrupted. “Even after the Created? I’m impressed.”
“You think you’re so clever.” The Prime Minister fixed him with a venomous stare. Our blacklist will be nothing compared to what the Banished will do when they learn what you did here. Their chieftains will put a price on your head to rival any UNSC commander. You and your legion will be dead soon enough and I will enjoy hearing of your demise.”
“I’ve had a price on my head before. I can live through this one.” Simon’s leg throbbed. He was tired of this pointless bickering. “But it’s a pleasure to do business with you. I’m glad Conviviality didn’t kill you. There’s so few bitter old men left in the galaxy these days. It’d be a shame to lose another.”
He forced a mocking smile. Deep within his armored heart he just wanted to be out of this place, away from the San ‘Shyuum with their wrinkled skin that made them look like mummified husks, away from their schemes and bitterness and petty hatred. They reminded him too much of himself. Whenever he closed his eyes he still saw the Vice-Minister of Conviviality lying dead in the great reception hall, his bloated face rotted away by hatred and rage. He still saw the plaintive terror that had flashed in his enemy’s eyes before he snapped the disgraced minister’s neck and put him out of his misery. Another old enemy laid to rest. Another voice from his past silenced forever.
The Prime Minister watched him pensively. “It will take our Chorus years to recover from your visit,” he said quietly. “Once I have purged every last one of Conviviality’s accomplices the doubt and mistrust will fester in our ranks for a generation. We may never recover.”
The elderly San ‘Shyuum spread his hands, a note of aching sorrow in his voice. “Our station. Archangel’s Rest. The great families of Qikost. You leave nothing but misery and ruin wherever you go, Simon Venter. Does that not trouble you? Conviviality might not have fallen in the first place had you not humiliated him as you did.”
Simon looked into and through the aged Prime Minister’s eyes. A sudden memory jolted his consciousness: Jaml, his mottled face stained with tears of joy, thanking the Chancer V’s crew for saving his life. Gavin had used the opportunity to prattle some nonsense to Zoey about a good deed being its own reward. Simon hadn’t listened. He’d barely paid attention to Jaml. He’d been too busy counting his credits and savoring how easily he’d gotten one over on that pompous Grand Architect. A surge of hatred stabbed at Simon’s heart. He wanted to humiliate the Prime Minister even further. He wanted to explain just how much joy he got out of watching him and all the other mighty lords of the galaxy grovel where he had groveled, forced to live as he had lived, scrambling for crumbs in a hard and unforgiving galaxy.
His own spite curdled in his stomach. His injured leg burned. It would take too long to explain the concept of “schadenfreude” to this decrepit alien. Besides, further conversation would just make Simon angrier. He forced one of his customary mocking smiles. “A pleasure doing business with you,” was all he said as he led his Sangheili out of the chamber. The Prime Minister sat in silence for some time, his aged eyes fixed upon the writhing artwork arranged around the chamber.
***
The Kru’desh had uncovered vast stores of weapons and supplies aboard the Bloodied Hand, so many that officers debated how to apportion the trove between the two ships even as loading crews worked overtime shuttling supplies back and forth. But the boarding crews had discovered something far more grim in the bowels of the Banished ship.
Cassandra knelt beside a bleary-eyed man with sallow skin and overgrown hair. The pulsing orange glow of a sterile field generator lit the medical tent as it flooded the area with benevolent radiation. Medical aid stations of human and Covenant make alike were once again set up in the Soul Ascension’s larger hangars to accommodate hundreds of prisoners rescued from the conquered dreadnought’s foul brigs. Most of the captives were human. Colonists seized from conquered planets and refugee camps, at least according to the half-lucid testimony of liberated captives. A terrible tale of slave pens and forced labor unfolded from the survivors healthy enough to talk. Apparently these atrocities played out wherever the Banished seized power. Chieftain Leidus had apparently been quite cunning about seizing human settlements left adrift by the consecutive collapse of the UEG and the Created. Any captives fit enough to fight saved themselves by taking up arms for the Banished. Now those opportunistic survivors were back in the brig they’d escaped alongside the rest of the surrendered Banished.
There but for the grace of God… Cassandra was no stranger to the horrors that played out across the galactic frontier every day. She'd seen her share of atrocities even in the years of stability following the Great War. She tried not to judge the humans who served the Banished rather than rot in slave pens. But she felt a shameful surge of pride that her knife had ended Chieftain Leidus’s life. Jiralhanae took barbarity to new levels. She couldn’t even muster up a sense of outrage over the rumors circulating about what the Kru’desh had done with their Jiralhanae captives. Barbaric. As if humans haven’t done worse. The Syndicate's human crime lords had suavely equaled the Banish in cruel expediency.
She busied herself with tending to this latest malnourished captive and tried not to let her thoughts overwhelm her. Her medical scanner whirred softly as she passed it over the emaciated man. At least now she could save lives instead of end them. But each life she saved was another soldier for the Kru’desh, another cog in Simon’s war machine… a war machine that had just saved countless lives through defeating Leidus and his warriors, yet continued to march on beneath Simon’s vain ambitions. The whole thing was too complicated for Cassandra’s sleep-deprived mind to parse out. Her arm ached where a Banished shot had nicked her during the Dueling Chorus. She was lucky to be alive. They all were. Simon’s reckless schemes had succeeded once more. Succeeded, but to what end?
I saved his life. I made my choice. The sallow-skinned man was led away and replaced by a dull-eyed woman. Two exhausted children clung to her legs. Cassandra felt as if she were back on Venezia, tending to the sick and wretched out of her ramshackle clinic. She tried not to think about how these children had survived Banished captivity, or about how the Kru’desh might use them in weeks to come. This was a mercenary warship, not a refugee vessel. Everyone would be made to earn their keep.
That was the way of this galaxy. Righteousness got you nowhere. A sharp blade had ended Leidus’s life. A sharp blade guided by hands trained and forged by ONI’s soulless drill instructors. No matter how hard Cassandra tried being something other than the killer they’d raised her to be she always returned to zero, another armored war machine on the latest battlefield. The Bloodied Hand would still sail the galaxy, bringing death and misery wherever it went, if the Kru’desh hadn’t visited their own brand of death and misery on this station. On and on it went in a galaxy full of people so intent on playing God that they’d blinded themselves to true salvation long ago. Maybe there wasn’t any point in looking for it amidst this ocean of bloody chaos.
