Oblivion, page 26
John looked back to Samson. “There’s another bunch of aliens coming,” he said. “They’ll be here in less than an hour, maybe sooner than that.”
Roselle’s brow furrowed. “What’s an hour?”
John had to think for a moment, trying to figure out a measure of time Castoffs would understand, and finally hit upon something all humans had in common. He had his onboard computer display an average person’s respiration rate and multiply it out to an hour.
“You take about nine hundred breaths in an hour.” John had his HUD do a fifteen-second countdown, and when it reached zero, he said, “You just took four breaths.”
“So, not soon,” Samson said.
“Not long either,” John said. “Do you think you can repair an alien spaceship in nine hundred breaths? And learn to fly it—without any help from your ancestors’ learning machines?”
Samson looked over at Roselle, who looked worried.
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” she asked.
“You’ll know in nine hundred breaths,” John said. Fred arrived and took a position on the Castoffs’ right flank, about ten meters from Samson’s runner, then turned so he could watch the crest of the hill behind them. “Trust me that long, and the UNSC will relocate the Castoffs to any world you like—even an insurrectionist one.”
“Tempting. But our ancestors learned the hard way that UNSC promises always are.” Samson continued to look at Roselle. “What if there aren’t any more aliens? What if he’s just trying to stall us?”
“I’m not,” John said. He pointed at Samson’s runner. “But unless those things can fly, you’re not going to beat us across the canyon anyway. And then you’ll be the ones left behind when the aliens come.”
Roselle swallowed hard, then turned to Samson. “Nine hundred breaths is not so long. Maybe we can trust them that much.”
“Smart decision. I’m glad we could come to an agreement,” John said.
He turned and scanned the mountain range for a moment, then spotted a sheltered canyon mouth about a kilometer distant. It opened out of the mountains just before the plateau dipped down into a sweeping bowl and fell away into the mirage basin. He pointed toward the canyon mouth.
“You should be safe enough there, as long as you’re out of sight when the aliens arrive.”
“And we’re going to stay here to fight them?” Fred asked, also on voicemitter.
There was a hint of concern in Fred’s tone, and John knew why. Blue Team had a mission to complete—one that had nothing to do with protecting a bunch of castaway children.
“Negative,” John said. If the Lucky Break’s complement was busy chasing down the Wheatley’s crew, then the Covenant frigate had to be almost empty—and it would be a dereliction of duty not to take advantage of the situation before a platoon of Elite special forces arrived to spoil the opportunity. “We’re going to board the Lucky Break.”
“That makes sense.” There was still a thread of concern in Fred’s voice. “What’s the rest of the team going to do? Hold off the Covenant in the meantime?”
John nodded. Fred was being careful to conceal their true numbers, but he clearly thought John was missing something—and he had an irritating habit of being right about such things.
“You have a better idea?”
“Not really,” Fred said. “But I am wondering who’s going to handle the Wheatley if we let the aliens kill her crew. I mean, I don’t know how to operate a salvage ship. Do you?”
John let his chin drop. He had inadvertently made a strategic error—he’d stretched Blue Team too thin by leaving Kelly behind with Lena and the other injured Castoffs, and now he didn’t have the personnel necessary to get the job done. If he sent Fred to save the Wheatley’s crew, and left Linda to watch over the UNSC ship, then John would have to capture an alien frigate of unknown design without any backup—and even for a Spartan, even boarding a ship down to a skeleton crew, that was a recipe for failure.
If he sent Linda to save the Wheatley’s crew while he and Fred took the Lucky Break, then he would be allowing an enemy special forces platoon to seize control of the salvage ship. They might be smart enough to avoid boarding until they disarmed the booby traps, but if they weren’t, it would mean mission failure. Even if John and Fred could figure out how to fly a Covenant starship, they would have to figure out how to repair it first—and if the frigate could be repaired, it wouldn’t be sitting on a plateau on Netherop waiting to be captured.
