John and Sam crept through the underbrush and then hunkered down at the edge of a meadow. The dropship sat in the center of the grassy field; her floodlights illuminated everything for thirty meters. Six men sat on the open launch ramp, smoking cigarettes and passing a canteen between themselves. Sam motioned to drop back. “You recognize them?” he whispered. “No. You?” Sam shook his head. “They’re not in uniform. They don’t look like any soldiers I’ve ever seen. Maybe they’re rebels. Maybe they stole the dropship and killed the Chief.” “No way,” John said. “Nothing can kill the Chief. But one thing’s for sure: I don’t think we can just walk up there and get a free ride back to the base. Let’s go back.” They crept back into the woods and then explained the situation to the others. “What do you want to do?” Kelly asked him. John wondered why she thought he had an answer. He looked around and saw everyone was watching him, waiting for him to speak. He shifted on his feet. He had to say something. “Okay… we don’t know who these men are or what they’ll do when they see us. So we find out.” The children nodded, seeming to think this was the right thing to do. “Here’s how,” John told them. “First, I’ll need a rabbit.” “That’s me,” Kelly said, and sprang to her feet. “I’m the fastest.” “Good,” John said. “You go to the edge of the meadow—and then let them see you. I’ll go along and hide nearby and watch. In case anything happens to you, I’ll report back to the others.” She nodded. “Then you lure a few back here. Run right past this spot. Sam, you’ll be out in the open, pretending like you’ve broken your leg.” “Gotcha,” Sam said. He walked over to Fhajad and had him scrape his shin with his boot. Blood welled from the wound. “The rest of you,” John said, “wait in the woods in a big circle. If they try to do anything but help Sam…” John made a fist with his right hand and slammed it into his open palm. “Remember the moose and the wolves?” They all nodded and grinned. They had seen that lesson many times in Déjà’s classroom. “Get some rocks,” John told them. Kelly stripped off her parka, stretched her legs and knees. “Okay,” she said, “let’s do this.” Sam lay down, clutching his leg. “Oooh—it hurts, help me.” “Don’t overdo it,” John said, and kicked some dirt on him. “Or they’ll know it’s a setup.” John and Kelly then crept toward the meadow and halted a few meters from the edge. He whispered to her, “If you want me to be the rabbit…” She slugged him in the shoulder—hard. “You think I can’t do my part?” “I take it back,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. John moved off ten meters to her flank, took cover, and watched.


The Fall of Reach -- Nylund, Eric S_ -- Halo en 1, 2001 -- ePubLibre -- c9ac8e2f4e1adc3ba1e720ba6cdbd1fd -- Anna’s Archive.5

Kelly emerged at the edge of the meadow, stepping into the illumination from the dropship’s floodlights. “Hey!” she said, and waved her arms over her head. “Over here. You got any food? I’m starving.” The men slowly stood and pulled out stun batons. “There’s one,” John heard them whisper. “I’ll get her. The rest of you stay here and wait for the others.” The man cautiously approached Kelly, a stun baton held behind his back so she couldn’t see it. She stayed put and waited for him to get closer. “Hang on a sec,” she said. “I dropped my jacket back there. I’ll be right back.” She turned and ran. The man leaped after her, but she had already vanished into the shadows. “Stop!” “This will be too easy,” one of the other men said. “Kids won’t know what hit them.” Another remarked, “Fish in a barrel.” John had heard enough. He ran after Kelly, but realized that neither he nor the other man had a chance to catch her. He halted when he got close to where Sam lay. The man stopped. He looked around, his eyes not quite adjusted to the dark, then spotted Sam on the ground holding his bloody leg. “Please, help me,” Sam whimpered. “It’s broken.” “I got your broken leg right here, kid.” The man raised his baton. John picked up a rock. He threw it, but missed. The man spun around. “Who’s there?” Sam rolled to his feet and darted away. There was a rustling in the forest, then a hail of stones whistled through the trees, pelting the man. Kelly appeared and sidearmed a rock as hard as she could—and hit the man dead center in the forehead. He toppled and slammed into the ground. The other children moved in. “What do we do with him?” Sam asked. “It’s just an exercise, right?” Fhajad said. “He has to be with Mendez.” John rolled the man over. A trickle of blood snaked from his head into his eye socket. “You heard him,” John whispered. “You saw what he was going to do to Sam. Mendez or our trainers would never do that to us. Ever. He’s got no uniform. No insignias. He’s not one of us.” John kicked the man in the face and then the ribs. The man reflexively curled into a ball. “Get his baton.” Sam grabbed the weapon. He kicked him, too. “Now we go back and get the others,” John told them. “Kelly, you be the rabbit again. Just get them to the edge of the clearing. Duck out, and let us do the rest.” She nodded and started back to the meadow. The rest of the squad fanned out, collecting rocks along the way. After a minute Kelly stepped onto the grassy field and shouted, “That guy fell and hit his head. Over here!” The five remaining men stood and ran toward her. When they were close enough, John whistled. The air suddenly swarmed with stones.


The Fall of Reach -- Nylund, Eric S_ -- Halo en 1, 2001 -- ePubLibre -- c9ac8e2f4e1adc3ba1e720ba6cdbd1fd -- Anna’s Archive.6

The men held up their hands and tried to protect themselves. They dropped and covered their heads. John whistled again and seventy-five children charged screaming toward the bewildered men. The men got up to defend themselves. They looked stunned—like they couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Sam smashed his baton over a man’s head. Fhajad was hit squarely in the face by one man’s fist, and he fell. The men were overwhelmed by a wave of flesh, beaten to the ground with fists and stones and boots until they no longer moved. John stood over their bleeding bodies. He was mad. They would have hurt him and his squad. He wanted to kick in their skulls. He took a deep breath and then exhaled. He had better things to do and bigger problems to figure out—anger would have to wait. “Want to call Mendez now?” Sam asked as he pulled Fhajad shakily to his feet. “Not yet,” John told him. He marched onto the dropship. No one else was on board. John accessed the COM system and opened the mail link. He linked up with Déjà. Her face appeared, a scratchy hologram hovering over the terminal. “Good evening, Trainee 117,” she said. “Do you have a homework question?” “Kind of,” he replied. “One of CPO Mendez’s assignments.” “Ah.” After a moment’s pause she said, “Very well.” “I’m in an Albatross dropship. There’s no pilot, but I need to get home. Teach me to fly it, please.” Déjà shook her head. “You are not rated to fly that craft, trainee. But I can help. Do you see the winged icon in the corner of your screen? Tap it three times.” John tapped it and a hundred icons and displays filled the screen. “Touch the green arrows at nine o’clock twice,” she told him. He did and then the words autopilot activated flashed on-screen. “I have control now,” Déjà said. “I will get you home.” “Hang on a second,” John said and ran outside. “Everyone onboard—double time!” The children ran onto the ship. Kelly paused and asked, “Who’s getting left behind?” “No one,” John said. “Just get in.” He made sure he was the last on the ship, then said, “Okay, Déjà, get out us out of here.” The dropship’s jets roared to life and it rose into the sky. * * * John stood at attention in Chief Petty Officer Mendez’s office. He had never been in here. No one had. A trickle of sweat dripped down his back. The dark wood paneling and the smell of cigar smoke made him feel claustrophobic. Mendez glowered at John as he read the report on his clipboard. The door opened and Dr. Halsey walked in. Mendez stood, gave her a curt nod and then sat back in his padded chair. “Hello, John,” Dr. Halsey said. She sat across from Mendez, crossed her legs, and then adjusted her gray skirt. “Dr. Halsey,” John replied instantly. He saluted.


