| abstract | - (I.) Biko was dead. It hung suspended in the blackness of space, the corpse of a once-thriving human colony now left to rot. The planet's surface bore no trace of its former verdant beauty, not even an indication that its blue oceans remained. The Covenant had been unusually thorough with Biko. It wasn't often that the aliens deemed a world worthy of their twisted ritual – the plasma bombardment humans referred to as “glassing” - but apparently Biko had been more than worthy. Other planets, they could be saved through terraforming. Biko's final gasp had been large-scale atmospheric escape as the Covenant burned it alive. No ecosystems, no atmosphere, nothing. Dead. Ash and dust and memories. Donnell Guerin certainly possessed plenty of those when it came to this place. “Holy shit.” The expletive slipped out of Dalloway's now slack-jawed mouth. The crewman stared at Biko, his pallor distinguishable even in the low lighting. “That's... wow. Christ, they didn't leave Dwarka looking like that. How did they even-” “I want consistent scans, not commentary,” Guerin snapped. Dalloway visibly flinched and the fear building in his expression switched to more relevant concerns than long-dead planets. Guerin was secretly glad for the young man's sensitivity; he'd done business with too many men whose hearts became so hard they'd never flinch at the thought of an entire world dying. But sentimentality would have to wait for another, less perilous day. “Yessir,” Dalloway managed, and turned back to his post at the comms station. He was slight of build with a crop of unruly black hair that flattened out when he donned the headset. Barely past boyhood and already one of the best comms specialists Guerin had ever encountered. Brilliant despite lacking any formal military training. Hardly a cryptologist or professional hacker – but he had heart, and he hadn't let Guerin down yet. Guerin turned his attention back to the lifeless orb. He wasn't one to brood, but it was hard to remain impassive in the shadow of what had almost been his final battlefield. He hadn't left the pilot's chair since the Mandylion exited Slipstream space; the chair was familiar, comforting even. That, and standing took more effort than he cared to put forth these days. Most people simply assumed he was uncomfortable due to all the machinery grafted on in place of lost limbs. The truth was much more complex and had a lot to do with a bygone secret project codenamed “Orion.” He'd been a supersoldier once. Before Biko. Before he learned firsthand how it felt to have skin and muscle and bone vaporized, burned away like it had never existed. But being super came at a steep price, one he had yet to figure out a way to avoid paying. His body had been sacrificed long before the Covenant burned him, when scientists in lab coats injected miracle drugs into his veins and played with his brain. At first it hadn't hurt, not really. But now- Now you're rambling, he scolded himself. The Mandylion appeared to be Biko's sole guest this evening, but Guerin wasn't about to let his guard down. They didn't come to this place for reminiscing, they came for business. The sort of business opportunistic vultures made a priority of interrupting. Guerin turned his chair 180 degrees, feeling every inch a king on his throne as he surveyed the lay of the cockpit. Dalloway was listening intently to the audio feed and watching the scanners, as he should be; everything appeared to be clean and in its place. “You really could just let me handle it,” a disembodied female voice quipped dryly. “Or do you just enjoy watching the boy think he's being useful?” “It builds character,” Guerin replied serenely. “I've already run the short and long range scanners multiple times and the results aren't worth your attention, believe me. Unless you fancy garbled radio transmissions from ages ago.” “Let him be, Catriona.” Guerin sometimes regretted stealing the AI – how she had ever served a military purpose was beyond his ken. He didn't even have to go to the trouble of fast-grafting her, but maybe that was because she was technically past her operational lifespan. He didn't know much about AI's, never really had worked with one before, but apparently after seven years they started to go insane. Catriona was coming up on her ninth year and ranked as mildly annoying in his books. Maybe her idea of crazy was letting a criminal lug her around in his spaceship so she could fill her quota of witty comebacks before she kicked the bucket. Then again, she did sometimes set off fire alarms and refuse to open doors unless you gave the “password.” But until