Oblivion, page 18
“The humans will detect our presence and assume we are attempting to aid the Steadfast Strike.” ‘Lakosee’s voice crackled with enthusiasm. “They will move to intercept us, and when we break off, they will be the ones between us and the Fleet of Swift Justice.”
‘Weyodosee closed his mandibles tight and fell silent, then finally dropped his gaze to the deck.
“I offer my apologies. The fleetmaster has forgotten nothing.” His tone was chagrined. “You wish the order relayed to the entire flotilla?”
“You are most perceptive,” Nizat said. “I leave the timing of the gravity-whip maneuver to you, but you must bring the Quiet Faith in low, with the rest of the flotilla behind it.”
“As you command.” ‘Weyodosee started to turn away, then thought better of it. “I hesitate to question the fleetmaster again, but the Quiet Faith will perform better if I understand the purpose of this maneuver.”
“I have no doubt,” Nizat said. “The lower the Quiet Faith dips, the more likely two drop pods are to go unnoticed.”
“Drop pods?” ‘Lakosee asked. “Who are we dropping?”
“You and myself,” Nizat said. “Who else?”
‘Lakosee rocked his head forward, studying Nizat out of the upper parts of his eyes. “Why would you drop onto N’ba?”
“Because the Fleet of Swift Justice changes everything,” Nizat said. “The humans will never hold it off long enough for the demons to reach the Steadfast Strike.”
‘Lakosee continued to look confused. “What are we to do about that? Offer them transport offworld?”
“Not exactly.” Nizat turned aft toward his stateroom, where he had his energy sword and a full suit of combat armor. “But if we can no longer wait for the humans to attack our ship—”
“Yes, I see. Then we will attack theirs.” ‘Lakosee fell in behind Nizat. “And take the Luminal Beacons to them.”
CHAPTER 12
* * *
* * *
1146 hours, June 7, 2526 (military calendar)
Crystal Bush Plateau
Mountains of Despair, Planet Netherop, Ephyra System
John-117’s heads-up display showed nineteen kilometers to target when the spiderlike mountain runner gave its first little lurch. He had no idea who had built the thing, but it had probably been the same beings who constructed the Forgotten Highway and lived in the Cave Cities that Lena had mentioned earlier, and they had been accomplished engineers. The odd craft was humming and clicking over the stony terrain of the vast, crystal bush–covered plateau with a gait so smooth it felt like the machine was gliding. So John paid the hitch no attention and continued to focus on the task at hand—as did everyone on Blue Team.
Fred was driving, Linda was standing watch, and Kelly was playing doctor, making sure the two Castoff boys weren’t suffering any complications from the polypseudomorphine they had been given to dull their pain. John was leaning back against the curved wall of the passenger compartment, studying his HUD and planning logistics.
Assuming his onboard computer’s dead-reckoning navigation was accurate, the mountain runner had traveled fifteen kilometers across the plateau in the last half hour. They seemed to be moving straight toward the Lucky Break, so the Covenant ship would probably come into view within the next thirty minutes. Presumably, they would find the rest of the Castoffs nearby, either a few kilometers away at the Wheatley, or watching the Lucky Break and planning their approach.
At least, John hoped the Castoffs would be watching and planning. He couldn’t know how the stranded alien crew would react to a bunch of young humans just riding up to ask for a lift, but he was relatively certain the outcome would not be what they hoped for.
In any case, once Blue Team caught up to the rest of the Castoffs, there would be five mountain runners available—enough to send back for First Platoon and the rest of the Night Watch’s complement. Holding the attack until the runners returned would mean delaying the assault an extra four hours, so the final decision would depend on what the Wheatley’s captain could tell John about Covenant fleet disposition in the Polona sector—and whether there seemed to be many assets moving toward Netherop’s inbound slipspace routes—but he was inclined to wait. Another twenty or thirty soldiers could be the difference between taking the frigate intact and getting blown up during a prolonged boarding action.
