Halo®: Mortal Dictata

  Suddenly Skal, the navigator, got very excited.

  “Found her,” he said. “There she is. Shall we let ‘Telcam know?”

  Fel gave Chol a sly look. She hadn’t told him that her crew weren’t fully briefed on her intentions.

  “No, absolutely not,” she said. “Now we board her.”

  “But we’ve found her, mistress,” Zim said. “We let ‘Telcam know, and we get paid. That’s all we agreed to do.”

  “No. I want absolute secrecy on this. I’m paying you. Not him.” Chol loomed over him, then stalked around the bridge with her hand on her holster to make her point. “Not one word. Not even a call home to say you’re due back. Comms are now locked down. See to it, Bakz.”

  There were a dozen crew on the bridge now, all looking puzzled and impatient. Skal opened his mouth to say something but shut it again when she glared at him.

  “What, you have pressing deadlines?” she demanded. “You have music recitals to attend? A meeting with your bankers?”

  “Mistress, we just want to know why the plans have changed,” Zim said, head lowered slightly in a submissive gesture. “Are you going to up the price on the four-jaws? That’s very risky.”

  “My plans haven’t changed. I just never revealed them to you, for operational reasons.”

  It was a very human phrase. She was picking up a lot of those. Humans were brilliantly dishonest, so convoluted and sly that even a Kig-Yar could learn tactics from them. They’d stolen hundreds of worlds across the galaxy, after all, with no thought for the life-forms already living there. It was admirable in its way. State piracy was condoned while individual enterprise was suppressed, though, so if they wanted to survive as long as the Kig-Yar as a galactic presence then they’d have to rethink that strategy.

  “What might those be?” Zim asked.

  “I’m going to take the ship. There’s no crew on board, so all we have to do is dock and stroll in.”

  “But—”

  “You’ll be paid. In fact, I’ll pay you your balance now, all of you.”

  Chol made a big flourishing gesture with her module. She could commit payment immediately. As soon as the signals reached the crew’s individual devices, then that was as good as hard currency. Her bank would pay and then expect her to cover the sum. If she couldn’t, then they would hire a debt collector to remove her property to that value, or seize her whole roost if the debt was big enough. If she turned out to have nothing of value to seize, they’d shoot her. Banking worked very simply and efficiently in Kig-Yar society. Payments didn’t bounce, as humans called it, or at least not very often. Wasn’t that a lot more civilized? She thought so. It made things stable. She scribbled on the screen with her claw.

  “There. Consult your devices.”

  There was a synchronized rustle of quills, the tapping of composite screens, and a collective murmur of approval. They had their money. Now they’d obey.

  “There’s a cargo on board, isn’t there?” Skal asked. “Clever. But ‘Telcam’s going to be very upset with you. He doesn’t know who we are, of course, but you’re fairly easy to find.”

  Truth to tell, she was feeling a little nervous, even queasy, as if she’d taken on slightly more than she’d bargained for. Ah, ridiculous: what good was anything easy, anything that didn’t make you push yourself past the lazy, fat, comfortable limit of what you’d always done and succeeded at? How did you know what you could do until you failed? It was as good a time to tell the crew as any.

  “I doubt ‘Telcam will want to pursue me if I have a battlecruiser and knowledge of where his camp is.” She’d heard rumors from a Jiralhanae that he’d found a bolt-hole somewhere in the Narumad system. Finding the actual planet would be a lot simpler with all the sophisticated sensors of a capital ship. “In fact, if he has any sense, he’ll hide from me.”

  Skal looked at Zim, then back at Chol. “You’re not going to strip it and sell it on?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s more use to me. And to all Kig-Yar.”

  She watched Skal’s head droop a fraction. “Oh. No rumor, then?”

  “What rumor?”

  “This talk of your rebuilding a Kig-Yar navy, mistress.”

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

  “No, mistress.”

  “A position of strength does us no harm as a people,” she said. “If your clan was threatened by Brutes or even the four-jaws, would you be relieved to see my ship appear to support you, or not?”

  Skal just nodded. Zim was the only one who looked concerned. But they’d all been paid and there was no battle to fight. All they had to do was get Pious Inquisitor home and hide her among the asteroids.