The Fall of Reach -- Nylund, Eric S_ -- Halo en 1, 2001 -- ePubLibre -- c9ac8e2f4e1adc3ba1e720ba6cdbd1fd -- Anna’s Archive.7

None of the other grown-ups called him by his first name, ever. He didn’t understand why she did. “Trainee 117,” Mendez snapped. “Tell me again why you stole UNSC property… and why you attacked the men I had assigned to guard it.” John wanted to explain that he was just doing what had to be done. That he was sorry. That he would do anything to make it up. But John knew the Chief hated whiners, almost as much as he hated excuses. “Sir,” John said. “The guards were out of uniform. No insignia. They failed to identify themselves, sir!” “Hmm,” Mendez mused over the report again. “So it seems. And the ship?” “I took my squad home, sir. I was the last onboard—so if anyone should have been left—” “I didn’t ask for a passenger list, Crewman.” His voice softened to a growl and he turned to Dr. Halsey. “What are we going to do with this one?” “Do?” She pushed her glasses higher on her nose and examined John. “I think that’s obvious, Chief. Make him a Squad Leader.”


The Fall of Reach -- Nylund, Eric S_ -- Halo en 1, 2001 -- ePubLibre -- c9ac8e2f4e1adc3ba1e720ba6cdbd1fd -- Anna’s Archive.1

Chapter Six 1130 HOURS MARCH 09, 2525 (MILITARY CALENDAR) / EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM, OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE MEDICAL FACILITY, IN ORBIT AROUND PLANET REACH “I want that transmission decoded now,” Dr. Halsey snapped at Déjà. “The encryption scheme is extremely complex,” replied Déjà with a hint of irritation in her normally glass-smooth voice. “I don’t even know why they bothered. Who else but Beta-5 Division even has the resources to use this data?” “Spare me the banter, Déjà. I’m not in the mood. Just concentrate on the decryption.” “Yes, Doctor.” Dr. Halsey paced across the antiseptic white tile of the Observation Room. One side of the room was filled with floor-to-ceiling terminals that monitored the vital signs of the children—test subjects, she corrected herself. They displayed drug uptake rates and winking green, blue, and red status indicators: EKGs, pulse rates, and a hundred other pieces of medical data. The other side of the observation room overlooked dozens of translucent domes, windows into the surgical bays on the level below. Each bay was a sealed environment staffed with the best surgeons and biotechnicians that the Office of Naval Intelligence could drum up. The bays had been scrubbed and irradiated and were in the final preparation stages to receive and hold the special biohazardous materials. “Done,” Déjà announced. “The file awaits your inspection, Doctor.” Dr. Halsey stopped her pacing and sat. “On my glasses, please, Déjà.” Her glasses scanned retinal and brain patterns, and the security barrier of the file lifted. With a blink of her eyes, she opened the file. It read: UNITED NATIONS SPACE COMMAND PRIORITY TRANSMISSION 09872H-98 ENCRYPTION CODE: RED PUBLIC KEY: FILE /EXCISED ACCESS OMEGA/ FROM: ADMIRAL YSIONRIS JEROMI, CHIEF MEDICAL OFFICER, UNSC RESEARCH STATION HOPEFUL TO: DR. CATHERINE ELIZABETH HALSEY M.D.,PH.D., SPECIAL CIVILIAN CONSULTANT (CIVILIAN IDENTIFICATION NUMBER: 10141-026-SRB4695) SUBJECT: MITIGATING FACTORS AND RELATIVE BIOLOGICAL RISKS ASSOCIATED WITH QUERIED EXPERIMENTAL MEDICAL PROCEDURES CLASSIFICATION: RESTRICTED (BGX DIRECTIVE) /START FILE/ CATHERINE, I AM AFRAID FURTHER ANALYSIS HAS YIELDED NO VIABLE ALTERNATIVES TO MITIGATE THE RISKS IN YOUR PROPOSED “HYPOTHETICAL” EXPERIMENTATION. I HAVE, HOWEVER, ATTACHED THE SYNOPSIS OF MY TEAM’S FINDINGS AS WELL AS ALL RELEVANT CASE STUDIES. PERHAPS YOU WILL FIND THEM USEFUL. I HOPE IT IS A HYPOTHETICAL STUDY… THE USE OF BONOBOS IN YOUR PROPOSAL IS TROUBLESOME. THESE ANIMALS ARE EXPENSIVE AND RARE NOW SINCE THEY ARE NO LONGER BRED IN CAPTIVITY. I WOULD HATE TO SEE SUCH VALUABLE SPECIMENS WASTED IN SOME SECTION THREE PROJECT. BEST, Y.J. She winced at the veiled rebuke in the Admiral’s communiqué. He had never approved of her decision to work with the Office of Naval Intelligence, and made his disappointment with his star pupil evident every time she visited Hopeful. It was hard enough to justify the morality of the course she was about to embark upon. Jeromi’s disapproval only made her decision more difficult. Dr. Halsey gritted her teeth and returned to the report. SYNOPSIS OF CHEMICAL/BIOLOGICAL RISKS WARNING: THE FOLLOWING PROCEDURES ARE CLASSIFIED LEVEL-3 EXPERIMENTAL.


