Ninth Age of Reclamation

34th Cycle, 64 Units (Covenant Battle Calendar)

Bloodstar Flotilla, Captured Banta-class Transport Emmeline

Libration Point Four, Third moon/Planet Borodan, Kyril System

Perhaps Tel ‘Szatulai would kill the entire ship’s complement later, after his passions had cooled and he could be certain their deaths came at the will of the Prophets and not his own.

Until then—until his jaws stopped grinding and the knot between his hearts loosened—he would stay his hand and learn what had brought the humans to him, why they had risked their vessel and their lives to trail after the Sacred Whisper in a transport as clumsy, poorly armed, and strangely designated as the Emmeline.

‘Szatulai’s two young Jiralhanae escorts were also on edge, shifting back and forth in their new Bloodstar armor as the pressure in the transport’s spacious airlock slowly equalized. The pair were the most assured and cunning of the special pack that ‘Szatulai had assembled to help destroy the hated Spartans, and both were emerging as strong leaders. To prevent them from becoming rivals—a development that would quickly lead to a death match in the brutish Jiralhanae culture—he was taking every opportunity to give them tasks that forced them to look upon each other as brothers-in-arms. Today, he had told them to leave their weapons aboard the Sacred Whisper and accompany him aboard the human vessel, an order that seemed to unsettle both escorts even more than it puzzled them. Finally, Orsun—always the more circumspect of the two—could bear the mystery no longer.

“This is madness, Blademaster.” His voice was booming and certain, even through the transceiver in ‘Szatulai’s helmet. “A ship this size can hold five hundred humans. Even Castor and I cannot defend you from so many without weapons.”

“You Jiralhanae.” ‘Szatulai sissed into his transceiver. “Always being humorous.”

Orsun was silent for a moment, then said, “I was not being humorous, Blademaster.”

‘Szatulai turned around and looked up at the Jiralhanae’s unhelmeted head. With its leathery muzzle and long tusks, it was a ferocious-looking visage, one that could still draw a modicum of fear even from him, who had been assigned to kill twenty-seven of the Brutes over the years.

“Are you not?” ‘Szatulai tried to sound astonished. “So, then, you are trying to insult me?”

“Never!” Orsun said. “I am only wondering how to defend you without weapons.”

“I am a First Blade of the Silent Shadow,” ‘Szatulai said. “I need no defending.”

“Ah.” Orsun sounded more confused than ever. “As you wish, then.”

They stood in silence for a moment; then Castor asked, “Blademaster . . . if we are not here to defend you, then why did you command our presence?”

“To make a point,” ‘Szatulai said. “How would it look if I were to board a human ship alone?”

“No stranger than boarding one without weapons,” Castor said. “But I am honored to accompany you.”

“As long as it doesn’t get you killed?” ‘Szatulai asked.

“That matters not.” Castor’s tone was earnest. “I have set my boots on the Sacred Path, and I will walk where it leads.”

“As will I,” Orsun said. “But I would be much the happier if the Sacred Path does not lead to our deaths.”

‘Szatulai sissed again, this time in genuine amusement. “Not today.” A clunk sounded inside the inner hatch, and he turned to face forward again. “Once we board, stand to your full height, and do not accommodate for their fears—they are not allies.”

“You wish us to appear intimidating?” Orsun asked.

“Imposing,” ‘Szatulai said. “Disdainful and unconcerned. Do not speak to the humans. You may kill one or two, if necessary, but say absolutely nothing to them.”

“As you command, Blademaster.” Castor sounded bewildered but obedient. “It will be done.”

The hatch retracted, revealing a pale-blue passageway containing twelve wide-eyed humans holding projectile guns with long barrels. Their attire was at best nonmilitary, consisting of threadbare pants and shirts with torn-off sleeves. But ‘Szatulai had studied human culture deeply enough to realize that such a sartorial choice was a type of uniform in its own right, a statement proclaiming the wearer to be fiercely independent and unconcerned with the opinions of others. From previous encounters with such types, he knew it meant they would likely be courageous, but undisciplined, poorly trained, and more likely to initiate a battle out of fear or misunderstanding.