And even if the alien special forces platoon resisted the temptation to board the Wheatley and didn’t trigger the self-destruct mechanism, Blue Team would still have to eliminate them in order to regain control of the vessel and capture the Lucky Break. That wasn’t a great option, but at least it was doable.
Especially with Kelly coming up behind the special forces platoon. A Spartan attacking from that angle could do a lot of damage.
“New plan,” John said to Samson. “I want you to take Linda and go after the Wheatley’s crew.”
“Who’s Linda?” Roselle asked.
John switched to TEAMCOM and turned toward the hilltop. “Blue Four, show yourself and approach.”
Linda rose out of the crystal bushes and started down the hill at a jog. Roselle’s mouth fell open, and Samson began to scan the hillside suspiciously.
“How many more of you are hiding up there?” Samson asked.
“You’d be surprised,” Fred said. “Trust me.”
“Linda may need your support when you make contact with the enemy.” John wanted to avoid discussing their true numbers. He had a feeling the Castoffs would be a lot more cooperative if they thought there were dozens of Spartans hidden somewhere in the bushes. “So we’ll arm your best fighters with whatever we can recover from the battlefield.”
“Sure,” Samson said. “What do we get?”
“I told you,” John said. “Relocation to any world you like.”
“That was for staying out of the way,” Roselle said. “Now you are asking us to . . .”
She frowned and looked toward Samson.
“Support them,” Samson said. He looked back to John. “Support sounds dangerous.”
“No more dangerous than what you’ve already been doing.” John didn’t mind that they were taking advantage of the situation to negotiate a better deal—he just didn’t know what they wanted. “And not as dangerous as wasting time we don’t have.”
“But what is it that you want?” Fred asked. “How about a nice new swift-cargo transport . . . and proper training in operating it?”
The Castoffs’ eyes went wide, and John was pretty sure that, inside his helmet, his own expression was just as surprised. Swift-cargos were enduring civilian transport designs, fast enough to avoid being easy prey, but too lightly armed and armored to be converted to raiding ships themselves.
All in all, it was a perfect suggestion.
But Samson and Roselle were nothing if not tough negotiators. They quickly disguised their delight as disappointment, then looked at each other and simultaneously shook their heads.
“No way,” Roselle said. “We want a Sharpfin.”
Fred whistled through his voicemitter. “A Sharpfin is a big ask.”
It was a big ask, though probably not for the reasons Samson and Roselle believed. A century earlier, Sharpfin corvettes had been as popular with pirates as they were with the commercial escort services that used them to guard colonial supply convoys. But by modern standards, the compact vessels were slow, underarmed, and seldom used even for planetary customs patrols.
When Roselle and Samson remained silent and looked expectant, Fred’s voice came over TEAMCOM. “Just sigh and say yes,” he said. “We’ll find one somewhere.”
John heaved a sigh. “You drive a hard bargain,” he said. “But, okay. If you help us get that Covenant ship off Netherop, we’ll get you a Sharpfin.”
Roselle looked happy, but suspicious. “You don’t need to ask a captain? You can make such a trade on your own?”
“Of course he can,” Fred said. “He’s a Master Chief. In our outfit, that’s even better than a captain.”
CHAPTER 16
* * *
* * *
1245 hours, June 7, 2526 (military calendar)
Ambush Site Alpha, Forgotten Highway
Mountains of Despair, Planet Netherop, Ephyra System
That blur coming down the road was no mirage, Amalea Petrov decided. Despite her cloudy vision and muddied thoughts—mud, now wouldn’t that be nice? A nice, cool mud bath in the Neos Atlantis Commander’s Spa, a little Basumi Peat mixed with Yentog Ash Slurry, a flute of cold zantelle to sip . . .
“Commander, I don’t know if ambushing this thing is a good idea.”
Right, the ambush. There was an alien transport vehicle coming down the road, and apparently it was real. Amalea looked over at the marine next to her. A round-faced woman with black hair, Sesi Cacyuk lay with one eye pressed to the scope of a BR55 battle rifle. Her cheeks were red and dry, her eyes were glassy, and her brow was furrowed beneath a pounding headache. In short, she looked like Amalea felt.
