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.

And the closer to death I get, the more I’d prefer God to exist. I have some questions for him. I’m great with questions.

If he made us in his image, why didn’t he make us nicer, kinder, gentler? Or did he make us like this just to see how vile an organism we could become? What kind of god would make us?

Dorsey sticks his head around the door. “Are the ginger nuts okay, ma’am?” he asks.

“Glorious,” I say. “Infinity had better have a supply of these.”

(ADMIRAL MARGARET ORLENDA PARANGOSKY, COMMANDER IN CHIEF, OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE, UNSC)

CHAPTER ONE

ARBITER, I HAVE LOST HIM. THE BRUTES ARE REBELLING AND ONTOM IS IN CHAOS.

(CADAN ‘ILMIR, PILOT AND BODYGUARD TO PROFESSOR EVAN PHILLIPS, GUEST OF THE ARBITER)

TEMPLE OF THE ABIDING TRUTH, ONTOM, SANGHELIOS: MARCH 2553

Evan Phil ips could manage only one thought: Sangheili breath stank.

It was like waking up face to face with an old dog who’d sneaked onto the bed, and it wasn’t just the terrifying mouthful of fangs. Avu Med ‘Telcam, religious zealot and ONI-sponsored insurgent, was kneeling right over him, staring into his eyes. Phil ips could hear a tuning fork singing deep inside his head but the yel s and roars around him were muffled, a world away. He struggled for breath in a fog of brick dust, smoke, and something that smel ed horribly like ammonia. How could he smel al this if he couldn’t breathe?

Oh, God. A bomb. I was walking into the temple, and … He was walking into the temple with ‘Telcam, and ‘Telcam had asked him a real y awkward question about a Sangheili he wasn’t supposed to know.

Jul ‘Mdama. Oh … shit.

And then there’d been an explosion. But Phil ips’s biggest problem right then was getting his breath, fol owed by checking that he had al his limbs and wasn’t bleeding to death light-years from home on a planet where they wouldn’t take kindly to ONI spies.

Because that’s what I am now. Aren’t I?

He kept trying to suck in air. His lungs felt disconnected from his brain, beyond his control, then they relented and a huge, convulsive wheeze shook him. He started coughing so hard that he almost vomited.

“I thought you were dead,” ‘Telcam said. He sounded irritated, as if he thought Phil ips had been shamming. “Can you speak? Are you injured?”

Phil ips’s eyes watered painful y. “Am I bleeding?”

“Not much.” ‘Telcam stood up and started roaring orders, although Phil ips couldn’t see who he was yel ing at. “Is anyone injured? Answer me! Did anyone see what happened?”

Voices cal ed back from the gloom. “A wal has col apsed, Field Master. We’re stil trying to find al our brothers.”

“Be quick about it.” ‘Telcam drew his pistol and stalked toward the outer gates. “And secure the perimeter until we find out who did this.”

Who would attack the temple? It was a sensitive target, sure to cause outrage. Perhaps the Arbiter had worked out where his opposition was coming from and had launched a preemptive strike. And I walked into the middle of it. Should have stuck with Cadan, shouldn’t I? I bet he’s panicking now, trying to find me in case the Arbiter shoots him for losing me. Phil ips eased himself up and tried to stand. Razor-edged rubble cut into his palms. He could hear mayhem outside in the plaza, filtered by the thick wal s around the temple grounds, and the thud of Sangheili feet echoing in the passage behind him. Now that the smoke and dust were settling, he could work out exactly where he was: about twenty meters inside the temple compound, right in the ancient doorway of the Forerunner building.

Nobody seemed to be taking any notice of him. He got to his feet, tested his balance—not great, but at least he could stil hear—and tottered toward the gates.

At least this had kil ed the conversation about Jul. Phil ips hoped ‘Telcam would forget he’d even asked the question, but he doubted it.

Damn, I could have died. Really died. This is getting a bit too real.

His legs were shaking. Now that he stopped to think about it, he realized he could have been kil ed any number of times in the past few months, but it hadn’t felt quite this immediate before. How did Mal and Vaz handle it? Now he understood something at a gut level, something he didn’t have words for, and suddenly the world looked different. Then he remembered.

Oh God. BB. Where the hell is he?

The AI would usual y have been chatting to him in that arch, slightly bitchy way that was somehow incredibly comforting. BB knew al and saw al .

He probably spoke Sangheili even better than Phil ips. But now he was uncharacteristical y silent.

“BB?” Phil ips whispered. He peered down at the coin-sized radio with its pinprick camera lens, unable to see any indicator lights. Military comms equipment was designed to withstand al kinds of shocks, and ONI was certain to have the very best kit that money could buy. “BB, are you okay? You can come out now.”

But the radio remained lifeless. Phil ips took it off his jacket to examine it, and it was only when he held it right up to his eye that he saw the chunks of metal embedded in it like lead shot. It took him a few moments to think that through. The realization made his stomach knot again.

Shrapnel. That would have gone into my chest. Holy shit. So that kind of luck really happens.

He tried to focus on the luck, that a potential y fatal injury had been deflected by that little device, but it didn’t keep him going long. Al kinds of fears and worries were now flooding back. Cadan, the pilot the Arbiter had assigned to take him on a tour of Ontom’s ancient sites, would have heard the explosion and come running to find his charge. And did Osman realize what had happened? Phil ips had been transmitting right up to the moment of the blast, so she must have known his last position. But how was he going to contact her now without a radio and without BB to guide him? Damn, he’d have to find Cadan and get him to contact UNSC. Searching the temple for Forerunner clues to the locations of the other Halo rings would have to wait.