Cassandra still had to try. For Dyne and William and everyone else she’d lost. And for all the people she still had left. Lord, I believe. Help me in my unbelief.
A Sangheili legionary escorted the small family out. The woman cowered from the towering alien and pulled her children close. A new figure ducked into the aid station and Cassandra braced for a new tragedy only to see Karina Larina, a grubby surgeon’s smock draped over her fatigues, a mug of steaming coffee in each hand. The young woman’s hair was a dark messy tangle and her face was lined with exhaustion. She dropped down onto the bench near Cassandra and offered one of the mugs. Cassandra accepted it gratefully, savoring the pungent aroma wafting up from the dirty mug.
They sipped coffee in silence for several minutes. Outside the aid cubicles the legion’s work ground on. Phantom and Pelican engines marked new arrivals and departures. The tramp of armored boots against the deck signaled more troops heading to reinforce the captured dreadnought.
“How are you holding up?” Cassandra asked.
“Me? Fine, I guess.” Karina smiled wearily. “Thomas made it back from that boarding action. I can’t ask for much more. Can’t even be mad at him for getting transferred to a combat team. He’s just trying to be useful. Wish I could do more.”
“You’re doing plenty,” Cassandra assured her. It was always the tireless, generous ones who thought they weren’t working hard enough. She felt a stab of shame for implying that Karina couldn't hold her own. Anyone who survived what Karina had been through deserved as much confidence as any hardened soldier.
“I’m managing.” Karina stared into her coffee. “Will it ever end, do you think? This ship, this legion—they’re keeping us alive. I get that. But this isn’t living. Not for me.”
“Not for any of us.”
Karina gave Cassandra an appraising look. “Not even you?”
“Especially not me.” Once more Mohsin Shah’s talk of the Promised Land echoed in Cassandra’s mind. She understood why the captain clung to that desperate vision. It was more than just hope. It was a map. A reason to keep fighting. A reason to keep living on this strange, deadly ship.
Cassandra set her coffee aside and squeeze Karina on the shoulder. “Go find Thomas and get some rest. You’ve earned it. I’ll wrap things up here.” For now—not forever, but for now—she was Lieutenant Cassandra Engel of the Kru’desh Legion. A legion that could be something so much more than a gang of pirates and mercenaries. The work they did here would make that potential a reality.
And when I’m off duty I’ll have a few words with our famous commander. Cassandra still wasn’t sure what she'd say to Simon the next time they saw each other.
***
After so many years of surviving one battle after another, always on the run from yet another crushing defeat, always just one step ahead of UNSC battle groups, Mohsin always expected that he’d end up in an internment camp someday. He’d always feared the moment when some ONI propaganda officer would stand before him and the other prisoners with that dreaded offer: freedom, in exchange for cooperation. He’d planned to stare back in cold defiance, to throw their pretensions of commiseration back in their arrogant faces, yet he’d secretly feared that he’d crumble and throw away all of his principles for a few decent meals and a softer bed. In all that time he’d never expected to be the one offering a cell block full of grim-faced prisoners a chance at freedom.
As if I didn’t sell out the moment I let Simon take the old man’s name. Mohsin held his bitter thought in check as he faced the crowd of men and women standing in the Banished slave pen. These were the humans from among the surrendered Banished, now awaiting their fate with a dull sense of dread. They all knew what had happened to their Jiralhanae comrades. Argo’s spies had seen to that.
The Kru’desh legionaries had dragged several hundred humans away from the rest of the Banished prisoners and herded them into this holding pen. The pen itself was barely more than a caged enclosure for the Banished to inspect their slaves. These prisoners were lucky the Kru’desh had cleaned the enclosure after liberating its former occupants. A few dejected men and women sat or lay listlessly near the back of the pen but most crowded closer to the front to hear Mohsin out. The bedraggled Banished kept looking at the Kru’desh guards patrolling the enclosure’s perimeter. The prisoners clearly expected to be mowed down at any moment. After what had happened to the Jiralhanae, Mohsin couldn’t blame them.
“You all know why I’m here,” he said, trying to repress the memory of watching legionaries cart hundreds of Jiralhanae carcasses off to the incinerators. A tiny mic clipped to his body armor projected his voice across the holding pen.
“Here to gloat before you slaughter us?” someone near the front of pen snarled. The Banished troops had been stripped of their armor and left with only grubby fatigues and tattered jumpsuits. Many sported Jiralhanae-style tattoos but Mohsin spotted plenty of Outer Colony ink hidden beneath the alien runes. More prisoners rumbled in agreement, casting dark looks at the armed legionaries stationed outside the pen.
“You fought for the Banished—” Mohsin began.
“Like you’re any different!” A burly woman with braided dreadlocks pressed herself up against the holding pen bars. “You’re with a bunch of hinge-head pirates!”
“You can’t hide your accent!” another prisoner jeered. “You’re Mamore trash. I bet he bombed a few arcologies for the Innies before he ran off to kiss Sangheili ass!”
“I’m here to give you a chance!” Mohsin barked over the growing tumult. Several legionaries rattled the bars of the holding pen until the prisoners quieted enough for his voice to be heard. “You served the Banished. To the UNSC, that’s a death sentence. Imperial Earth sees you as worse than scum. But they don’t understand what it’s like, surviving under their boot. They don’t know the choices they’ve forced us to make, the dirty things we’ve done to keep ourselves fed, to keep our dignity, to build a future for our children!”
Anger propelled his words. Memories welled up inside him, memories of long starving retreats, the sight of dead comrades and UNSC propaganda making light of their struggle. He could practically hear the Marines scoffing as they forced him to toss his friends into a mass grave. Yes, he could imagine all too well the contempt the UNSC and their self-righteous enforcers would heap upon anyone with the temerity to choose a Banished boot to lick rather than Earth’s.
The prisoners stared at Mohsin, taken aback by his outburst. The hostility didn’t fade from their eyes but now they watched him more carefully. The burly woman near the front of the crowd folded her arms but her eyes regarded him with an appraising look.
“But the Kru’desh Legion isn’t the UNSC,” Mohsin said. “I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to offer you something Earth and the Banished can’t give you: freedom. Freedom and a future.”