The runner gave another little lurch. The sensation was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to make John look from his HUD toward the pilot’s station at the front of the passenger compartment.
“You must be really tough,” Lena said. The Castoff girl was sitting next to John, with her back against the nearest coal bin. “Because you’re a terrible captain.”
John turned his faceplate toward her. Rather than waste water washing the blood out of her hair, Lena had insisted that Kelly cut it away, and now she had a shaved patch over her brow, with a crusty brown ridge of biofoam running up the center. She looked even more gaunt and sunken-eyed than before, but tough . . . maybe even ODST tough.
“I’m not a captain,” John said.
“No wonder.” Lena glanced around the interior of the passenger compartment, allowing her gaze to linger on the other Spartans. “Who would elect you, when you make everyone else work while you sleep?”
“What makes you think I’m sleeping?”
“You haven’t moved since those fireballs came down.”
“Haven’t had a reason to.”
Twenty minutes earlier, two trails of flame had burned through the cloud cover and descended in the direction of the Lucky Break. John and the other Spartans had agreed over TEAMCOM that the fireballs were probably Covenant drop pods delivering weapons or supplies, but John hadn’t shared that theory with their companions. He was still trying to decide whether the three Castoffs were prisoners, allies, or recruits—and until he did, he intended to be careful about what intelligence he shared.
“I think you were napping,” Lena said. “What else would you be doing, sitting there so still?”
“Thinking.”
“Then thinking must be really hard for you, if you can’t even move when you do it.” Lena watched him carefully, as though trying to read his faceplate’s expression. “What are you thinking about, John?”
“About what happens next,” John said. “And about why you lied about your friends trying to reach the ships.”
“Who says they are?”
John tapped the side of his helmet. “Logical deduction,” he said. “They’re headed straight for them.”
Lena shrugged and looked away. “We’re moving camp, and the Old Way goes where it goes.”
“They’re not on the Old Way,” John said. He wasn’t entirely sure how the Castoffs knew the location of the Lucky Break, but Kelly had suggested a theory via TEAMCOM that matched the apparent timing. After seeing it go down, the Castoffs had sent scouts to investigate and learned that a spaceship had landed. The scouts had reported back, and the entire camp had moved out to make contact. “They’re cutting straight across this plateau, and every time Linda spots them, they’re headed for the ships.”
“If you say so,” Lena said. “I have no way of knowing that.”
“So the Castoffs don’t want to be rescued?” John spread his hands. “If you want to stay on Netherop, that’s fine by me. Less thinking.”
Lena glanced at Arne and Oskar, who lay half-conscious and stretched along the deck beside her, then said, “That’s up to the captains. They’re not here.”
“Because they left you behind,” John said. “And went on to the ships without you.”
“What were they supposed to do?” Lena scowled. “Come back and get everyone killed?”
“So they are trying to reach the ships.” John did not bother responding to Lena’s question. She and her companions were still alive, and after their attacks on him and Fred, that was proof enough of Blue Team’s friendly intentions. “Why lie about that? Why not just say so?”
Lena gave him a sidelong look. “Aren’t you trying to reach the ships?”
John dipped his helmet in affirmation. “That’s pretty clear.”
“Are you going to tell me why?”
“I can’t,” John said. “Our mission is classified.”
Lena furrowed her brow. “What does that mean?”
“It means we can’t tell you,” Kelly said. “It’s a secret.”
“So. We have secrets too.”
“Yes, but it’s no secret you want a ride off this planet,” John said. “And we’ll give it to you. All you have to do is ask.”
Lena looked more suspicious than she did interested, but before she could reply, the runner lurched a third time and began to slow. John turned back toward the pilot’s station and saw Fred’s helmet tipped forward over the control globe. The sphere was pulsing yellow, and his hands were gliding over the surface as he tried to regain control.
“What’s wrong?” John asked over TEAMCOM.
“If I knew, we wouldn’t be slowing down,” Fred replied. “I think it just got tired.”