The Fall of Reach -- Nylund, Eric S_ -- Halo en 1, 2001 -- ePubLibre -- c9ac8e2f4e1adc3ba1e720ba6cdbd1fd -- Anna’s Archive.2

PRIMATE TEST SUBJECTS MUST BE CLEARED THROUGH UNSC QUARTERMASTER GENERAL OFFICE CODE: OBF34. FOLLOW GAMMA CODE BIOHAZARD DISPOSAL PROTOCOL. 1. CARBIDE CERAMIC OSSIFICATION: ADVANCED MATERIAL GRAFTING ONTO SKELETAL STRUCTURES TO MAKE BONES VIRTUALLY UNBREAKABLE. RECOMMENDED COVERAGE NOT TO EXCEED 3 PERCENT TOTAL BONE MASS BECAUSE SIGNIFICANT WHITE BLOOD CELL NECROSIS. SPECIFIC RISK FOR PRE- AND NEAR-POSTPUBESCENT ADOLESCENTS: SKELETAL GROWTH SPURTS MAY CAUSE IRREPARABLE BONE PULVERIZATION. SEE ATTACHED CASE STUDIES. 2. MUSCULAR ENHANCEMENT INJECTIONS: PROTEIN COMPLEX IS INJECTED INTRAMUSCULARLY TO INCREASE TISSUE DENSITY AND DECREASE LACTASE RECOVERY TIME. RISK: 5 PERCENT OF TEST SUBJECTS EXPERIENCE A FATAL CARDIAC VOLUME INCREASE. 3. CATALYTIC THYROID IMPLANT: PLATINUM PELLET CONTAINING HUMAN GROWTH HORMONE CATALYST IS IMPLANTED IN THE THYROID TO BOOST GROWTH OF SKELETAL AND MUSCLE TISSUES. RISK: RARE INSTANCES OF ELEPHANTIASIS. SUPPRESSED SEXUAL DRIVE. 4. OCCIPITAL CAPILLARY REVERSAL: SUBMERGENCE AND BOOSTED BLOOD VESSEL FLOW BENEATH THE RODS AND CONES OF SUBJECT’S RETINA. PRODUCES A MARKED VISUAL PERCEPTION INCREASE. RISK: RETINAL REJECTION AND DETACHMENT. PERMANENT BLINDNESS. SEE ATTACHED AUTOPSY REPORTS. 5. SUPERCONDUCTING FIBRIFICATION OF NEURAL DENDRITES: ALTERATION OF BIOELECTRICAL NERVE TRANSDUCTION TO SHIELDED ELECTRONIC TRANSDUCTION. THREE HUNDRED PERCENT INCREASE IN SUBJECT REFLEXES. ANECDOTAL EVIDENCE OF MARKED INCREASE IN INTELLIGENCE, MEMORY, AND CREATIVITY. RISK: SIGNIFICANT INSTANCES OF PARKINSON’S DISEASE AND FLETCHER’S SYNDROME. /END FILE/ PRESS ENTER TO OPEN LINKED ATTACHMENTS. Dr. Halsey closed the file. She erased all traces of it—sent Déjà to track the file pathways all the way back to Hopeful and destroy Admiral Jeromi’s notes and files relative to this incident. She removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry,” Déjà said. “I, too, had hoped there would be some new process to lower the risks.” Dr. Halsey sighed. “I have doubts, Déjà. I thought the reasons so compelling when we first started project SPARTAN. Now? I… I just don’t know.” “I have been over the ONI projections of Outer Colony stability three times, Doctor. Their conclusion is correct: massive rebellion within twenty years unless drastic military action is taken. And you know the ‘drastic military action’ the brass would like. The SPARTANS are our only option to avoid overwhelming civilian losses. They will be the perfect pinpoint strike force. They can prevent a civil war.” “Only if they survive to fulfill that mission,” Dr. Halsey countered. “We should delay the procedures. More research needs to be done. We could use the time to work on MJOLNIR. We need time to—” “There is another reason to proceed expeditiously,” Déjà said. “Although I am loath to bring this to your attention, I must. If the Office of Naval Intelligence detects a delay in their prize project, you will likely be replaced by someone who harbors… fewer doubts. And regrettably for the children, most likely someone less qualified.” “I hate this.” Dr. Halsey got up and strode to the fire exit. “And sometimes, Déjà, I hate you, too.” She left the observation room. Mendez was waiting for her in the hallway. “Walk with me, Chief,” she said.


The Fall of Reach -- Nylund, Eric S_ -- Halo en 1, 2001 -- ePubLibre -- c9ac8e2f4e1adc3ba1e720ba6cdbd1fd -- Anna’s Archive.3

He followed without a word as they took the stairs to the pre-op wing of the hospital. They entered room 117. John lay in bed and an IV drip was attached to his arm. His head had been shaved and incision vectors had been lasered onto his entire body. Despite these indignities, Dr. Halsey marveled at what a spectacular physical specimen he had grown into. Fourteen years old and he had the body of an eighteen-year-old Olympic athlete, and a mind the equal of any Naval Academy honors graduate. Dr. Halsey forced the best smile she could muster. “How are you feeling?” “I’m fine, ma’am,” John replied groggily. “The nurse said the sedation would take effect soon. I’m fighting it to see how long I can stay awake.” His eyelids fluttered. “It’s not easy.” John spotted Mendez and he struggled to sit up and salute, but failed. “I know this is one of the Chief’s exercises. But I don’t know what the twist is. Can you tell me, Dr. Halsey? Just this time? How do I win?” Mendez looked away. Dr. Halsey leaned closer to John as he closed his eyes and started to breathe deeply. “I’ll tell you how to win, John,” she whispered. “You have to survive.”


Chapter Seven 0000 HOURS MARCH 30, 2525 (MILITARY CALENDAR) / UNSC CARRIER ATLAS EN ROUTE TO THE LAMBDA SERPENTIS SYSTEM “And so we commit the bodies of our fallen brothers to space.” Mendez solemnly closed his eyes for a moment, the ceremony completed. He pressed a control and the ash canisters moved slowly into the ejection tubes… and the void beyond. John stood rigidly at attention. The carrier’s missile launch bays—normally cramped, overcrowded, and bustling with activity—were unusually quiet. The Atlas’ firing deck had been cleared of munitions and crew. Long, unadorned black banners now hung from the bay’s overhead gantries. “Honors… ten hut!” Mendez barked. John and the other surviving Spartans saluted in unison. “Duty,” Mendez said. “Honor and self-sacrifice. Death does not diminish these qualities in a soldier. We shall remember.” A series of thumps resounded through the Atlas’ hull as the canisters were hurled into space. The view screen flickered and displayed a field of stars. The canisters appeared one by one, quickly falling behind the carrier as it continued on its course. John watched. With each of the stainless-steel cylinders that drifted by, he felt that he was losing a part of himself. It felt like leaving his people behind. Mendez’s face might as well been chiseled from stone, for all the emotion it showed. He finished his protracted salute and then said, “Crewmen, dismissed.” Not everything had been lost. John glanced around the launch chamber; Sam, Kelly, and thirty others still stood at attention in their black dress uniforms. They had made it unharmed through the last—“mission” wasn’t quite the right word. More or less. There were a dozen others, though, who had lived… but were no longer soldiers. It hurt John to look at them. Fhajad sat in a wheelchair, shaking uncontrollably. Kirk and René were in neutral-buoyancy gel tanks, breathing through respirators; their bones had been so twisted they no longer looked human. There were others, still alive, but with injuries so critical they could not be moved. Orderlies pushed Fhajad and the other injured toward the elevator. John strode toward them and stopped, blocking their path. “Stand fast, Crewman,” he demanded. “Where are you taking my men?” The orderly halted and his eyes widened. He swallowed and then said, “I, sir… I have my orders, sir.” “Squad Leader,” Mendez called out. “A moment.” “Stay,” John told the orderly, and marched to face Chief Mendez. “Yes, sir.” “Let them go,” Mendez said quietly. “They can’t fight anymore. They don’t belong here.” John inadvertently glanced at the view screen and the long line of canisters as they shrank in the distance. “What will happen to my men?” “The Navy takes care of its own,” Mendez replied, and lifted his chin a little higher. “They may no longer be the fastest or the strongest soldiers—but they still have sharp minds. They can still plan missions, analyze data, troubleshoot ops…” John exhaled a sigh of relief.