As he spoke Mohsin thought of the fallen on Archangel’s Rest. He thought of the troops lost in the battle with the Banished, their bodies awaiting commemoration back aboard the Soul Ascension. As he spoke his mind began to pray. A desperate plea to God that he was not lying to these people. Now more than ever, he owed this legion something more than what Simon Venter could give them. Mohsin no longer felt any guilt over betraying his commander. He had a greater purpose now. His very soul was now bound up in the future he promised these prisoners.
***
In another of the dreadnought’s many holding pens, Argo ‘Varvin was engaged in a similar struggle with the Sangheili who had once served in Leidus’s legion. “I assure you,” he said. “A contract with the Kru’desh is in your best interests.”
“Of course it is,” one of the other Sangheili sneered. “Since you intend to kill us all if we refuse.”
Argo paced before the holding pen. Even he had been surprised by Commander Venter’s order to liquidate the Jiralhanae prisoners. The order had come so quickly after the battle that it must have been premeditated. Venter had planned this well before the dreadnought boarding operation. Argo had carried the order out without hesitation, of course. His agents had vented the atmosphere from the Jiralhanae cell blocks—a quick, clean execution, probably cleaner than the Banished deserved. Not that Argo ever worried about who deserved what. If the galaxy ever started to play by those rules then Argo and his commander were in for a difficult time.
“Survival is admittedly a valuable prospect, at least as far as I’m concerned,” Argo said. “Not that I doubt the bravery of gentlemen such as yourselves. But never fear. We have no intention of executing you. Stupidity is its own punishment and quite frankly you’d be utter fools to turn down such a lucrative contract.”
The foremost Sangheili among the prisoners—Argo’s spies told him the warrior’s name was Tsal ‘Foar—pushed to the front of the crowd. Even stripped of his armor Tsal was intimidating. Scars and plasma burn marks marked his bare flesh in a gruesome tapestry. “You dare call us fools? You, the lapdog of some human outcast?”
“I lay no claim to any great intelligence,” Argo remarked. “Yet here I stand, on the more comfortable side of these bars, offering you a chance to regain your freedom and serve in a far more, ah, stable working environment than what you enjoyed under the Banished. Yes, I serve a human master. But you served a Jiralhanae. Let us set aside our good old-fashioned Sangheili pretenses and speak as men, shall we? We are sellswords, brothers. The vaunted scions of the Great Houses would not countenance us to eat the scraps at their tables. We live outside their precious systems, and now the keep walls that protected them are crumbling upon their mighty heads. Let them be buried in their old world, I say!”
The Sangheili prisoners stared at Argo through the holding pen’s bars. He doubted he had much of an impression on them. They’d heard grandiose speeches from too many Sangheili and Jiralhanae warlords to count. A few pressed closer, though. They were beginning to believe that they might not be killed out of hand. Tsal’s mandibles drooped ever so slightly. The big warrior was thinking.
“We had our fill of profits under the Banished,” Tsal said. “More than any kaidon or San ‘Shyuum pretender ever offered.”
“You had your profits,” Argo agreed. “And more than double the losses you ever suffered in the Imperial Army. Don’t deny it! I know how the Banished fight. What good are profits if you’re too dead to spend them?”
He leaned forward, locking eyes with Tsal. This was the one worth convincing. When Tsal took his offer—and Argo knew he would!—the rest would fall in line. “This mercenary life’s all well and good, brothers, but it cannot go on forever. The galaxy is on fire. We’ve had our fun fighting from one end of the universe to the other. I say we help build a new one worth living in.”
***
“How’d negotiations go?”
“About as well as I expected. Everyone got what they wanted. I got us our discount and the Prime Minister gets to tell his Chorus how he kept those nasty Kru’desh pirates from taking over this lovely station. And I hear everything went well with the prisoners. Good work there. Those new recruits will fill a lot of gaps in our ranks now that we’ve got two ships to manage.”
Mohsin pursed his lips beneath his beard. He let Simon talk. The commander was in a particularly good mood after everything they’d accomplished today. Victory piled upon victory. Mohsin remembered how desperate he’d felt back in the reception hall as Conviviality sprang his trap. For a moment he’d thought fortune had finally abandoned Simon Venter. But of course, that was never the case. Conviviality had simply played into Simon’s trap while the Kru’desh marched blindly along, paying in blood and bullets and plasma to deliver Simon his victories.
Our victories, Mohsin reminded himself. Some days Simon’s scheming seemed utterly detached from the fate of the army he led; other days, he and the Kru’desh were indistinguishable.
They stood atop one of several walkways that ran across the Bloodied Hand’s bridge. A deep pit full of crew stations and foreboding red lights stretched out beneath them. The Banished had designed every inch of this ship to seem as foreboding and hostile as possible, all red lights and jagged edges. Maybe the Jiralhanae found the design soothing. Or maybe they were all just violent savages. After some of the atrocities Mohsin had seen the Brutes perpetrate he couldn’t be sure. Teams of Kru’desh techs moved methodically through the captured bridge. Some were still repairing the damage caused by the violent takeover—apparently a Cyclops team had actually blasted through from the ship’s exterior—while others were reformatting the control stations and master network to broadcast in Sangheili and human dialects rather than Jiralhanae runes. Huragok floated serenely past the tech teams. The gaseous aliens could probably perform most of these modifications themselves. They seemed irritated that the legionaries were in their way, or at least as irritated as Huragok could get. All the same, the Kru’desh couldn’t get too over reliant on their enigmatic crewmates.
“We’ll need to keep an eye on our Banished converts, of course.” Simon began to limp across the walkway. Mohsin flinched at the grating sound of the commander’s booted foot scraping against the metal. “Split them up, make sure we don’t have any mutinies or desertions on our hands. Argo will organize that. Cunning bastard. Don’t know what we’d do without him.”
“Mutiny and desertion in the Kru’desh legion?” Mohsin muttered. “Perish the thought.”
“Sarcasm, from you? Will wonders never cease.”
“And I guess the Jiralhanae were too much of a risk? Nothing else to be done with them?”
Simon gave Mohsin a strange look. He adjusted the armored vest he continued to wear on both ships. “Sangheili and Jiralhanae don’t play nice. I’m not inviting that mess onto my ships.”
Ships. Plural now. “And there wasn’t another way to motivate the other prisoners?”