she did something seriously hampering, he needed her expertise. “It's just dead space out there, Captain,” Dalloway piped up. “I'll keep up the scans of course, but... pardon me for saying so, sir, but I get the feeling you're expecting trouble.” “I always expect trouble.” Under different circumstances that would have been a wisecrack. Here and now, it was a completely serious statement. “But you leave all the worrying to me and keep your ears sharp and your eyes peeled for any activity on those sensors, got it?” “Aye-aye,” Dalloway minced. The sarcasm was poorly hidden, but Guerin knew the boy well enough to know he wouldn't budge from that spot. Theodore Dalloway might be an incurable snarker, but he was obedient, and that was all that mattered. Keeping people in the dark was an unfortunate necessity of this business. Some information was simply too dangerous to spread too thin; it meant fewer people got hurt when the job went sour. Guerin cared enough for his crewman to supply him only with the information he needed to know to perform his role on the ship. On the surface the point of this voyage was a simple exchange of resources, a deal with few strings attached and profit to be had. As always, the truth was much more complex. But out here in conquered territory, far from the reaches of any martial authority, lies afforded a warmth that kept the status quo from tipping south. Guerin suspected he had been born a pathological liar, or else he wouldn't be so successful. He hoped the colonists he'd lied to long ago felt safe and secure before they were incinerated. The fallout shelters on Biko hadn't been a viable option, but it was better than explaining that there wasn't enough room on the evac ships. Guerin settled in his chair and eyed the dark sphere through the protective viewport, wondering if there were ghosts glaring back at him. (II.) “The humans will betray us.” Shipmaster Jahl 'Mankat had two options: shrug off his subordinate's paranoid hissing or indulge the growing urge to backhand the Kig-Yar into a bulkhead. In fact, he rather wanted to kick every single Kig-Yar present because of their foul odor, which they claimed could not be cleansed away by proper bathing. It offended his delicate sensibilities, but he was a Sangheili. He still had some honor. He would not stoop to bullying his crew simply because they stank. But oh, how he wanted to. “The humans require what we offer them,” he began in a didactic tone. He made sure to enunciate every syllable, since he suspected many of his crew were slow to comprehend what he said. “We in turn require what they aim to trade. The Suppliants of Atonement do not turn a blind eye to relics so ignorantly treated as tools for barter. It would be dishonorable to allow them to continue disrespecting the work of the Forerunners.” “The gods,” Vekk muttered. “Always the gods.” “Precisely. The gods' will is present in all things. And so we shall continue along our current path without entertaining suspicions bordering on heresy.” It was – what was the human term? Ah. Bullshit. It was bullshit, but the Kig-Yar tended to fear fanatics more than they feared practical Sangheili. A practical Sangheili wouldn't decapitate you with no forewarning for blaspheming. Tack on enough religious prattle and the lesser aliens became more agreeable, mostly to avoid a righteously indignant Sangheili on an executional rampage. Jahl revelled in the delicious irony – he was an atheist the likes of which made Hierarchs soil themselves in rage. Of course he expected the humans to try something dastardly. He wasn't a fool. Humans despised dealing with those outside of their species, a fact reinforced by their currently losing war against the Covenant. But the Kig-Yar would bail as soon as they felt threatened, stealing whatever they could fit inside the escape pods. Jahl needed them as self-assured and greedy as he could make them if this was going to work. Besides, he had more reliable crewmen awaiting his orders. He swept his baleful gaze throughout the bridge and, satisfied that the Kig-Yar were tending to their respective stations, stalked deeper into the vessel. He couldn't help cringing as the door cycled shut behind him with a pained screech. The Absolute Penitence was a Corvette-class warship cut down and modified to suit his needs, but she lacked proper maintenance. Jahl refused to accept Yanme'e on board despite their technical proficiency; the last batch had tried to make off with essential parts, probably working for some would-be mastermind. And so the ship slowly spiraled into disrepair, her inner workings developing glitches which