“That’s all any of us ask for, sir: a chance to serve.” He turned to face Fhajad and the others. He snapped to attention and saluted. Fhajad managed to raise one shaking arm and return the salute. The orderlies wheeled them away. John looked at what remained of his squad. None of them had moved since the memorial ceremony. They were waiting for their next mission. “Our orders, sir?” John asked. “Two days full bed rest, Squad Leader. Then microgravity physical therapy aboard the Atlas until you recover from the side effects of your augmentation.” Side effects. John flexed his hand. He was clumsy now. Sometimes he could barely walk without falling. Dr. Halsey had assured him that these “side effects” were a good sign. “Your brain must relearn how to move your body with faster reflexes and stronger muscles,” she told him. But his eyes hurt, and they bled a little in the morning, too. He had constant headaches. Every bone in his body ached. John didn’t understand any of this. He only knew that he had a duty to perform—and now he feared he wouldn’t be able to. “Is that all, sir?” he asked Mendez. “No,” the Chief replied. “Déjà will be running your squad through the dropship pilot simulator as soon as they are up to it. And,” he added, “if they are up for the challenge, she wanted to cover some more organic chemistry and complex algebra.” “Yes, sir,” John replied, “we’re up to the challenge.” “Good.” John continued to stand fast. “Was there something else, Squad Leader?” John furrowed his brow, hesitated, and then finally said, “I was Squad Leader. The last mission was therefore my responsibility… and members of my squad died. What did I do wrong?” Mendez stared at John with his impenetrable black eyes. He glanced at the squad, then back to John. “Walk with me.” He led John to the view screen. He stood and watched as the last of the canisters vanished into the darkness. “A leader must be ready to send the soldiers under his command to their deaths,” Mendez said without turning to face John. “You do this because your duty to the UNSC supersedes your duty to yourself or even your crew.” John looked away from the view screen. He couldn’t look at the emptiness anymore. He didn’t want to think of his teammates—friends who were like brothers and sisters to him—forever lost. “It is acceptable,” Mendez said, “to spend their lives if necessary.” He finally turned and met John’s gaze. “It is not acceptable, however, to waste those lives. Do you understand the difference?” “I… believe I understand, sir,” John said. “But which was it on this last mission? Lives spent? Or lives wasted?” Mendez turned back toward the blackness of space and didn’t answer. 0430 HOURS, APRIL 22, 2525 (MILITARY CALENDAR) / UNSC CARRIER ATLAS ON PATROL IN THE LAMBDA SERPENTIS SYSTEM John oriented himself as he entered the gym.


From the stationary corridor, it was easy to see that this section of the Atlas rotated. Like other ships of this age, acceleration gave the circular walls a semblance of gravity. Unlike the other portions of the dated carrier, however, this section wasn’t cylindrical, but rather a segmented cone. The outer portion was wider and rotated more slowly than the narrower inner portion—simulating gravitational forces from one quarter to two gravities along the length of the gym. There were free weights, punching and speed bags, a boxing ring, and machines to stretch and tone every muscle group. No one else was up this early. He had the place to himself. John started with arm curls. He went to the center section, calibrated at one gee, and picked up a twenty-kilogram dumbbell. It felt wrong—too light. The spin must be off. He set the weights down and picked up a forty-kilogram set. That felt right. For the last three weeks the Spartans had gone through a daily routine of stretching, isometric exercises, light sparring drills, and lots of eating. They were under orders to consume five high-protein meals a day. After every meal they had to report to the ship’s medical bay for a series of mineral and vitamin injections. John was looking forward to getting back to Reach and his normal routine. There were only thirty-two other soldiers left in his squad. Thirty candidates had “washed out” of the Spartan program; they died during the augmentation process. The other dozen, suffering from side effects of the process, had been permanently reassigned within the Office of Naval Intelligence. He missed them all, but he and the others had to go on—they had to recover and prove themselves all over again. John wished Chief Mendez had warned him. He could have prepared. Maybe that was the trick to the last mission—to learn to be prepared for anything. He wouldn’t let his guard down again. He took a seat at the leg machine, set it to the maximum weight—but it felt too light. He moved to the high-gee end of the gym. Things felt normal again. John worked every machine, then moved to a speed bag, a leather ball attached to the floor and ceiling by a thick elastic band. There were only certain allowed frequencies at which the bag could be hit, or it gyrated chaotically. His fist jabbed forward, cobra-quick, and struck. The speed bag moved, but slowly, like it was underwater… far too slowly considering how hard he had hit it. The tension on the line must be turned way down. He twanged the line and it hummed. It was tight. Was everything broken in this room? He pulled a pin from the locking collar on the bench press. John walked to the center section—supposedly one gee. He held the pin a meter off the deck and dropped it. It clattered on the deck. It looked as if it had fallen normally… but somehow it also looked slow to John.


The Fall of Reach -- Nylund, Eric S_ -- Halo en 1, 2001 -- ePubLibre -- c9ac8e2f4e1adc3ba1e720ba6cdbd1fd -- Anna’s Archive.4

