Prologue
OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE, BRAVO-6, SYDNEY, EARTH: MARCH 2553
This job is about trouble.
Seeing trouble coming, neutralizing trouble … and causing trouble for others before they cause it for you.
On a day when there’s no trouble, something’s wrong. There’s always trouble. You simply haven’t noticed it yet, so you have to seek it out before it comes looking for you. But today’s a normal day and I don’t have to hunt. Captain Serin Osman has just reported in from Venezia. She’s cal ing off the mission for the time being and breaking orbit to return to Sanghelios, because we have trouble.
And where’s my damn coffee?
Osman’s lost contact with her Sangheili language expert, Phil ips. One minute he’s spying happily under the noses of his Sangheili hosts, and the next there’s an explosion. Now we’re scrambling to find out what’s happened. The Arbiter’s no fool. He invited Phil ips to visit. He has a reason, and if he’s sane, he has to be suspicious of us. Yes, perhaps it’s al part of genuinely wanting to build bridges with Earth, but I can’t afford to assume the best. My job is about planning for the worst, and making sure that it happens—to Earth’s enemies, anyway. My job isn’t about okay.
The whole point of this mission, the whole raison d’être of the Kilo-Five mission, is to make things as un-okay for the Sangheili as we can, to keep them feuding and fighting while we re-arm and neutralize them once and for al . But we have an operative stranded there with an AI, a civilian academic, not an experienced ONI agent like Osman. So she has to extract him. I’d do the same if I were her. Venezia can wait, after al : it’s been a terrorist haven since before the Covenant War, and it’s not going anywhere. Besides, Mike Spenser is there. A safe pair of hands, our Mike. In this job, you handpick your people. You need the best. You need the most loyal. You need the most ruthless.
And ruthlessness and loyalty in a single human being is a rare combination to find.
So … where’s my coffee? Don’t make me beg, Dorsey. I hit the intercom. “Flag, are you stil alive out there?”
“On its way, ma’am.” Lieutenant Dorsey knows my routine. He’s never normal y this late with my morning mocha. “Sorry. I got stuck on a cal .”
“I’m not getting any younger, Flag.”
He’s a good boy. I couldn’t wish for a better flag lieutenant. So the coffee is on its way. Let’s take a deep breath and assess the situation.
On the plus side, we’ve managed to arm and foster a Sangheili insurrection, and we have both a live Sangheili prisoner and four Huragok, three of which have unique knowledge from the days of the Forerunners. With their assistance, we’re extracting a treasure trove of Forerunner technology from what’s left of Onyx. We’ve also arrested Dr. Catherine God-Almighty Halsey, who’s now making herself useful by incorporating that technology into Infinity. Oh, I waited a long, long time to get her, but it was worth every minute. She wil now do my bidding.
I’d cal that a very productive three months’ work. Wouldn’t you? Excel ent value for the taxpayer.
On the down side, though, Phil ips is potential y in real danger, and by that token so are we. He’s not been trained to resist interrogation. The AI fragment he’s carrying won’t be much use to the Sangheili if he’s caught, but the last thing I need is for ONI’s destabilization policy to become public knowledge.
And there’s another fly paddling around in the ointment. There’s no lid on Venezia now that the Covenant’s col apsed. The rebels can come and go as they please—not just human rebels, alien malcontents too—and the black market’s flooded with hardware and vessels. Everyone’s dusting off their old grudges. We shal be busy.
But on balance … things could be worse. Osman’s doing wel : she’s proving good in the field, although I hope she doesn’t get a taste for it. She’s my anointed, my heir, my successor. The office of CINCONI wil be hers before long, and she has to fil this chair. I have to admit there’s a delicious irony in having a failed Spartan head up the agency.
And Kilo-Five is shaping up, too. There’s a lot to be said for a mixed bag of oddbal s. A few ODSTs, a Spartan, a civilian linguist—and BB. God, I miss Black-Box, but he’s where he needs to be right now. It’s a strange squad. The best ones always are.
Ruthless and loyal, as I said. I like ruthless and loyal.
The door opens and Dorsey trots in, balancing a steaming cup and a smal plate. “Here you go, ma’am,” he says. “And … ginger nuts. That was the cookie you wanted, yes?”
He makes it sound like a strange perversion. He’s not been in Sydney long enough to understand biscuits. It’s hard to find ginger nuts these days. “Indeed it was,” I tel him. “Perfect for dunking. I insist you try some.”
“Okay, ma’am. Thank you.”
There. I’ve metamorphosed ful y from Torquemada to a grandmother foisting cookies on the youngsters. It’s not just to maintain morale. This is my conscience intervening. The older I get, the more I find myself imposing affection and generosity on those around me, as if that can atone for al I’ve done and not done.
I dunk the cookie in the mocha, hold it in the hot liquid for exactly four seconds, and then remove it. This is perfection. Ginger nuts are baked so hard that in a few seconds they absorb just enough coffee to soften the outer layer, but not enough to make them soggy. They yield to the bite, then the interior snaps and gives up its sweet, spicy pungency. A lesser cookie would dissolve and sink to the bottom of the cup in surrender.
Have a cookie. Forget that junior officers cal me organized crime in uniform.
I regret a great deal. I don’t regret much of the dirty work I’ve done, but I think I do regret the SPARTAN-II program. I regret it not only because it was built on something utterly wrong, but also—mainly—because the likes of Catherine Halsey can only do what they do if the likes of me let them, knowingly or otherwise.
I should have kept a closer eye on her. I knew what she was like.
I know what everybody’s like. That’s my job.
I can remember far too much, so many things that I wish I could unsee and unhear. Life’s perverse. Most people in their nineties worry about losing their memory, not about being tormented by its clarity in the smal hours each sleepless night. But such is power. You get it, then you do things with it, and then you have to live with it.
I won’t apologize for saving my world from terrorists and aliens. I don’t owe God any explanations when the time comes. Halsey’s an atheist, so she can look forward to it al being over, real y over, one day. But I’m … agnostic.