“Lieutenant,” Amalea said, “we need that transport.”
“Yes, ma’am. I know.”
They had lost four crew members and two marines to the heat in the last five hours—and advanced only two kilometers before Amalea realized it would be suicide to continue walking. Exercise only raised their body temperature, and it didn’t matter that they still had all the water they could drink.
“It’s just . . .” She passed the BR55 to Amalea. “Well, have a look.”
Amalea pointed the weapon toward the approaching blur and pressed her eye to the scope. The blur did not resolve into a clearer image, but it doubled in size, revealing itself to be an arch-shaped vehicle floating on an invisible cushion of force. So definitely Covenant—no surprise there.
“What am I looking at?”
“Check the cockpits,” Cacyuk said. “Above the carrier pod.”
Amalea raised the scope just a touch, centering it on the top of the arch. A pair of heads grew visible, each protruding above the lip of a separate opening. They were still indiscernible and shimmering in the heat, but the last thing they looked was alien.
The one in front wore a familiar blue helmet with a distinctive bubble-shaped faceplate. Almost certainly Kelly-087—Amalea had heard the Wheatley’s emergency transmission regarding the Covenant boarding party, and John’s reporting that four Spartans were moving to assist. She could only assume that the battle had gone well, and John had sent a captured transport back to pick up what remained of First Platoon and the Night Watch crew.
It was the small head in the second cockpit that was confusing. There seemed to be a long mane of stringy blond hair hanging from it, and Amalea thought she could make out the pale oval of a tiny, gaunt, human face.
“What the hell?” During the emergency exchange with the Wheatley, Amalea had heard John say something about castaways—which had seemed so unlikely that she had begun to think she might be having heat-stroke hallucinations. But even if she had heard correctly, she saw no reason for him to send one back with Kelly. “Is that a kid?”
“Okay, good,” Cacyuk said. “I thought I was seeing things.”
“If so, we both are.” Amalea passed the BR55 back to Cacyuk. “Keep everyone behind cover until I give the all-clear.”
Amalea climbed out of the gully and descended the slope. By the time she reached the road, the transport was already drawing near. The refraction blur had dwindled to almost nothing, and there could be no doubt that it was Kelly-087 in the driver’s cockpit.
But Amalea found her gaze fixed on the figure in the second cockpit. With a face that was almost skeletal, the human girl appeared on the verge of starvation. Yet her blue eyes were bright and alert, her expression just shy of open hostility.
Kelly brought the vehicle to a stop and lowered the parking struts, then ran her gaze across the hill, allowing it to linger an instant on each firing team’s hiding place. Her accuracy was uncanny.
Then the Spartan looked back to Amalea and offered a salute. “Good day, Commander.” She touched something inside the cockpit, and the boarding ramps on each side of the carrier pod folded down. “I need eighteen marines on the double.”
First Platoon had only twenty marines, including their lieutenant, remaining. Still, Amalea nodded and used her helmet mic to comm Cacyuk.
“Bring everyone down.” Once Cacyuk had acknowledged, Amalea looked back to Kelly. “Sitrep?”
“I assume you heard the Wheatley’s emergency transmission?”
“Affirmative.” Amalea checked her chronometer. The transmission had occurred less than an hour earlier, but she had lost two crew members since then, and it felt like ancient history. “I don’t understand what the aliens were thinking. Why attack the Wheatley instead of waiting us out?”
“My best guess is they’re not expecting rescue and hope to capture a means to leave the planet. But who knows?”
“Wait,” Amalea said. “You sound like the fight isn’t over yet.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Kelly said. “John and the others should be there by now—”
“Then what are you doing here?” Amalea glanced at the girl. “With her?”
“Ma’am, that’s what I’m trying to explain.”
Amalea felt her stomach clench. She was committing a cardinal sin of command, talking when she should be listening. It was a symptom of her half-cooked brain. Had to be.