He set the timer on his watch and dropped the pin again. Forty-five-hundredths of a second. One meter in about a half second. He forgot the formula for distance and acceleration, so he ran through the calculus and rederived the equation. He even did the square root. He frowned. He had always struggled with math before. The answer was a gravitational acceleration of nine point eight meters per second squared. One standard gee. So the room was rotating correctly. He was out of calibration. His experiment was cut short. Four men entered the gym. They were out of uniform, wearing only shorts and boots. Their heads were cleanly shaven. They were all heavily muscled, lean, and fit. The largest of the four was taller than John. Scars covered one side of his face. John could tell they were Special Forces—Orbital Drop Shock Troopers. The ODSTs had the traditional tattoos burned onto their arms: DROP JET JUMPERS and FEET FIRST INTO HELL. “Helljumpers”—the infamous 105th. John had overheard mess hall chatter about them. They had a reputation for success… and for brutality, even against fellow soldiers. John gave them a polite nod. They just brushed past him and started on the high-gravity free weights. The largest ODST lifted the bar of the bench press. He struggled and the bar wavered unsteadily. The iron plates on the right end slid off and fell to the deck. The opposite end of the bar tilted, and he dropped the weight, almost crushing his spotter’s foot. Startled by the noise, John jumped up. “What the—” The big ODST stood and glared at the locking collar that had slipped off. “Someone took the pin.” He growled and turned to John. John picked up the pin. “The error was mine,” he said and stepped forward. “My apologies.” The four ODSTs moved as one toward John. The big guy with the scars stood a hand’s breadth away from John’s nose. “Why don’t you take that pin and shove it, meat?” he said, grinning. “Or better yet, maybe I should make you eat it.” He nodded to his friends. John only knew three ways to react to people. If they were his superior officers, he obeyed them. If they were part of his squad, he helped them. If they were a threat, he neutralized them. So when the men surrounding him moved… he hesitated. Not because he was afraid, but because these men could have fallen into any of John’s three categories. He didn’t know their rank. They were fellow servicemen in the UNSC. But, at the moment, they didn’t seem friendly. The two men flanking him grabbed John’s biceps. The one behind him tried to slip an arm around his neck. John hunched his shoulders and tucked his chin to his chest so he couldn’t be choked. He whipped his right elbow over the hand holding him, pinned it to his side, and then straight punched the man and broke his nose.


The other three reacted, tightening their grips and stepping closer—but like the dropped pin, they moved slowly. John ducked and slipped out of the unsuccessful headlock. He spun free, breaking the grasp of the man on his left at the same time. “Stand down!” A booming voice echoed across the gym. A sergeant stepped into the gym and strode toward them. Unlike Mendez, who was fit and trim and was always serious, this man’s stomach bulged over his belt, and he looked bemused. John snapped to attention. The others stood there and continued to glare at John. “Sarge,” the man with the bleeding nose said. “We were just—” “Did I ask you a question?” the Sergeant barked. “No, Sergeant!” the man replied. The Sergeant eyed John, then the ODSTs. “You’re all are so eager to fight, get in the ring and go to it.” “Sir!” John said. He went to the boxing ring, slipped through the ropes, and stood there waiting. This was starting to make sense. It was a mission. John had received orders from a superior officer, and the four men were now targets. The big ODST pushed through the ropes and the others gathered to watch. “I’m going to rip you to pieces, meat,” he grunted through clenched teeth. John sprang off his back foot and launched his entire weight behind his first strike. His fist smashed into the man’s wide chin. John’s left hand followed and impacted on the soldier’s jaw. The man’s hands came up; John stepped in, pinned one of the man’s arms to his chest, and followed through with a hook to his floating ribs. Bones broke. The man staggered back. John took a short step, brought his heel down on the man’s knee. Three more punches and the man was against the ropes… then he stopped moving, his arm and leg and neck tilted at unnatural angles. The three other men moved. The one with the bloody nose grabbed an iron bar. John didn’t need orders this time. Three attackers at once—he had to take them out before they surrounded him. He might be faster, but he didn’t have eyes in the back of his head. The man with the iron bar swung a vicious blow at John’s ribs; John sidestepped, grabbed the man’s hand, and clamped it to the bar. He twisted the bar and crushed the bones of his attacker’s wrist. John snapped a side kick toward the second man, caught him in the groin, crushing the soft organs and breaking his target’s pelvis. John pulled the bar free—whipped around and caught the third man in the neck, hitting him so hard the ODST was propelled over the ropes. “At ease, Number-117,” Chief Petty Officer Mendez barked. John obeyed and dropped the bar. Like the pin, it seemed to take too long for the impromptu weapon to hit the deck. The ODSTs lay crumpled on the ground, either unconscious or dead.


Mendez, at the far end of the gym, strode toward the boxing ring. The Sergeant stood with his mouth open. “Chief Mendez, sir!” He snapped a crisp salute. “What are you—” He turned to John, his eyes widened, and he murmured, “He’s one of them, isn’t he?” “Medics are on their way,” Mendez said calmly. He stepped closer to the Sergeant. “There are two intel officers waiting for you in Ops. They’ll debrief you…” He stepped back. “I suggest you report to them immediately.” “Yes, sir,” the Sergeant said. He almost ran out of the gym. He looked once over his shoulder at John; then he moved even faster. “Your workout is over for today,” Mendez told John. John saluted and left the ring. A team of medics entered with stretchers and rushed toward the boxing ring. “Permission to speak, sir?” John said. Mendez nodded. “Were those men part of a mission? Were they targets or teammates?” John knew that this had to be some sort of mission. The Chief had been too close for it to be a coincidence. “You engaged and neutralized a threat,” Mendez replied. “That action seems to have answered your question, Squad Leader.” John wrinkled his forehead as he thought it through. “I followed the chain of command,” he said. “The Sergeant told me to fight. I was threatened and in imminent danger. But they were still UNSC Special Forces. Fellow soldiers.” Mendez lowered his voice. “Not every mission has simple objectives or comes to a logical conclusion. Your priorities are to follow the orders in your chain of command, and then to preserve your life and the lives of your team. Is that clear?” “Sir,” John said. “Yes, sir.” He glanced back at the ring. Blood was seeping into the canvas mat. John had an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hit the showers and let the blood rinse off him. He felt strangely sorry for the men he had killed. But he knew his duty—the Chief had even been unusually verbose in order to clarify the matter. Follow orders and keep himself and his team safe. That’s all he had to focus on. John didn’t give the incident in the gym another thought.