Their apparent leader, a square-bodied man with hair to his shoulders and all over his face, spoke in the human language known as English.

“Welcome aboard.” He used his rifle barrel to wave ‘Szatulai and his companions out of the airlock. “General Garvin is waiting for you in the forward briefing compartment.”

‘Szatulai remained in the airlock, his helmet tipped forward to make it clear he was looking at the man’s weapon. The leader followed ‘Szatulai’s gaze and swallowed hard, then flicked something on the body of the gun, lowered it, and turned to his companions.

“Weapons down.”

Only half of the man’s team obeyed instantly, confirming a lack of discipline that would make this visit more hazardous than ‘Szatulai had expected. He had originally debated insisting that the humans come to him aboard the Sacred Whisper, then decided against it. The demand might be interpreted as anxiety, but more importantly, he did not dare to sully the ground of the Covenant’s vessels with the footprints of vermin—that had happened enough as of late.

When ‘Szatulai continued to wait inside the airlock, the leader glared at the holdouts and growled, “Now, people.”

The rest of the man’s team lowered their weapons and stepped back. The leader used his free hand to gesture toward the front of the vessel, and ‘Szatulai led Castor and Orsun out of the airlock. The passageway was large by human standards, but tiny by those of the Jiralhanae. The warriors had to walk single-file behind ‘Szatulai, each filling the space so completely that his armored shoulders scraped both bulkheads and his head kept thumping against the overhead.

At the first two junctions, a handful of slack-jawed humans stood watching as the trio passed, murmuring among themselves and shrinking back from the huge Jiralhanae. ‘Szatulai paid these spectators no attention until the third junction, when one raised a device he recognized as a “datapad” and began to record his approach. He could not tolerate such an affront, of course. He was not some harmless oddity being paraded down the passageway for these lowly traitors’ entertainment.

Rather than snatching the item out of the man’s hand—which his fellow humans might regard as merely rude—‘Szatulai waited until he was passing the datapad, then pointed at it. He had barely lowered his hand before Orsun’s fist lashed out to shatter the datapad and send its holder, limp and bloodied, flying into the two humans standing behind him.

A startled outcry arose from the man’s companions. The one leading ‘Szatulai forward abruptly stopped and turned, his weapon automatically rising. ‘Szatulai grabbed the barrel and held it down, then wagged his head back and forth, successfully mimicking a human gesture of warning. Clearly frightened, the man then lowered his weapon again and spoke into a device on his wrist. After that, there were no more gatherings at the junctions, and the procession soon entered a large compartment containing several rows of cushioned chairs, all facing a blank display screen at the far end of the room. Eleven humans were gathered in a large foyer area at the back of the compartment, where a large table had been overturned and an urn of brown liquid spilled on the floor.

The humans were watching each other far more carefully than they were ‘Szatulai and his Jiralhanae escorts. Several held smaller projectile weapons, not quite pointing them at a heavyset man with a large amount of reddish hair on his face, who was standing alone in the aisle between the cushioned chairs. The man’s brow was dripping with perspiration (a curious physiological trait, ‘Szatulai thought) and his eyes were bulging, and in his arms he held an oblong device about the size of a Jiralhanae’s head. At one end of the device, a green panel shined bright.

That was the trouble with traitors. They lacked discipline.

‘Szatulai moved deeper into the compartment, forcing the humans to fall back so that Castor and Orsun would have space, then turned toward a slender man with intelligent eyes and a firm jaw, whom he recognized from the renegades’ holographic message as General Garvin.

“Oh no, you don’t!” It was the heavyset man with the oblong device who said this. “You talk to me. I’m the one with the nuke.”

‘Szatulai glanced toward him only briefly, then turned back to Garvin.