  “If you were paying for the vessel’s upkeep,” Skal said, “I’d probably be very happy indeed.”

  It got a round of laughter, which was a good sign. “Very well, prepare for docking.”

  Fel sidled up to her. “May I leave now?”

  “I’ll send you home when we’re sure we have control of the vessel and the drives are working.”

  Fel rolled his head, a resigned gesture, then went to sit with Nulm and play shaks, letting the pieces drop and roll on the deck. All that remained was the simple act of launching a shuttle, aligning with the bay doors and exchanging codes so that the doors opened and the shuttle linked to the ship’s computer to be guided to its assigned berth. In a few minutes, Chol would dock, step through the hatch, and head for the bridge, situated forward of the shuttle bay. Then she’d take command of her own battlecruiser.

  It was a wonderful thought. She would savor that moment.

  Skal stood over the helmsman, checking the telemetry, and Chol moved to the viewport so that she could watch the final approach. Pious Inquisitor now filled her field of view like an infinite black cliff face. She gazed at it for a moment, completely satisfied, then headed for the hangar to board the shuttle. Skal went with her.

  “This is going to be very expensive,” he murmured. “I hope you have some profitable trips planned for the future.”

  The shuttle was now hanging level with the aft bay on the port side. Skal flashed the recognition code from the console, waited, then flashed it again.

  The bay doors remained shut. “This is the right code, mistress. Isn’t it?”

  “It’s what Fel gave me.” Chol had been sure he was telling the truth. She must have been slipping, too distracted in her haste. “The lying scum tricked us. I shall break every bone in his body.”

  “Why? He knew we’d find out as soon as we got here. He’s not suicidal.”

  Something had made the codes invalid. Maybe there was a simple explanation, some periodic refreshing of codes for security reasons that Fel didn’t seem aware of. She watched Skal trying to get the ship to accept the entry code, but he didn’t even seem to be able to connect with the computer now. “We’re locked out, then.”

  “Sorry, mistress. It looks as if we are.”

  A minor inconvenience like that wasn’t going to stop her. This was basic piracy, the skills that any Kig-Yar captain had to have simply to ply her trade. Ships didn’t present themselves for boarding. They had to be taken.

  Paragon had exactly the tool for the job. It would just take a little time, that was all, and Chol was in no hurry now. There wasn’t even a crew in there ready to defend the ship. Fel had at least led her to the right coordinates, so she’d be gracious about this lapse.

  “No matter,” she said. “Prepare the umbilical. We’ll cut through the hull. And Fel can wait longer to go home, as a lesson for being careless.”

  STUTTGART ARMORY, NEW TYNE

  Mal didn’t much like Gareth. He couldn’t decide if he’d start by breaking his nose or knocking out a few teeth, but either way, he was going to have that bastard the first chance he got.

  “Are your buddies tracking you?” Gareth stood over him as Mal rested his forehead on the table. It was an awkward position to be in with his arms cuffed behind his back. “The buzzards say yo
u all have neural chips. Where’s yours?”

  “Up my arse.”

  Thud. Gareth’s fist hit the back of his head and his nose cracked against the table again. Mal took a breath and tried not to anticipate the next blow. It only made it worse. There was a lot of sticky blood on the plastic surface, but blood always looked more scary than the actual injury. Yeah, that was it. Noses and lips bled a lot. He wasn’t hemorrhaging. He was still okay.

  And as long as he had his head down, at least he wasn’t looking at the power drill sitting on the table in the corner.

  “I don’t mind digging around in a few other places before I try your skull, funny boy.” Gareth leaned over him. Mal could see his shadow across the table. “What range has it got?”

  Mal was still calculating his escape. If he could get his hands free, he knew he could drop Gareth and take his sidearm, even in his current battered state. He couldn’t hear Vaz, though. He had no idea where he was or even if he was still alive. He needed a clue so that he knew where to head once he’d taught this prick a lesson.