“Nothing that wouldn’t have taken more time and money. I don’t see what you’re complaining about. They’d have done the same to you. Worse, probably. It was my call. You’re hands are clean, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Mohsin’s hands were far from clean and they both knew it. He wondered why Simon even bothered pretending otherwise. “What about the Kig-Yar? Going to have them vented as well?”
“Of course not. No profit there. I bought them off and negotiated safe passage through the Soaring Chorus. They’re free to go and their contracts may come in handy in the future. I’ve always gotten along pretty well with Kig-Yar. They’re a reasonable bunch when they aren’t starved for food and plunder.”
“And the Unggoy?’
Simon looked irritated. “I can’t save everyone. Why do you care?”
So the dregs of the Banished legion had probably already been sold over to the Soaring Chorus, useful slaves to help the San ‘Shyuum rebuild their crippled infrastructure. Simon had a point. Why did Mohsin care? This galaxy was so much more complicated than he’d known even a year ago. One year’s monsters were the next year’s victims. Mohsin was starting to realize that humans hardly had the rawest deal in the universe. Someone always paid a heavier price somewhere down the line.
Mohsin followed Simon off the bridge. They descended into corridors as dark and foreboding as the bridge. Mohsin resisted the urge to reach for his sidearm. He couldn’t shake the sense that some Banished holdout might erupt out of the walls for one last attack. His dreams since the Dueling Chorus kept taking him back to the firefight in the reception hall. Leering Jiralhanae and Conviviality’s pudgy face haunted his nightmares. Just like on Archangel’s Rest he’d thought he was going to die. And once again he survived to spend another day in Simon Venter’s service. Plenty of legionaries weren’t so lucky. Nhat Tram was in the Soul Ascension’s medical bay. She’d barely survived a plasma bolt while leading the first wave of boarders. The medics said she’d probably make. Probably.
“Were you telling the truth back in the reception hall?” Mohsin asked as they boarded a blocky platform that seemed more like a heavy-duty freight elevator than a crew lift. “You knew Conviviality would loose the Banished on us?”
The guarded look in Simon’s eyes told Mohsin he’d been expecting this question ever since the ambush. “Of course. I took a risk, and it paid off. We have two ships now, not to mention more troops and funds than ever.”
“We lost people.”
“We did. Fifty-three, by my count. Fifty-eight if the ones in critical condition don’t make it. I know what I’m doing. We lost people, but we crushed a Banished legion, solved our troop power issues, and won a ship to rival the Soul Ascension, not to mention proving that our combined arms drills were effective. We won, Mohsin.”
“You won.” Mohsin took a step closer. “You won like you always do, by treating this like it’s a damned game. Did it even cross your mind to brief us that we were walking into a death trap?”
Simon shrugged. “I briefed the right people. Conviviality had to think we were vulnerable. He was so focused on our embassy that he pulled the key Banished leadership in to kill us. We were a diversion, nothing more. If anyone had given even the slightest clue that we were onto—”
Mohsin’s fist caught Simon in the jaw. The force of the impact made Mohsin’s knuckles ache but he followed it up with an uppercut fit to impress a champion grav-boxer. The Kru’desh commander reeled against the bulkhead, off balance in his cumbersome boot. “You can’t keep getting away with this,” Mohsin snarled. His next punch struck Simon in the mouth. Mohsin’s hand came away bloody. “One of these days you’ll get yourself killed and the rest of us with you.”
Simon’s surprise lasted only a moment. His prosthetic arm slammed Mohsin up against the bulkhead with just enough restraint to keep from crushing the captain’s windpipe. Simon’s eyes flashed like an angry dog. A red welt was already forming where Mohsin’s fist had struck him. Blood leaked from his mouth and gave him a wild, feral look. Mohsin’s heart raced. Only now did he think that Simon might actually just kill him here in the elevator. The Spartan was as dangerous and unpredictable as a wild animal. Mohsin flinched as Simon raised his free hand. But instead of caving in Mohsin’s skull Simon just wiped the blood from his mouth. A dull red smear streaked across his face.
Neither of them said anything for a moment. When Simon had regained his composure, he said with quiet menace, “You’re lucky no one was around to see that. I’d have to kill you then.”
“You’ll lose someday,” Mohsin said once he was able to speak again. “And then you’ll die and take a lot of poor bastards with you.”
“One of these days,” Simon agreed. His metal arm pressed up against Mohsin’s skin, a memento from a time where one of his schemes very nearly had gotten him killed. “Everyone dies. But you made this bed when you decided to turn me into your messiah. You want your legendary commander to lead you to victory? You’ll get your victories. But you’ll get them my way.”
He released Mohsin. Both men faced each other as the lift descended deeper into the bowels of the captured dreadnought. Simon’s face resumed its usual opaque smirk, his posture slouching and 
returning to an air of indifferent confidence. Mohsin wondered if that flash of anger he’d witnessed was the real Simon-G294 or simply another mask. He couldn’t deny that the commander played the role they’d conspired to cast him in well.
“I have a little more time I think,” Simon Venter said. “That’s the trick, Mohsin. You recognize the time you’re given and you take it. You only have a little moment in the sun before it all comes crashing down. The Covenant, the UEG, the Created—they never realized that simple fact. Now the Banished have overextended themselves. We heard some interesting things from the prisoners we interrogated. There’s a power vacuum in the Banished fleets. Something to do with the Created. We’ve made enemies of the Banished, but something tells me they won’t be around much longer either.”
He straightened his armor and rubbed the bruise on his face as the lift deposited them near the starboard hangar. The sounds of thrumming dropship engines flooded in to greet them. “I hope you can lead as well as you complain. I’m putting you in charge of this ship.”
That hit Mohsin harder than any fist. He gaped. “You’re what?”
“You heard me. I need someone I can trust running this ship. I’m a bit short on people like that at the moment so you’ll have to do.”
“I’ve never commanded so much as a gunboat. You can’t put me in charge of a dreadnought.”
Simon cocked an eyebrow. “Neither had I, but I managed. I’ll get you some advisors to start out. You’d better learn fast. I won’t be around forever, as you’re so fond of pointing out. This legion needs better leaders if it’s going to grow into even half of what you’re dreaming it will.” He rubbed the welt on his cheek. “I hope you captain better than you punch.”