“Sorry about that.” Garvin gestured toward the device in the man’s hands. “It’s a Havok Mark 2521 Medium Fusion Destructive Device thermonuclear warhead, liberated from Task Force Yama. We thought you might like to know how the Spartans intend to destroy your fleet, so we brought it along. Unfortunately, the moment you boarded, Commandant Booth here snatched it up. He claims it’s armed.”

“I was a munitions maintenance chief aboard the Roman Blue, so you had better believe it’s armed.” Booth directed his next words toward ‘Szatulai. “Either you call off the attack on Biko, or I let it detonate.”

‘Szatulai turned his helmet toward this “Commandant Booth” again and said nothing. Could the man actually believe that a minor Sangheili flotilla commander had the authority to call off a planetary assault? Surely the humans would never entrust their weapons of mass destruction to such a fool. Booth’s threat had to be a ruse—some negotiating trick through which the humans hoped to manipulate him.

When ‘Szatulai did not reply, Booth grew impatient. “We had a deal. You were going to spare Biko—”

“Shut up, Erland,” said a small woman with olive skin. She was holding a sidearm with a barrel as long as her forearm, the muzzle pointed at Booth’s foot. Her knuckles were white from squeezing the grip, and her finger was on the trigger. “There was never a deal—only our offer.”

Booth scowled in her direction. “Well, there’s a deal now, Petora.” He looked back to ‘Szatulai. “Call off the attack, or we all die together.”

‘Szatulai realized that Booth was actually a deranged fool. That much was clear from how the woman looked warily at him, and from his apparent belief that a Sangheili warrior could be intimidated by the mere threat of death. In ‘Szatulai’s experience, most beings believed of others what they knew to be true of themselves—so would a man who feared death be willing to forfeit his own life?

Perhaps, if he valued his world more than his own safety and was insane enough to believe he could save it with one bomb. But would he do so instantly? ‘Szatulai thought not. He would create a delay, give himself an escape in case something unexpected happened—or in case he changed his mind.

‘Szatulai started toward Booth.

“Stay back,” Booth said. “I’m not giving this up until the attack stops.”

‘Szatulai extended a hand, palm up, and continued forward.

Booth’s gaze dropped to the extended hand. “What? What’s this about?”

‘Szatulai lashed out with his other arm, sweeping the Havok from Booth’s grasp into his own upturned palm. When a countdown appeared on the green panel and his existence did not end in a single instant of searing brightness, he knew he had been right about Booth’s character. He brought the warhead up and then used it to crater the man’s skull, leaving the body to crumple to the deck. ‘Szatulai turned toward the door . . . and found the olive-skinned woman—Petora—standing in front of him.

“Allow me.” Petora holstered her sidearm and took the warhead from his hands, then examined the green panel. “Fifty seconds. Anyone know how to disarm this thing?”

General Garvin immediately came to her side and began to study the panel. ‘Szatulai’s grasp of human chirography was not strong enough to identify the numbers as they flickered past, but he counted twenty breaths before Garvin began to peck at the touchpad. General Garvin was obviously a disciplined and well-trained warrior—perhaps even one who had taken the Death Vow and considered his life already sacrificed to the cause he served—and ‘Szatulai would have to treat him with more caution than the rest of these traitors.

If they all survived the next few seconds, of course.

Garvin finally stopped pecking, and the countdown ceased before the green panel went dark. The general cleared his throat—was that a sign of human anxiety?—then took the warhead from Petora and held it out to ‘Szatulai.

“Please accept this as a token of our goodwill.”

‘Szatulai studied the weapon for a moment, pondering the possibility that the gift was simply a trap designed to sneak powerful munitions—or possibly a spy device—aboard a Covenant ship. But aside from Garvin himself, the personnel aboard the human ship did not seem disciplined enough to execute such a deception—and even if he was mistaken, it seemed an overly elaborate ruse to destroy a single Covenant vessel.