  “If you don’t know, why did you grab me?” Mal mumbled. His lip was split and he was pretty sure his nose was broken, but he still had all his teeth. He checked for gaps and movement with his tongue. No, all there. Gareth was right over him now, almost breathing down his neck, looking for the small opening in Mal’s scalp, just inside the hairline at his nape. “Anyway, it keeps going even when I’m dead. Like a flight recorder. Tamper-proof. Think about it. Has to be, eh?”

  “You’ve got a mouth with a death wish.”

  It wasn’t a good idea to stoke up an interrogator by talking back. Mal knew all that, but he couldn’t help himself. It just made him feel better. And he was angry. Anger was useful. He tried to keep its fire fed, and it wasn’t hard.

  “I could tell you what you want to know. But then my mates would have to kill you.”

  Mal was quite pleased with that one. He felt the movement of air as Gareth pulled away then walked across the room. A switch clicked. The drill revved.

  So … can I stick that into him before he sticks it into me?

  He’s just psyching me out first.

  I’m trained and he’s not.

  And I’m frigging angry.

  Mal was handcuffed, too, but he wasn’t going to let that get in the way of his logic.

  “Let’s see how tamper-proof this thing is, then,” Gareth said.

  The implant wasn’t a fancy neural net like Naomi’s. It was just a transponder, no conspicuous interface protruding through the skin like a commander’s or a Spartan’s to plug stuff in. Mal had the monkey model version that located and identified you to friendly forces. It still functioned after you were dead, and nobody could hack it or insert it into someone else. Gareth was looking for it, reluctant to touch Mal for some reason, which was weird considering that he didn’t mind punching the shit out of him.

  Mal could feel his breath as he leaned right over him. The drill was whining next to his ear.

  But it also meant the bastard’s face must have been right in line with the back of Mal’s head.

  Why not? I might not get another chance.

  Sod it. Three … two …

  Mal snapped his head back, hard and fast, crack, and smashed into Gareth’s face. The drill went flying, buzzing angrily for a second before it went dead. As Mal jumped up, his chair tipped to the side and he swung around to do as much damage as a bloke could with his hands tied. It was pure animal rage. He lunged. He didn’t think of the pistol or anything else for a second, just the prospect of ripping into the little shit who’d spent the last hour or two causing him pain.

  The last thing he saw before they both crashed to the floor was Gareth’s stunned face, blood everywhere, then Mal was right on top of him, bloody nose to bloody nose. Gareth was yelling for help. He raised his arm to defend himself and Mal went for it. He sank his teeth deep into the muscle.

  Christ, didn’t that bastard scream.

  It only made Mal clamp down harder. He bit as deep and hard as he could, making a nnrrrggghhh noise that drowned out Gareth’s shrieks for help, grinding down to the bone in the forearm. Mal couldn’t see anything but the contorted, bloodstained face and the wide open mouth screaming for someone to get this crazy bastard off him. Why hadn’t Gareth gone for his pistol?

  Tosser. He can’t reach it. It’s in the back of his belt. Or he put it down somewhere. Or he’s a frigging amateur. And this feels great. And I’ll be dead in a minute or two, probably, or he might be.

  Mal wasn’t expecting his jaws to start aching so soon. Holding a serious bite took a lot more effort than he thought. For the first time he realized how strong and raw everything smelled, especially the blood.

  Human teeth. Full of germs. Worst infection possible. Nerve damage as well. Play tennis, do you, you dickhead? How’s your forehand now?

  Mal heard scuffling feet through the screaming and yelling and growling, and then pain exploded in his head and back almost simultaneously. He didn’t know if he’d been shot, stabbed, or kicked. But he didn’t let go, not even when someone grabbed his hair and tried to pull him off. He hung on, jaws clamped, until he couldn’t hold the bite any longer. Then someone dragged him off and almost threw him against the wall.

  “Look what he’s done! Look what he’s goddamn done!” Gareth was still shrieking, nursing his mangled arm. “I’m going to kill that bastard!”

  “What, now you think of that?” Nairn pulled Gareth to his feet. “You can’t cope with a handcuffed prisoner? How the hell did you let him do that? Wow, that’s a mess. You better clean that up.”

  “He’s a goddamn head case. Get me some disinfectant, quick.”