As Simon Venter turned towards the hangar he called back over his shoulder, “And start thinking of a name for this ship. Personally I’d call her Kutuzov, but I don’t think anyone would really understand. Just don’t come up with anything stupid.”
Mohsin was still nursing his throbbing hand and trying to make sense of what had just happened when the first wave of alarm klaxons rang through the ship.
===Chapter Eighteen: East of Eden===
The whine of dropship engines rose in an endless chorus over the flight deck. Kru’desh legionaries hauled blocky purple crates onto Pelicans and Phantoms, clearing the deck only for it to be filled once more by loading teams hauling yet more supplies out from the bowels of the ship or offloading looted Banished goods from newly arrived dropships. A Darter supply ship collided with a Phantom as both pilots tried to maneuver through the chaos. After only a moment’s confusion both vessels were hauled off to the side to make way for the endless flow of traffic. The chaotic scene was discernable only to the Sangheili officers who prowled the stacks of supplies with datapads in hand. Their human counterparts scurried about as well, not nearly as familiar with the alien machinery and yet possessed by a boundless energy all of their own.
Saul Denisov—formerly Saul-D313, now firmly Lieutenant Saul Denisov of the Kru’desh Legion—rested against the nearest bulkhead and stared out vacantly across the busy hangar deck. The taste of recycled air aboard a Covenant ship felt different from that of a human vessel. Everything about Saul’s life had a strange new taste, a strange taste that he couldn’t be sure he liked. Anything was better than the cell at the Jade Moon, of course. The Kru’desh had saved him from endless days of bland food and canned Created re-education propaganda. But did his gratitude really extend to abandoning everything he’d believed in and pledging allegiance to the Kru’desh? Everything they stood for was against the government he’d been raised to serve. His armor felt tight around his body. No matter his reasons and justifications, his fellow Spartans would see him as a disgrace. A stain on the uniform and the armor. The Kru’desh hadn’t fought the UNSC directly but it was only a matter of time. What would Saul do then?
I was already a disgrace. A washout. Andra and Merlin barely recognized me. The Spartans are still out there, surviving and regrouping, but no crack team of Headhunters or Wolf operators came to save us. Just a gang of criminals led by a traitor. Saul hadn’t spoken to the rest of his team since they’d signed on with the Kru’desh. He wondered if they felt the same roiling conflict that he did.
His gaze drifted across the hangar to the battered corvette Merlin, Andra, and their irate minder Callum called home. It remained in isolation at the far end of the flight deck, ignored by the Kru’desh legionaries hurrying to transfer more supplies over to the Banished dreadnought. Even after everything they’d been through, even after knowing how thoroughly Earth’s colonial network was shattered and dismantled, those three still clung to their old loyalties. Maybe they were just better people than Saul. He couldn’t rule that out.
And yet after the Dueling Chorus he couldn’t escape thought of Simon-G294. Commander Simon Venter, not the skulking renegade depicted in intelligence briefings but the wily trickster who’d just brought a Banished legion to heel. And if this was how Commander Venter handled a deadly ambush on enemy ground, how might he handle opportunities to come? The Kru’desh were a bundle of raw, untapped power. They had the potential to build something amazing if only the right minds guided that power through the shifting tides of galactic power. Simon Venter had such a vision. Those around him did as well.
Something new and unfamiliar stirred in Saul’s chest as he watched this strange fusion of human and Sangheili potential unfold. A sense of destiny, perhaps? He was meant to join his future to this legion. And a trace of something more kindled in Saul. He turned away from the corvette, the reminder of a past life, and looked to the future. For the first time in his life the embers of ambition took hold of the young man’s soul.
***
The plan came together quickly, a simple, blunt course of action they all agreed upon. Now someone actually needed to put it into action. And that someone needed to be Andra. She was the only one who could pull it off. After an hour of procrastinating and then another hour working with Callum to don her scuffed MJOLNIR she was out of excuses. She passed by Merlin’s bunk on her way off the corvette. Merlin slept peacefully, his chest swathed in bandages and medigel. He’d gotten lucky back in the Soaring Chorus reception hall. The sniper’s shot had missed his vitals, but a direct hit from a beam rifle wasn’t something you just shrugged off. Andra and Callum had given Merlin an extra shot of pain medication this morning, enough to keep him asleep during today’s events.
Andra’s armored hand twitched. She looked around quickly to make sure Callum wasn’t looking before passing a hand through Merlin’s dark hair. She wondered if he really would have joined the Kru’desh if she hadn’t schemed to turn him against them. Would that have made him happier than the future awaiting them with the UNSC? Andra hoped she never found out.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t alone. Even with Callum busy in the cockpit there was no privacy on this ship. “He’ll be alright,” Althea said quietly in Andra’s ear. The AI’s voice dripped with that infuriating blend of gentleness and sincerity. “He’s a tough one.”
“I know that,” Andra growled. Althea’s intrusion was all the prompting she needed to don her helmet and get moving. She strode down the ramp and onto the Soul Ascension’s hangar deck. A sense of grim purpose mounted in her with each step. This was it. No turning back now. 
The cavernous hanger surged with activity. Kru’desh legionaries moved gear and loaded drospships. with the chaotic purpose of swarming ants. Several looked up from their work as Andra passed. She tensed inside her armor but the legionaries just acknowledged her with a nod before returning to their duties. Andra recognized some of these people, even some of the Sangheili. She’d fought alongside these people for nearly a year. Now she was abandoning them. When she returned to the UNSC—if they made it off this ship alive and if they even found whatever was left of the Earth forces—she might be loosed on these very same people. Andra tried to bury the twisting in her gut under a sense of dutiful purpose. But that purpose was less than it had once been. The galaxy was not the simple place she’d been raised to believe in. Whatever else she might find back in the UNSC’s service, she could never again think the way they’d indoctrinated her to.
“The hangar security center is on the second level, just through the double doors on your left.” Althea flashed Andra’s proposed route on her HUD. “Based on my analysis of troop movements and security team deployments you won’t face much resistance.” The AI wouldn’t dare infiltrate the Soul Ascension’s systems after what Simon had done to her but she could at least draw on ship schematics and the scans drawn from the MJOLNIR’s environmental analysis suite. Althea was transmitting back from the corvette, concealed behind a security blanket of firewalls and encrypted transmissions.