Chapter Eight 0930 HOURS, SEPTEMBER 11, 2525 (MILITARY CALENDAR) / EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM, REACH UNSC MILITARY COMPLEX, PLANET REACH Dr. Halsey reclined in Mendez’s padded chair. She considered pilfering one of the Sweet William cigars from the box on his desk—see why he considered them such a treat. The stench wafting from the box, however, was too overwhelming. How did he stand them? The door opened and CPO Mendez halted in the doorway. “Ma’am,” he said, and stood straighter. “I wasn’t informed that you would be visiting today. In fact, I had understood that you were out of the system for another week. I would have made arrangements.” “I’m sure you would have.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Our situation has changed. Where are my Spartans? They are not in their barracks, nor on any of the ranges.” Mendez hesitated. “They can no longer train here, ma’am. We have had to find them… other facilities.” Dr. Halsey stood and smoothed the pleats in her gray skirt. “Maybe you should explain that statement, Chief.” “I could,” he replied, “but it will be easier to show you.” “Very well,” Dr. Halsey said, her curiosity piqued. Mendez escorted her to his personal Warthog parked outside his office. The all-terrain combat vehicle had been refitted; the heavy chain-gun on the back had been removed and replaced with a rack of Argent V missiles. Mendez drove them off the base and onto winding mountain roads. “Reach was first colonized for its rich titanium deposits,” Mendez told her. “There are mines in these mountains thousands of meters deep. The UNSC uses them for storage.” “I presume you do not have my Spartans taking inventory today, Chief?” “No, ma’am. We just need the privacy.” Mendez drove the Warthog past a manned guardhouse and into a large tunnel that sloped steeply underground. The road wound down in a spiral, deeper into solid granite. Mendez said, “Do you remember the Navy’s first experiments with powered exoskeletons?” “I’m not sure I see the connection between this place, my Spartans, and the exoskeleton projects,” Dr. Halsey replied, frowning, “but I’ll play along a bit further. Yes, I know all about the Mark I prototypes. We had to scrap the concept and redesign battle armor from the ground up for the MJOLNIR project. The Mark Is consumed enormous energy. Either they had to be plugged into a generator or use inefficient broadcast power—neither option is practical on a battlefield.” Mendez decelerated slightly as he approached a speed bump. The Warthog’s massive tires thudded over the obstacle. “They used the units that weren’t scrapped,” Dr. Halsey continued, “as dock loaders to move heavy equipment.” She cocked one eyebrow. “Or might they have been dumped in a place like this?” “There are dozens of the suits here.” “You haven’t put my Spartans in some of those antiques?” “No. Their trainers are using them for their own safety,” Mendez replied.


“When the Spartans recovered from microgravity therapy, they were eager to get back to their routine. However, we experienced some—” He paused, searching for the right word, “… difficulties.” He glanced at his passenger. His face was grim. “Their first day back, three trainers were accidentally killed during hand-to-hand combat exercises.” Dr. Halsey cocked an eyebrow. “Then they are faster and stronger than we anticipated?” “That,” Mendez replied, “would be understating the situation.” The tunnel opened into a large cavern. There were lights scattered on the walls, overhead a hundred meters up on the ceiling and along the floor, but they did little to dissipate the overwhelming darkness. Mendez parked the Warthog next to a small, prefabricated building. He jumped out and helped Dr. Halsey step from the vehicle. “This way, please.” Mendez gestured to the room. “We’ll have a better view from inside.” The building had three glass walls and several monitors marked MOTION, INFRARED, DOPPLER, and PASSIVE. Mendez pushed a button and the room climbed a track along the wall until they were twenty meters off the floor. Mendez keyed a microphone and spoke: “Lights.” Floodlights snapped on and illuminated a section of the cavern the size of a football field. In the center stood a concrete bunker. Three men in the primitive Mark I power armor stood on top. Six more stood evenly spaced around the perimeter. A red banner had been planted in the center of the bunker. “Capture the flag?” Dr. Halsey asked. “Past all that heavy armor?” “Yes. The trainers in those exoskeletons can run at thirty-two KPH, lift two tons, and have a thirty-millimeter minigun mounted on self-targeting armatures—stun rounds, of course. They’re also equipped with the latest motion sensors and IR scopes. And needless to say, their armor is impervious to standard light weapons. It would take two or three platoons of conventional Marines to take that bunker.” Mendez spoke again in the microphone, and his voice echoed off the cavern walls: “Start the drill.” Sixty seconds ticked by. Nothing happened. One hundred twenty seconds. “Where are the Spartans?” Dr. Halsey asked. “They’re here,” Mendez replied. Dr. Halsey caught a glimpse of motion in the dark: a shadow against shadows, a familiar silhouette. “Kelly?” she whispered. The trainers turned and fired at the shadow, but it moved with almost supernatural quickness. Even the self-targeting systems couldn’t track it. From above, a man free-rappelled down from the girders and gantries overhead. The newcomer landed behind one of the perimeter guards, quiet as a cat. He punched the guard’s armor twice, denting the heavy plates, then dropped low and swept the target’s legs out from under him. The guard sprawled on the ground. The Spartan attached his rappelling line to the trainer. A moment later the writhing guard shot upward, into the darkness. Two other guards turned to attack. The Spartan dodged, rolled, and melted into the shadows. Dr. Halsey realized the trainer’s exoskeleton wasn’t being pulled up—it was being used as a counterweight.


Two more Spartans, dangling from the other end of that rope, dropped unnoticed into the center of the bunker. Dr. Halsey immediately recognized one of them, although he was dressed entirely in black, save his open eye slits—Number-117. John. John landed, braced, and kicked one guard. The man landed in a heap… eight meters away. The other Spartan jumped off the bunker; he flipped end over end, evading the stun rounds that filled the air. He threw himself at the farthest guard and they skidded together into the shadows. The guard’s gun strobed once, and then it was dark again. On top of the bunker, John was a blur of slashing motions. A second guard’s exosuit erupted in a fountain of hydraulic fluid and then collapsed under the armor’s weight. The last guard on the bunker turned to fire at John. Halsey gripped the edge of her chair. “He’s at point-blank range! Even stun rounds can kill at that distance!” As the guard’s gun fired, John sidestepped. The stun rounds slashed through the air, a clean miss. John grabbed the weapon’s armature—twisted—and with a screech of stressed metal, wrenched it free of the exoskeleton. He fired directly into the man’s chest and sent him tumbling off the bunker. The remaining quartet of perimeter guards turned and sprayed the area with suppression fire. A heartbeat later, the lights went out. Mendez cursed and keyed the mike. “Backups. Hit the backup lights now!” A dozen amber floods flickered to life. Not a Spartan was in sight, but the nine trainers were either unconscious or lay immobile in inert battle armor. The red flag was gone. “Show me that again,” Dr. Halsey said unbelievingly. “You recorded all that, didn’t you?” “Of course.” Mendez tapped a button, but the monitors played back—static. “Damn it. They got to the cameras, too,” he muttered, impressed. “Every time we find a new place to hide them, they disable the recording devices.” Dr. Halsey leaned against the glass wall staring at the carnage below. “Very well, Chief Mendez, what else do I need to know?” “Your Spartans can run at bursts of up to fifty-five KPH,” he explained. “Kelly can run a little faster, I think. They will only get quicker as they adjust to the ‘alterations’ we’ve made to their bodies. They can lift three times their body weight—which, I might add, is almost double the norm due to their increased muscle density. And they can virtually see in the dark.” Dr. Halsey pondered this new data. “They should not be performing so well. There must be unexplained synergistic effects brought on by the combined modifications. What are their reaction times?” “Almost impossible to chart. We estimate it at twenty milliseconds,” Mendez replied. He shook his head, then added, “I believe it’s significantly faster in combat situations when their adrenaline is pumping.” “Any physiological or mental instabilities?” “None. They work like no team I’ve ever seen before. Damn near telepathic, if you ask me.