“. . . so we need to bring support forward as fast as we can,” Kelly was saying. “I doubt John knows they’re behind him.”
Damn. Now Amalea was thinking instead of listening. “They?”
“The special forces unit, ma’am.” Kelly’s tone was worried—or perhaps merely impatient. “In the other Umbra.”
“Right,” Amalea said. Cacyuk had now arrived with the marines and what remained of her crew, so Amalea waved them up the boarding ramps. “Let’s move out. Load up.”
The marines ascended and started to secure themselves into the transportation pods, but almost immediately, shouting erupted at the top of a ramp. Amalea turned to find a handful of marines arguing with each other and the three remaining members of her crew. Cacyuk stood at the base of the ramp, studying the carrier pod and scowling.
After a moment, she bellowed, “That’s enough! Stand down!”
The shouting stopped immediately, but no one descended the ramp. Amalea went to Cacyuk’s side and quickly saw the problem. There were ten troop stations on each side of the carrier pod, for a total of twenty slots. Two slots were already occupied by frightened-looking castaway boys. Amalea was livid at this new discovery but did not take the time to ask for an explanation.
That left eighteen slots left for twenty-four men and women, and crowding in was not a possibility. Each station was shaped like a padded coffin, with thick inflatable cushions that expanded to hold the occupant steady while the vehicle moved. From the look of it, even the skinny boys would not be able to ride in the same station without the danger of being crushed.
It was obvious that someone needed to take control of the situation—and that someone had to be her. Amalea stepped to the front of the vehicle, where she would be able to watch both sides.
“This isn’t a taxi service!” she called. “If you’re not a marine, step off the transport!”
Her crew members glared at her in disbelief and obvious anger, their expressions showing the betrayal they felt. She tried not to care. The important thing was the mission, and at the moment, they weren’t important to completing it.
“Now. If I have to ask the Spartan to remove you . . .” She pointed out over the mirage basin. “You’ll find yourselves learning to fly.”
Her crew quickly descended the ramps, leaving only nineteen enlisted marines and the two castaway boys in the carrier pod. If she removed the boys, and the girl in the cockpit behind Kelly, the transport would be able to carry all of the marines, plus their lieutenant and Amalea herself.
Amalea looked up at the girl. “You and your friends, too,” she said. “You can wait with the crew until we send the transport back.”
“And you can jump off that cliff,” the girl shot back. “We were here first.”
“I’m sorry,” Amalea said. “But this is a military necessity. Being first doesn’t matter.”
“It does to us. Kelly wouldn’t have captured this thing without our help. We’re not leaving.” She stretched down and patted Kelly on the helmet. “Right?”
“It isn’t my decision,” Kelly said. As she spoke, she was looking at Amalea. “But they did help with the capture. And we would probably be better off bringing them along.”
Amalea frowned. She had the feeling Kelly was trying to tell her something, but she wasn’t quite sure what. Was the problem due to the heat affecting her mind? Or was the Spartan being too subtle?
No. Spartans didn’t do subtle.
Amalea decided to try one more time. She looked to the girl again. “You clearly have the skills to survive here. You’d find the UNSC very grateful—”
Kelly’s chin dropped toward her chest, and Amalea realized she had made a blunder. She just wished her head was clear enough to figure out what it had been.
“—if you helped my crew until we return.”
Kelly didn’t even give the girl a chance to reply. “Ma’am, begging your pardon, but we need to move out now. We’ll be arriving late to the fight as it is.”
“Very well,” Amalea said.
Whatever Kelly was trying to say, she apparently didn’t think it would be wise to leave the children behind. And maybe she was right. As young and malnourished as the castaways appeared, they were in better shape than some of the troops.
Amalea turned to Lieutenant Cacyuk. “Pick your sixteen best marines.” She specified that number because both she and Cacyuk would be going along, as well. First Platoon needed its lieutenant, and—judging by Kelly’s presence here instead of with her fellow Spartans—Blue Team needed her. “Leave the others to be retrieved with my crew.”