“Got it.” Andra’s eye flicked to the ammunition counter for the magnum strapped to her hip. She’d use it if she needed to. Only if she needed to. She marched on down the route Althea projected. The tension crawling up her spine made her want to break into a run but her training held and she simply walked on as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Legionaries glanced in her direction—no one just ignored a fully armored Spartan—but no one called out or questioned her. The Kru’desh had grown so used to the Spartans in their midst that they didn’t think twice about seeing Andra in the hangar.
Maybe Andra had done some good here. Maybe the former Insurrectionists and Covenant warriors would think twice the next time some propaganda holo railed against the evils of the UNSC and its soldiers or a would-be prophet yearned for the glorious heyday of an alien empire.
Get your head back in the game, she chided herself. You’ve got a job to do. Spartans didn’t think about changing hearts and minds. They killed the enemies of the UNSC. Andra stuffed rebellious thoughts about what that meant now that the UNSC lay in shambles and the rest of galactic civilization with it. One thing at a time.
As she mounted the ramp leading to the hangar’s control center, that infuriatingly meek voice asked in her ear, “Why do you hate me?”
The question was so unexpected that Andra nearly stumbled. She bit her lip beneath her helmet and tried to quell her rising frustration. Now, of all times? “I don’t hate you,” she muttered.
“You just really, really don’t like me?”
Andra wondered if Althea was trying to be funny. That soft, innocent voice—laced with just enough of Andra’s own tones to be eerie—was calculated to stab a guilty spike into any conscience. Andra tried not to think about what Simon had done to Althea, a move Andra herself had pushed her into.
“What I don’t like is that no one asked my permission before they pulled you out of my brain,” she said. The first door slid open and she slipped out of the hangar into a dimly lit corridor. Human-made cords and battleplate welded over the original Covenant design spoke to the strange hybrid vessel the Soul Ascension had become. “What I don’t like is that Merlin’s never seen a problem with that either.”
“What does Merlin have to do with it?” Althea asked the question with such innocence, but Andra sensed the calculation behind her words.
Simon’s right. These AI play sweet and nice just to manipulate us. Just because Althea was loyal didn’t make her trustworthy—not on a personal level. “Merlin cares about you,” Andra said. “And I really don’t know what they’re going to do to you when we get back to ONI. Merlin might not like it.”
That shut her up. Andra was wound too tight to feel any more guilt about Althea’s digital feelings. Her motion tracker showed at least two people inside the control room. She pressed a hand to the door. The Covenant portal unfolded like a blooming flower. Andra was through before the door panels were fully retracted, body tensed for the grim work ahead of her.
The motion tracker was wrong. There were three Kru’desh inside the hangar control center. Two humans, a man and a woman in dull fatigues, thumbed through manifests and flight logs while a stocky Sangheili officer breathed irritably down their necks. Andra’s alarm gave way to relief. This was hardly a crack security team. These legionaries were overworked and distracted. Somehow they didn’t even notice the door opening or the armored Spartan who stepped through the portal. Even the Sangheili was too immersed in his work to notice Andra until she wrapped an arm around his elongated neck in a careful chokehold. The humans must have been exhausted. They didn’t so much as check behind them as Andra dropped the Sangheili to drool on the deck and closed in, arms raised.
Andra was very, very careful. She struck twice and the techs dropped unconscious to the floor. No lasting damage done. They’d recover—hopefully. There was only so much you could do when wearing half a ton of powered armor. Andra stepped over the downed techs and pressed a palm against the master computer terminal. Text in both English and Sangheili flashed across the holo-screen. Andra hardly needed to consult her HUD’s auto-translation software. The Soul Ascension was far more integrated than she’d been when she’d first came aboard. The Kru’desh Legion’s mounting cohesion was a dangerous threat, but at least now it made Andra’s job easier.
She readied a small data package to transfer through the holographic emitters on her gauntlet. Althea had prepared the package back on the corvette, a neat little ticket to get the Spartans off this ship and back into open space. Andra hesitated. Her finger hovered over the terminal. Once she transferred the data package there was no turning back. For a moment she envisioned the life she might lead with the legion, forever free from ONI and its iron hold on her life. So many possibilities lay out beyond service to the UNSC.
Andra caught a glimpse of her helmeted reflection against a security screen. For a moment she thought she saw Simon Venter within her own reflected visor. The traitor’s mouth was set in that infuriating half-smile, his cold grey eyes fixed upon her. Always watching and judging and calculating. He hadn’t said a word when Andra had left him at Leidus’s mercy back in the reception hall, as if he’d known he’d still win in the end. Andra knew she was a better fighter by far, yet whenever it really counted Simon always came out on top.
Memories of an old conversation echoed in Andra’s mind. You don’t care, she’d told him once. That’s how you did it. That’s how you won those battles. You didn’t care whether you lived or died or won or lost. So you always won and you always survived.
I survived because I was smarter than you, came that rasping reply. I wanted to win more than anyone else. Last one standing wins, and I’m always the last one standing.
Andra bared her teeth. Not this time, Simon. Her doubts evaporated. You won’t beat me this time.
Something flickered on her motion tracker. A ghost of a reading, the telltale sign of someone trying to sneak through the tracker’s sensors. Andra whirled and found Ragna Aasen standing in the doorway. The young sergeant’s sidearm was trained on Andra. Her face was pale but determined.
Ice filled Andra’s veins. Her finger’s twitched. Instinct screamed at her to go for her own pistol. She could draw and drop Ragna in an instant. Ragna would be dead before she even put a dent in Andra’s shields and they both knew it. She wasn’t even wearing body armor. But Ragna didn’t need to hit Andra. All she had to do was get one shot off and every legionary in the hangar would know something was wrong. Andra’s mind raced, searching for something to throw her friend off the scent.
Ragna leveled her pistol. “You came a long way with us,” she said. Her voice was strangely calm. There was none of the angry betrayal Andra might have expected. Maybe she knew there was no way she’d walk away from this alive. “Why betray us now?”
“I can’t stay here.” Andra’s palm still hovered over the console. “I’m not one of you. I have to get back to the UNSC.”
“We thought you were one of us.” Was that hurt in Ragna’s eyes? Or just fear?
“Not like this. I’m a Spartan. That’s what I am. I can’t be anything different. If it was me telling you to jump ship and join the UNSC, would you?”