They were dropped in these caves yesterday, and I don’t know where they got black suits or the rope for that maneuver, but I can guarantee they haven’t left this room. They improvise and improve and adapt. “And,” he added, “they like it. The tougher the challenge, the harder the fight… the better their morale becomes.” Dr. Halsey watched as the first trainer stirred and struggled to get out of his inert armor. “They might as well have been killed,” she murmured. “But can the Spartans kill, Chief? Kill on purpose? Are they ready for real combat?” Mendez looked away and paused before he spoke. “Yes. If we ordered them to, they would kill quite efficiently.” His body stiffened. “May I ask what ‘real combat’ you mean, ma’am?” She clasped her hands and wrung them nervously. “Something has happened, Chief. Something ONI and the Admiralty never expected. The brass wants to deploy the Spartans. They want to test them in a real combat mission.” “They’re as ready for that as I can make them,” Mendez said. He narrowed his dark eyes. “But this is far ahead of your schedule. What happened? I’ve heard rumors there was some heavy action near Harvest colony.” “Your rumors are out-of-date, Chief,” she said, and a chill crept into her voice. “There’s no more fighting at Harvest. There is no more Harvest.” Dr. Halsey punched the descent button, and the observation room slowly lowered to the floor. “Get them out of this hole,” she said crisply. “I want them ready to muster at 0400. We have a briefing at 0600 tomorrow aboard the London. We’re taking them on a mission ONI has been saving for the right crew and the right time. This is it.” “Yes, ma’am,” Mendez replied. “Tomorrow we see if all the pain they’ve been through has been worth it.”


Chapter Nine 0605 HOURS, SEPTEMBER 12, 2525 (MILITARY CALENDAR) / UNSC DESTROYER PIONEER, EN ROUTE TO ERIDANUS SYSTEM John and the other Spartans stood at ease. The briefing room aboard the UNSC Destroyer Pioneer made him uncomfortable. The holographic projectors at the fore end of the triangular room showed the field of stars visible off the bow of the ship. John wasn’t used to seeing so much space; he kept expecting the room to decompress explosively. The stars flickered and faded and the overhead lights warmed. Chief Petty Officer Mendez and Dr. Halsey entered the room. The Spartans snapped to attention. “At ease,” Mendez said. He clasped his hands behind his back and clenched his jaw muscles. The Chief looked almost… nervous. That made John nervous, too. Dr. Halsey walked to the podium. The overhead light reflected off her glasses. “Good morning, Spartans. I have good news for you. The word has come down. Command has decided to test your unique abilities. You have a new mission: an insurgent base in the Eridanus System.” A star map appeared on the wall and zoomed in to show a warm orange sun ringed with twelve planets. “In 2513, an armed insurrection in this system was suppressed by the UNSC force—Operation: TREBUCHET.” An intersystem tactical map appeared, and tiny icons representing destroyers and carriers winked on. They engaged a force of a hundred smaller ships. Pinpoints of fire appeared against the dark. “The insurrection was put down,” Dr. Halsey continued. “However, elements of the rebel forces escaped and regrouped in the local asteroid belt.” The map tilted and moved into the circle of debris around the star. “Billions of rocks,” Dr. Halsey said, “where they hid from our forces… and continue to hide to this day. For some time ONI believed that the rebels were disorganized, and were lacking in leadership. That appears to have changed. “We believe that one of these asteroids has been hollowed out, and that a formidable base has been constructed within. UNSC explorations into the belt have met either with no contact or with an ambush by superior forces.” She paused, pushed up her glasses, and added, “The Office of Naval Intelligence has also confirmed that FLEETCOM has discovered a security breach within their organization—a rebel sympathizer leaking information to these forces.” John and the other Spartans shifted uneasily. A leak? It was possible. Déjà had shown them many historical battles that had been won and lost because of traitors or informants. But it never occurred to him that it could happen in the UNSC. A flat picture flashed over the star map: a middle-aged man with thinning hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and watery gray eyes. “This is their leader,” Dr. Halsey said. “Colonel Robert Watts. The original photo was taken after Operation: TREBUCHET and has been computer aged. “Your mission is to infiltrate the rebel base, capture Watts, and return him—alive and unharmed—to UNSC-controlled space. This will deprive the rebels of their new leadership.


And it will provide ONI a chance to interrogate Watts and root out traitors within FLEETCOM.” Dr. Halsey stepped aside. “Chief Mendez?” Mendez exhaled and unclasped his hands. He strode to the podium and cleared his throat. “This operation will be different from your previous missions. You will be engaging the enemy using live rounds and lethal force. They will be returning the favor. If there is any doubt, any confusion—and make no mistake: in combat, there will be confusion—take no chances. Kill first, ask questions later. “Support on this mission will be limited to the resources and firepower of this destroyer,” Mendez continued. “This is to minimize the chance of a leak in the command structure.” Mendez walked to the star map. The face of Colonel Watts snapped off and blueprints for a Parabola-class freighter appeared. “Although we don’t know the location of the rebel base, we believe they receive periodic shipments from Eridanus Two. The independent freighter Laden is due to leave space dock in six hours for a routine recertification of her engines. She is being loaded with enough food and water to supply a small city. Additionally, her captain has been identified as a rebel officer thought to have been killed during Operation: TREBUCHET. “You will slip aboard this freighter and hopefully hitch a ride to the rebel base. Once there, infiltrate the installation, grab Watts, and get off of that rock any way you can.” Chief Mendez gazed at them all. “Questions?” “Sir,” John said. “What are our extraction options?” “You have two options: a panic button that will relay a distress signal to a preestablished listening ship. Also, the Pioneer will stay on-station… briefly. Our window here is thirteen hours.” He tapped the star map on the edge of the asteroid belt and it glowed with a blue NAV marker. “I’ll leave the extraction choice up to you. But let me point out that this asteroid belt has a circumference of more than a billion kilometers… making it impossible to canvass with ONI surveillance craft. If things get hot, you will be on your own. “Any other questions?” The Spartans sat, silent and immobile. “No? Well, listen up, recruits,” Mendez added. “This time I’ve told you all the twists that I know of. Be prepared for anything.” His gaze fixed on John. “Squad Leader, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Petty Officer Third Class.” “Sir!” John snapped to attention. “Assemble your team and equipment. Be ready to muster at 0300. We’ll drop you off at the Eridanus Two docks. You’re on your own from there.” “Yes, sir!” John said. Mendez saluted. He and Dr. Halsey then left the room. John turned to face his teammates. The other Spartans stood at attention. Thirty-two—too many for this operation. He needed a small team: five or six maximum. “Sam, Kelly, Linda, and Fred, meet me in the weapons locker in ten minutes.” The other Spartans sighed and their gazes dropped to the deck.