would one day turn catastrophic. He gave no pause as the air rippled and shifted to his immediate left. “The others. Are they ready?” he asked, continuing his stride. Footfalls lighter than his own sounded in his wake. “Tash believes it would sully his honor to kill the humans if they present no threat,” a cool voice intoned. “But as we both know, his honor is as his appetite – it varies depending on the meal.” “And what of you, Reika?” Jahl huffed, hot breath rushing through his mandibles. “What of your honor?” She moved quickly – a blur of curving brown armor, and suddenly he was practically nose to nose with her. The suit was meant for a larger Sangheili but she had tailored it to herself in an admirable fashion. An infiltration harness, usually reserved for special operations warriors of high renown. Capable of cloaking one with invisibility and distorting enemy sensors. He had yet to hear the full story of how she obtained such a prize for herself. “My honor is whatever you wish it to be,” she stated bluntly. “You know this. Do not question it.” Jahl clicked his upper jaws in acknowledgement. “And what of the cargo?” The set of Reika's shoulders shifted to a less aggressive stance and she backed down. For now. She matched Jahl's pace as he continued through the corridor. “The cargo is secure,” she informed him. “Though I fail to see what the point is if we do not intend to trade it to the humans. It is useless to us.” “I fully intend to offer the humans a fair deal. I am simply anticipating the worst. Our dealings with the vermin on Venezia taught me to be cautious; they are not the vulnerable worms they appear to be. They are more akin to venomous snakes.” Another door cycled open, this time minus the screeching, and Jahl entered the armory. There were no Kig-Yar present here, to his relief. Instead he was surrounded by the familiar shapes of his Sangheili brethren. “Brethren” perhaps being too intimate a term for them, as they ascribed to the lofty ideals of the Suppliants and might take affront to being ranked equally with an unbeliever. Unlike the Kig-Yar, they knew perfectly well what Jahl's religious inclinations – or lack thereof – were. “Shipmaster,” Tash 'Vendal rumbled. “Our weapons and armor are in order. We await your command.” 'Vendal stood a head taller than Jahl and his limbs were bundled with enough muscle to give him a rather hulking appearance. His heavy armor only made him larger. His right mandibles were misshapen from an old injury which slurred his words but did nothing to limit his prowess as a fighter. Jahl knew that Tash had deserted from the Covenant in an act of self-preservation after losing a battle with some human juggernaut called a Demon; as far as any of his old comrades knew, he took his own life to avoid bringing shame to his clan. There were three other Suppliants on board with whom Jahl had never worked before. They were smaller and quieter than Tash and seemed content to let the big Sangheili speak for them. The way they carried themselves, from posture to gait, suggested they had never gone through official training as Covenant warriors – yet they were rated positively when it came to combat. Jahl could respect that. As long as their goals aligned with his own, he would accept whatever benefits came with having them along for the ride. Reika strode over to one of the weapon racks and plucked an energy sword from among the assortment of items. Her weapon of choice, as always. Reika identified as a Suppliant but had worked with Jahl long enough for him to understand her affiliation was hardly devout in nature. Her life before the Suppliants was a mystery to him and he wasn't about to pester her for tidbits. Of every soul on board she was the one he trusted most. She was an enigma, but a loyal one. Jahl felt a swell of confidence as he looked upon them. A definite improvement over the Kig-Yar on all counts. “We are approaching our destination. We shall parley with the humans and see whether they prove dishonest. Should they sully our good intentions with foul play, we shall slay them and acquire what is owed us.” He met Tash's gaze and continued. “In anticipation of misconduct, I will require you to be ready to deal harshly with them immediately.” The big Sangheili gave no indication that he disagreed with this. Jahl felt a trickle of relief. “It's just good business,” Reika said casually. “Nearby is a former colony of theirs. Beeko, I believe they called it. If the sight of that ruined world does not inspire them to know their place, then they are truly soulless.” (III.)
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