Ragna held the pistol steady. “If it was me,” she said. “Would you and your oonskie buddies have taken in a frontier rat like me in the first place?”
Andra said nothing.
Ragna’s eyes flicked towards the console. In the cold silence they could both hear the sounds of work drifting up from the hangar below. Ragna looked questioningly at Andra. “Whatever you’re trying to do, how bad will it mess up this ship?”
“It won’t,” Andra said, and she meant it. Althea’s package would just spike the Ascension’s power systems and throw the ship’s weapon systems offline for a few minutes while the corvette made its getaway. It would be a mild inconvenience at most. Half the gun batteries were powered down for the ongoing repairs anyway. If anything, a system attack like this would do the Kru’desh a favor by showing them that their systems were more vulnerable to cyber-attack than they thought. The only real wound would be to Simon’s pride, and God knew he probably needed a good punch in the ego. “No one has to get hurt here.”
Ragna grunted. She glanced down at the unconscious techs, then at the pistol on Andra’s hip. “I guess you’d have killed them if you were really out for blood, huh?”
“I didn’t want to hurt them. And I sure as hell don’t want to hurt you.”
Ragna’s eye twitched. Then she let out an irate groan and lowered the pistol. She tensed as if expecting the Spartan to lunge at her, then looked surprised when the blow didn’t come. Andra stayed where she was by the security terminal. Ragna regarded the Spartan with a strangely wistful expression.
“You know,” Ragna said, holstering her pistol. “You might be better off with us. They say the Banished are tearing you oonskies apart out there. There might not be anything left for you to go back to.”
“Maybe. Probably. That doesn’t change anything for me.”
Something unfamiliar flashed in Ragna’s eyes. Was that… respect? She started to back out of the room, not quiet turning her back on Andra. “Just do me a favor. Think twice the next time you’re lining up a shot on a Cyclops, yeah? That might be me in there.”
“I’d know that mech of yours anywhere.” Andra grinned in spite of herself. She swiped two fingers over her faceplate, the Spartan sign for a smile. “You do the same if Simon ever sends you Spartan hunting.”
Ragna looked puzzled. She drew her own fingers over her face in a clumsy approximation of Andra’s gesture. A moment later she vanished down the corridor.
Andra turned back to the console. She couldn’t waste any more time here. She jammed her hand down onto the display and injected the data package into the Soul Ascension’s systems. Then she strode confidently out of the room and back into the hangar. This time she didn’t struggle to keep her gait natural as she wove through busy legionaries and on towards the waiting shuttle. This was no act. She was headed exactly where she needed to go.
***
Callum ran the last pre-flight checks in the corvette’s cockpit. Unlike Andra the older Spartan felt no compunctions at all about the escape plan. Even if they floated out in space for weeks or months, even if they needed to seal themselves in the ship’s cryo-chambers and trust Althea to guide them through years of drifting in endless space, he needed to get Andra and Merlin away from this ship and its legion of outlaws. Their place was with the UNSC. Already months of doldrum-induced malaise shed from Callum’s battered body. He felt like a new man. I’ve got a job to do, thank God.
“Callum!” Althea’s voice crackled over the coms. “Andra’s got…” The AI trailed off, went silent for an agonizing moment, then hastily amended, “Nevermind. She’s fine.”
“What’s going on?” Callum was already half out of the pilot’s chair, one hand reaching for the sidearm at his waist.
“Nothing. Andra handled it.” Althea’s tone carried an oddly defiant note, as if to insist that she not tell any more. Callum made a mental note to hand the AI over to ONI techs as soon as they were back in whatever passed for civilized space these days. Althea might have proven her loyalty time and time again but that didn’t mean Callum could overlook the clear deviations cropping up in her programming. A thorough system scouring by ONI’s probes would probably do her some good.
An indicator light flashed on the corvette’s manifest screen. The ship had just gained approximately half a metric ton of weight. Andra must be back on board. Sure enough Callum heard boots against the deckplates. Andra’s armored form filled the porthole and she swung deftly into the co-pilot’s seat beside Callum.
“That took longer than expected,” Callum said. “Run into any trouble?”
“Nope.” Whatever had given Althea pause wasn’t enough to faze Andra. “I delivered the package straight into their systems. Let’s get out of here before someone notices the hangar shields are down.”
Callum frowned behind his helmet but didn’t press the issue. He fired the corvette’s engines and keyed up their escape vector. The Kru’desh carried on their business in the hangar, oblivious to the escape attempt. Althea’s bug dropped the hangar shields but kept the protective energy seals in place. None of the legionaries on the hangar deck even noticed that the shields were down. Once upon a time Callum would have preferred a more eventful exit, perhaps a full depressurization to sweep hundreds of Innies and hinge-heads out into space. He’d even suggested that approach a few hours earlier. But Andra had pushed back and for once she had a point. These people might be future enemies, but they’d also saved Callum, Andra and Merlin and given them shelter while the galaxy went to hell. That meant something.
I’m getting soft, that’s what it means. Callum shook his head. The corvette’s thrusters engaged. With a mounting rumble like the growls of a rousing beast, the corvette shook awake and rose off the hangar floor. Callum glanced out the viewport. A few Kru’desh seemed startled by the sudden ignition but most just went about their business. One more ship lifting off amidst all the air traffic was nothing to be worked up about. Callum didn’t push his luck. He nudged the corvette’s now-familiar controls and cruised forward. In a moment they were off the Soul Ascension and making hard-burn through the immense dry docks.
Beside Callum, Andra let out a sigh audible even through her armor. Callum repressed a self-satisfied comment over the ease of their escape. No sense inviting bad luck now.
But bad luck came anyway. Warning alarms blared through the ship like anxious screams. The defense computer flashed an alert as it detected over a dozen weapon locks.
“What the hell?” Callum scanned for Kru’desh interceptors but found nothing on scopes. “I thought we disabled their point defense systems!”
“We did!” Althea said. Her hologram flashed up on the dashboard. The eyes under her cowl were wide with alarm. “But that Banished dreadnaught’s weapons are coming online. I estimate thirty seconds until they have a firing solution!”