The runner continued to decelerate, and Kelly and Linda both spoke at the same time. “Fuel.”
John turned to Lena. “Are we running out of fuel?”
She hooked a thumb at the heaped coal bins behind her. “Does it look like we’re running out of fuel?”
“Then why is the runner stopping?”
“Because we’re out of power.” She pointed at the access panels in the deck. “The batteries need to be charged.”
“Can we do that and keep traveling?”
Lena rose without replying and went aft between two coal bins. She shot a wary glance at the bullet holes in the back wall of the passenger compartment, then stretched over the back deck and opened the cabinet in front of the sooty pipe. Once the doors had clanged aside, she pulled herself up so she could see into the engine area.
“Not anymore,” she said. “You broke the steamer.”
John peered over her shoulder and saw a sealed tank with half a dozen bullet holes in it. About twice the size of his helmet, it had tubes curving out of the top toward a pair of generators on either side, and it sat atop a grimy firebox fed by a flap-covered feeder chute. A pressure boiler with holes in it wasn’t going to charge anything.
John had no idea why an engineer capable of building a coal-fired engine wouldn’t use it for direct power, rather than adding an intermediary step and using it to charge the batteries of an electric vehicle. But the mountain runners had been built by an extinct alien species, and as was evident in humanity’s all-out war with the Covenant, aliens had their own logic.
“Is there a way to patch the boiler?” John asked.
Lena twisted around and looked up at him as though he were crazy. “You can’t bandage a steamer, John. The pressure is too much.”
John nodded. “I thought you might say that.”
He retreated into the passenger compartment and began to look around at the cabinet doors and floor panels. Blue Team had performed a quick inspection of the cargo areas before setting off, and he didn’t recall seeing anything that looked like a welding torch or spare engine parts. But he wasn’t entirely willing to accept Lena’s assertion that there was no way to repair the boiler either. As much as she wanted her friends to receive medical attention, Lena continued to be secretive about the intentions of the other Castoffs. Maybe it was just good operational security, but John could not help thinking she didn’t want Blue Team anywhere near when the rest of the band reached the two ships.
He looked back toward Lena. “You know, every hour it takes for Oskar and Arne to reach help reduces their chances of—”
John stopped when an emergency alert dinged inside his helmet.
“Of what?” Lena asked. “There’s no trade to make, John. Even if you leave them behind, that steamer can’t be fixed.”
John barely heard her. He was listening to an alarmed message over the emergency channel.
“All UNSC. Phyllis Wheatley reporting imminent attack, Netherop surface, five kilometers from recovery target.” The Wheatley voice was mature and gravelly, so probably a senior officer—or even the captain himself. “We are on a rocky plateau with Covenant boarding party approaching on foot, approximate distance three kilometers, approximate strength one or two hundred, heavy weapons and support vehicles, ETA uncertain but under thirty minutes. Tactical sensors show fighter canopy overhead. Please advise available support. Over.”
“Task Force Pantea inbound with ten squadrons Nandao fighters,” replied a crisp voice. “ETA close orbit twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes, acknowledged. Wait reply.”
“Negative wait,” Pantea said. “Message continues. Enemy stealth vessels inbound, strength eight minimum, planetary insertion imminent though uncertain, probable source of enemy fighter canopy.”
“Eight stealth vessels, acknowledged,” Wheatley replied. “Imminent planetary insertion possible. Acknowledged.”
“Report continues.”
“There’s more?” Wheatley gasped.
“Sorry,” Pantea replied. “Full enemy task force also inbound, destroyers and frigates escorting a cruiser and assault carrier. ETA orbital insertion twenty minutes.”
“Confirm ETA twenty minutes Pantea and enemy task force?”
“Affirmative,” Pantea replied. “We’ll try to insert into a lower orbit and hold off the task force, but no guarantees. It will be close.”
“Acknowledged. Can you provide ground forces?”
“Negative ground forces,” Pantea replied. “We’re a wolf pack. No marines. Over.”