‘Szatulai motioned Orsun to come forward and accept the warhead. To be on the safe side, he would suggest having the device studied in isolation on a smaller ship. But the potential intelligence value was too great to forgo. If the Engineers could learn how to prevent the devices from detonating, then the threat to the Covenant fleets would be greatly reduced.

Once Orsun had taken the warhead, Garvin said, “What happened on Seoba wasn’t our doing. The Spartan task force showed up the day before our meeting with you and took us by surprise.” He looked at the floor, then added, “We think it was just an unfortunate coincidence. They were intending to stage their operation out of the same ice quarry that we chose for the rendezvous.”

Knowing that his black, elongated faceplate would make him appear all the more enigmatic and menacing, ‘Szatulai kept his helmet tipped toward Garvin and remained silent. The only thing about the coincidence at Seoba that did not seem plausible was that Garvin had not foreseen it. There were three moons orbiting the planet the humans called Biko, but two were being actively mined for heavy metals. Only Seoba was deserted, and its abandoned ice quarry was an ideal staging area for an attack on the world itself.

And that thought made ‘Szatulai remember Garvin’s first message: We have a little project we’d like your help with.

Now ‘Szatulai understood why there had been so many traitors on the moon. Garvin hoped to overthrow this planet’s rulers and take their place—and he wanted the Covenant’s help.

After a few more awkward moments, Garvin said, “We have another gift.”

He slowly began to reach toward his shirt pocket. ‘Szatulai knew the general feared the movement would be interpreted as a hostile act, but there was no need. Now that he understood what the traitors wanted, he no longer was concerned about their intentions. When Garvin removed his fingers from the pocket, they were holding a small flat object about the size of his palm, what the humans called a “data card.”

“We’ve been trying to procure a suit of the Mjolnir power armor that the Spartans wear. Unfortunately, we haven’t been successful—not yet.” He held the card out to ‘Szatulai. “But this data crystal contains schematics for their armor. If you haven’t captured a datapad, we can supply one.”

‘Szatulai had captured many datapads during his infiltration assignments and knew how to use them all. He motioned Castor to come forward and accept the data crystal, then tipped his helmet forward and continued to study Garvin.

By now, Garvin had realized that ‘Szatulai was not going to speak to him.

“We have nothing more to offer at this time,” Garvin said. “But our spies are well-placed in Task Force Yama, and they’ve been able to plant a number of listening devices in key locations. If you can help us take control of Biko, we can help you anticipate the Spartans’ next moves.”

‘Szatulai would be happy to accept the offer. On his terms, at least. He had listened in dismay as his Bloodstars fell to the Spartans in the battle of the ice quarry, and his efforts to capture one of their “prowlers” had brought only disaster and the mockery of the Fleet of Inexorable Obedience’s San’Shyuum magistrate, the Minor Minister of Artifact Survey. ‘Szatulai cared little enough about the opinion of the Minor Minister, but he despised any shame the order of the Silent Shadow might incur due to those failures. If ‘Szatulai could leverage General Garvin to actually capture these Spartan abominations, he would more than make amends for the loss of so many warriors and vessels on Seoba.

Of course, any perceived alliance on Garvin’s part would be utterly false. The planet would be cleansed soon enough, as the others before it. These Spartans, however, could not be allowed to continue, even if it required stringing along a disorganized clan of human rebels for a time. In ‘Szatulai’s estimation, the Spartans were the only real threat humanity had displayed so far, and he would use every tool at his disposal to eradicate them before they became a danger to the Hierarchs’ plans.

‘Szatulai extended a hand and turned it palm up. Garvin stared at the hand in perplexity for a moment, then finally seemed to take it as a gesture of acceptance.

“If that’s a yes, I’m going to need a way to contact you.”

‘Szatulai pointed to the small woman called Petora and motioned for her to follow him. She seemed someone intelligent enough to understand the principles of operating a supraluminal communicator . . . and the consequences of allowing it to fall into Spartan hands.