  Staffan filled the doorway, looking around in disbelief. Then he shoved Vaz into the room—battered, bleeding, limping. Mal could smell urine. Christ, this was a pathetic way to go. He really hadn’t expected them to end their days at the hands of other humans, pissing their pants and savaging blokes like dogs. It didn’t seem right. Mal added it to the pointless list of things he hadn’t signed up for.

  “Right,” Staffan barked. “Gareth—out. Nairn—out.” He dragged two chairs to the center of the room, about two meters apart, and hauled Mal onto one. “Vaz—sit down.”

  Mal hurt pretty well all over now. He looked at Vaz. It was a lot worse to see your mate injured like that. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Is that your blood or his?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Savage.”

  Nairn hung around. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to be in here with them alone.”

  “Oh, for Chrissakes.” Staffan held up his sidearm. “What do you think this does? You’re going soft. I want to talk to these guys and I don’t want you butting in. Just get out.”

  Mal was mildly pleased with the thought that armed men were scared of two unarmed and handcuffed ODSTs. At least the hard-core reputation of the Corps was intact. Staffan closed the door and leaned against it.

  “Vaz told Nairn an interesting thing, Mal,” he said. “About my daughter. I don’t recall telling either of you that I thought she’d been replaced. And not by a clone.”

  Mal almost shot Vaz a disappointed look but kept his eyes fixed on Staffan. Vaz must have talked. Maybe that explained the pee. His pants still looked damp. Well, you couldn’t blame the bloke. Nobody knew what their breaking point was until they met it. He’d just thought Vaz was harder than him.

  “Vaz, keep your mouth shut,” Mal said.

  “Too late.”

  “See, I’m not sure about something,” Staffan said. “I don’t know if this is just some stalling exercise while you wait for your buddies to find you. You know how it works. Like a clairvoyant. They pick up odds and ends, gauge some poor sap’s anxieties, and put it all together so they sound like they’re talking with the dead. Vaz, you’re right on the border between what a smart boy could guess and what a UNSC insider might know. So you’ve got a few minutes to level with me. If you know anythi
ng about what really happened to my daughter, tell me something convincing.” He held his pistol to Mal’s head. “Or I’ll shoot your buddy. You care about him even if you don’t care what happens to yourself. Don’t you?”

  The weird thing was that Mal wasn’t afraid of dying but of what Vaz was going to say. Oddly enough, the bugger did look like he was in control. There was no reaction on his face. He was back in ODST mode, so maybe he had a plan after all.

  “I have a file,” Vaz said. Mal was now just the spectator, with no idea of what Vaz was up to. He was too smart to cave in like this. He had to be negotiating. “Like I told you.”

  Staffan didn’t blink. “I haven’t heard anything yet to persuade me.”

  Vaz usually had a good memory. Mal hoped he could remember what was in that bloody file. Still, getting shot was better than a drill through the brain. Mal had something to look forward to.

  “You picked up your daughter from New Stockholm hospital,” Vaz said. “Pediatrician—Dr. Kelvin.”

  That got a reaction. Mal saw Staffan’s left hand slowly close and clench against his side, not an angry balled fist but the gesture of a man on the edge trying to keep it together.

  “Really. Keep talking.”

  “She’d been missing all night. They found her—well, a girl they thought was her—at a bus stop just outside New Stockholm.”

  The door swung open and Edvin burst in. For a moment, Mal was distracted from his escape plan and his assorted pains. Vaz had really hit some raw nerves. Staffan had suddenly changed from a genuinely controlled kind of bloke to a man who was trying very hard not to react. Mal watched the tendons in his throat tighten like steel cables.

  “Just stop this, Dad,” Edvin snapped. “Don’t let him do this to you. He’s got access to the records, that’s all. The hospital. The police report. It’s just a goddamn mind game.” He shoved past his father and grabbed Vaz by the collar. “Just shut up, or I’ll shut you up. Permanently. Stop torturing him. He’s had enough.”

  “That’s my line.” Vaz looked past him. Mal gave him full marks for icy indifference, considering the battering he must have taken. “Staffan, would the records tell me what Naomi asked for after she was taken? Would they?”