“Negative ground forces acknowledged. Wait reply.”
The runner lurched and slowed again, then slowed some more and lurched to a stop.
Lena, who remained unaware of the exchange John was listening to inside his helmet, came forward and stood in front of him.
“Did you mean what you said—”
John raised a finger, signaling her to wait.
She continued anyway. “—about giving us a ride off the planet?”
John ignored her. He hated to break comm silence by replying over the emergency channel—broadband transmissions were a good way to alert the enemy to one’s location—but the Wheatley needed to know help was on the way.
“Blue Team inbound with four Spartans,” John said. “ETA thirty to forty minutes. Over.”
“Forty would be too late,” Wheatley said. “Once the enemy crosses the canyon, we have to scuttle our ship. We don’t have the personnel to defend it.”
“Acknowledged. Do what you have to.” Even at a full sprint, it would take Blue Team at least twenty minutes to reach the Wheatley—and across unfamiliar terrain, it could easily take them twice as long. “And be advised, there are three vehicles of young castaways ahead of us.”
“Confirm: castaways?” Pantea and Wheatley made the request almost simultaneously; then Wheatley added, “Human castaways? On Netherop?”
“Affirmative. Human castaways.” As John spoke, the rest of Blue Team stood and turned their eyes to the sky, keeping watch for any enemy fighters drawn by their comm signal. “Estimate their strength at twenty, fleeing our location in . . . well, in spider machines.”
“Continue,” Wheatley said.
“Descendants of marooned pirates,” John said. “Hostile approach possible.”
“You mean likely,” Fred said over TEAMCOM. “Those kids think we’re aliens, remember?”
“Correction,” John said, still speaking over the emergency channel. “Hostile approach likely.”
“Acknowledged. Young hostile pirates in spider machines. Sure, why not?” The Wheatley man sighed, then asked, “How about armaments?”
“Microwave-beam weapons mounted on the spider machines,” John said. “Otherwise . . . slingshots and rocks.”
“Slingshots and . . . rocks. Okay, acknowledged.” Wheatley sounded more surprised by the primitive tools than by the mention of an entirely new class of weapons. At this point, they were probably beyond surprise. “Anything else?”
“Negative,” John said. “We’ll be there as soon as possible.”
“Acknowledged . . . and appreciated,” Wheatley said. “Captain Dkani advises: Unless there is a crewman waving you in, board with caution. Utmost caution.”
“Wilco,” John said. Dkani’s unspoken message was clear—if he had to abandon the Wheatley, he was going to leave it booby-trapped. “Out.”
John waited a couple of seconds for any last messages from the Wheatley or Task Force Pantea, then closed the channel and turned to his companions. All three were scanning different thirds of the horizon, looking for inbound fighter craft. They did not bother to search above thirty degrees, as high-angle strafing runs were both ineffective and more dangerous to the attacking craft than to the target.
Still, Covenant.
Before collecting his equipment, John took a moment to crane his neck and look up at the sky overhead—and felt something thunk his hip armor. He glanced down to see Lena holding a lump of coal and pulling back to hit him again.
He activated his voicemitter. “I wouldn’t.”
“About time.” Lena lowered her hand, then looked up and asked, “Did you pull a wire loose or something? I asked you a question.”
“There have been some developments,” John said.
“That’s hard to miss.” Lena spread her arms, her palms turned upward. “We stopped.”
“It’s a bad time to stop,” John said.
“Not my fault.” Lena pointed a hand toward Kelly. “She’s the one who shot up the steamer.”
“That doesn’t matter,” John said. “Unless you can get this thing going again—”
“Do you have a spare steamer somewhere?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then I can’t get it going again.”
“Then you need to keep quiet.” John switched to TEAMCOM so Lena could not hear his orders. “Fred, you’re lead. Linda, move out with me. Kelly, you’re skywatch. Find a safe place to—”
“Hello?” Lena hit him with the coal again. “I’m talking to you!”