Damn. Somehow the Kru’desh had repaired their new toy in record time. Callum tightened his grip on the ship’s throttle. Beside him, Andra was bringing the corvette’s sensor scramblers online. That might buy them a few more seconds but this ship wasn’t equipped to spoof a capital ship’s sensor lock. Callum eyed up the flight path out of the dry-docks. A bit of fancy flying might be all the difference between escape and a fiery demise. Callum’s heart sank even as he jerked the corvette into an ad-hoc evasive maneuver. He was an average pilot at best, and even a hotshot flyboy couldn’t pull anything crazy out of a run-down paramilitary corvette. He didn’t care so much that he might be about to die. What he couldn’t stomach was the thought of failing Andra, Merlin, and even Althea.
Callum tuned out the alarm klaxons and his own mounting panic and pressed the throttle with everything he had.
**
Mohsin scrambled after Simon Venter as the commander stormed into the sub-deck’s gunnery station. Two Sangheili were already busily bringing the dreadnought’s point-defense batteries online. A bright yellow ping against the characteristically red Banished readout marked the escaping corvette’s flight vector.
“Scramble the patrol fighters!” Urei ‘Caszal was raging over the command team’s com channel. “Bring back our picket squadrons! And reboot our weapon systems! Those traitors threw our entire defense grid offline!”
The Second paused a moment. Mohsin imagined that Urei must be fighting to regain his composure in front of the bridge crew. When Urei spoke again his voice was laced with deadly calm. “Soul Ascension to dreadnought,” Urei said over the general channel. “Target that corvette and destroy it. One volley should suffice.”
Mohsin stared at the fleeing ship. A dreadful sense of impending loss loomed in his stomach. He had no doubt that Andra was on board. The Spartan would never abandon her comrades. Mohsin was no stranger to desertion—the old Insurrection always hemorrhage men and women after a defeat—and no more squeamish about its consequences than any other rebellion veteran. He’d pulled the trigger on former friends and comrades himself. Still, Andra had been with them so long that he’d started to forget who he really was. Mohsin was startled to realize that he’d started to think of Andra the same way he thought of Ragna and some of the other young bucks. He’d survived Le Havre and Archangel’s Rest with the wayward Spartan. Now he’d watch her die.
The gunnery officers brought the batteries online. The station’s monitors stirred like a rousing beast. Targeting solutions flashed across the screen. One of the Sangheili glanced eagerly back at Simon Venter. “Shall I fire as soon as the guns are online or wait for the Second ‘Caszal’s command?” The warrior waited, then cocked his head. “Commander?”
Mohsin looked over to Simon and shuddered. A series of intense emotions flashed across his commander’s face. There was anger, yes, a flash of bestial malice so intense that Mohsin actually feared for the souls aboard that fleeing corvette. The commander’s pale eyes danced with surprise and wounded pride. He looked far angrier than he’d been when Mohsin punched him on the elevator, as if he might seize the gun controls and open fire himself. But a second transformation passed over Simon’s face. In an instant those pale eyes widened. Anger gave way to a look of fear that matched Mohsin’s own, as if he too feared the malice burning up inside him.
Then the fear and anger parted like dark clouds after a Mamore mud-storm. Simon ran a shaking hand through his dark hair. “Hold your fire,” he ordered the gunners. Then, keying his communicator to the general channel, he ordered again, “All batteries, hold fire! This is your commander. Hold your fire!”
Urei’s voice crackled with surprise. “But commander…!” The Second’s voice dropped for a moment. When it returned it bore a tone of aggrieved resignation. “As you command. All batteries, hold fire.”
.
The chief gunner leaped up from his post. The Sangheili towered over Simon and Mohsin both, his alien eyes flashing with outrage. “Commander, we had them!”
“You did,” Simon agreed. He didn’t flinch away from the angry Sangheili. He just hooked his thumbs into his combat webbing and stared coolly up at the warrior. “And I gave you an order. I’ve got my reasons. Do we have a problem?”
The Sangheili held his commander’s gaze, then drooped his head in submission. “No, my lord.”
Simon turned back to the targeting screen and to the image of the fleeing corvette. “Very good, warrior. Carry on.”
Urei’s voice returned, this time over the encrypted command channel. “Commander, those Spartans have detailed information on our capabilities and operations plans. You can’t mean to simply let them escape!”
“Their intel will be outdated ten times over by the time they get back to the UNSC. And they have Althea with them. This works out even better than we planned. I think we’ll be the ones getting intel out of this mess. Get the Ascension’s systems back online and put Yearns to Soar back on cyber-defense duty. Scan every cubic meter of my ship and reinforce security measures. Oh, and investigate how they crippled our network in the first place. Put Argo’s boys on it, find a few people to toss in the brig. Our security teams are getting sloppy.”
Mohsin watched the commander’s face, expecting to see that customary half-smile grace Simon’s lips. Instead, even as he spouted casual instructions and reassurances to Urei, Simon looked wistfully at the retreating corvette. They watched together until the blip vanished off the screen, consumed by the Slipspace void that spirited it far from the Kru’desh Legion’s reach. Simon watched the screen a moment longer. Then he turned wordlessly and limped off the deck on his injured leg. Mohsin knew better than to follow. He waited on the gunnery deck and watched the Sangheili at their work, wondering how on earth he was ever supposed to command this flying weapon of mass destruction.
***
“The target locks,” Althea said, astonished. “They disengaged!”
Callum didn’t waste any more time. He pushed the corvette’s engines as hard as the battered ship could go. The ship shuddered as it passed through the Soaring Chorus’s gravitational field and out into open space. The nav-computer whirred as it input a randomized jump vector. The whine of a Slipspace drive powering up filled the cockpit. Callum and Andra braced. The lurch of space-transition churned their stomachs as the corvette tore through sub-space and disappeared into the void.
No one said anything for several moments. Callum finally released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He released the throttle and rubbed his hands together. “That’s over. Thank God. I don’t know how, but we made it.” He glanced at his companion. “Good work, Andra. This is all thanks to you. Leave the rest to me. I’ll get us back to the UNSC, don’t worry.”
Andra nodded but said nothing. She stared up at the bulkhead. Even with the danger passed she still didn’t take off her helmet. As skilled as Callum was at reading his fellow Spartans’ through their armor, he didn’t know what Andra was thinking.
The corvette sailed on through the void, a tiny speck caught in the galactic winds that carried it slowly but steadily off towards a place its Spartan crew might call home.
===Epilogue===