“The rest of you fall out. You’ll have the more difficult part of this mission: you’ll have to wait here.” * * * The weapons locker of the Pioneer had been stocked with a bewildering array of combat equipment. On a table were guns, knives, communication gear, body armor explosives, medical packs, survival gear, portable computers, even a thruster pack for maneuvering in space. More important than the equipment, however, John assessed his team. Sam had recovered from the augmentation faster than any of the other Spartans. He paced impatiently around the crates of grenades. He was the strongest of them all. He stood taller than John by a head. He had grown out his sandy hair to three centimeters. Chief Mendez had warned him that he was going to look like a civilian soon. Kelly, in contrast, had taken the longest to recover. She stood in the corner with her arms crossed over her chest. John had thought she wasn’t going to make it. She was still gaunt and her hair had yet to grow back. Her face, however, still had its rough, angular beauty. She scared John a little, too. She was fast before… now no one could touch her if she didn’t allow it. Fred sat cross-legged on the deck, twirling a razor-edged combat knife in glittering arcs. He always came in second in all the contests. John thought he could have come in first, but he just didn’t like the attention. He was neither too short nor too tall. He wasn’t overly muscled or slim. His black hair was shot with streaks of silver—a feature he hadn’t had before the augmentation. If anyone in the group could blend into a crowd, it would be him. Linda was the quietest member of the group. She was pale, had close-cropped red hair, and green eyes. She was a crack shot, an artist with a sniper rifle. Kelly circled the table once, and then selected a pair of grease-stained blue coveralls. Her name had been sloppily embroidered on the chest. “These our new trainee uniforms?” “ONI provided them,” John said. “They’re supposed to match what the crew of the Laden wears.” Kelly held the coveralls up and frowned. “They don’t give a girl much to work with.” “Try this on for size.” Linda held a black bodysuit up to Kelly’s long slender frame. They had used these black suits before. They were formfitting, lightweight polymer body armor. They could deflect a small-caliber round and had refrigeration/heating units that would mask infrared signatures. The integrated helmet had encryption and communications gear, a heads-up display, and thermal and motion detectors. Sealed tight, the unit had a fifteen-minute reserve of oxygen to let the wearer survive in a vacuum. The suits were uncomfortable, and they were tricky to repair in the field. And they always needed repairs. “They’re too tight,” Kelly said. “It’ll limit my range of motion.” “We wear them for this op,” John told her.


“There are too many places between here and there with nothing to breathe but vacuum. As for the rest of your equipment, take what you want—but stay light. Without recon data on this place, we’re going to be moving fast… or we’ll be dead.” The team started selecting their weapons first. “Three-ninety caliber?” Fred asked. “Yes,” John replied. “Everyone take guns that use .390-caliber ammunition so we can share clips if we have to. Except Linda.” Linda gravitated to a matte-black long-barreled rifle—the SRS99C-S2 AM. The sniper rifle system had modular sections: scopes, stocks, barrels, even the firing mechanism could be swapped. She quickly stripped the rifle down and reconfigured it. She assembled a flash-and-sound suppression barrel, and then to compensate for the lower muzzle velocity, she increased the ammunition caliber to .450. She ditched all the sights and scopes and settled for an integrated link to her helmet’s heads-up display. She pocketed five extended ammunition clips. John also chose an MA2B, a cut-down version of the standard MA5B assault rifle. It was tough and reliable, with electronic targeting and an ammo supply indicator. It also had a recoil-reduction system, and could deliver an impressive fifteen rounds per second. He picked up a knife: twenty-centimeter blade, one serrated edge, nonreflective titanium carbide, and balanced for throwing. John grabbed the panic button—a tiny single-shot emergency beacon. It had two settings. The red setting alerted the Pioneer that it had hit the fan, and to come in guns blazing. The green setting merely marked the location of the base for later assault by the UNSC. He took a double handful of ammo clips—then paused. He set them down and pocketed five. If they got into a firefight where he’d need that much firepower, their mission was over anyway. Everyone took similar equipment, with a few variations. Kelly selected a small computer pad with IR links. She also had their field medical kit. Fred packed a standard-issue lockbreaker. Linda selected three NAV marker transmitters, each the size of a tick. The trackers could be adhered to an object and would broadcast that object’s location to the Spartans’ heads-up displays. Sam hefted two medium-size backpacks—“damage packs.” They were filled with C-12, enough high explosives to blow through three meters of battleship armor plate. “You have enough of that stuff?” Kelly asked him wryly. “You think I should take more?” Sam replied, and smiled. “Nothing like a little fireworks to celebrate the end of a mission.” “Everyone ready?” John asked. Sam’s smile disappeared and he slapped an extended clip into his MA2B. “Ready!” Kelly gave him John a thumbs-up. Fred and Linda nodded. “Then let’s go to work.”


The infernal city _ an Elder scrolls novel -- J_ Gregory Keyes -- 2011 -- Random House Digital, Inc_ -- 9780345508010 -- c16aefd9bc22fd38e6dc128b17b72e4d -- Anna’s Archive.1

The Infernal City: An Elder Scrolls Novel When Iffech felt the sea shudder, he knew. The wind had already fallen like a dead thing from the sky, gasping as it succumbed upon the iron swells, breathing its last to his mariner’s ears. The sky always knew first; the sea was slow—dreadful slow—to come around. The sea shook again—or, rather, seemed to drag beneath their keel. Up in the crow’s nest Keem screamed as he was tossed out like a kitten. Iffech watched him twist and almost impossibly catch the rigging with those Cathay Raht claws of his. “Stendarr!” Grayne swore, in her South Niben twang. “What was that? A tsunami?” Her feeble human gaze searched out through the dusk. “No,” Iffech murmured. “I was off the Summerset Isles when the sea tried to swallow them, and I felt one of those pass under us. And another, when I was younger, off the coast of Morrowind. In deep water you don’t feel much. This is deep water.” “Then what?” She brushed her silver and gray bangs off her useless eyes. Iffech twitched his shoulders in imitation of a human shrug and ran his claws through the patchy fur of his forearm. The still air smelled sweet, like rotting fruit. “See anything, Keem?” he called up. “My own death, nearly,” the Ne Quin-alian cat shouted back, his voice rasping hollow, as if the ship was in a box. He lithely hauled his sleek body back into the nest. “Nothing on the sea,” he continued after a moment. “Under it, then,” Grayne said nervously. Iffech shook his head. “The wind,” he said. And then he saw it, in the south, a sudden blackness, a crackle of green lightning, and then a form like a tall thunderhead billowed into being. “Hold on!” he shouted. And now came a clap like thunder but forty times louder, and a new fist of wind that snapped the mainmast, taking poor Keem to the death he had nearly seen. Then all was still again, except for the roaring in his damaged ears. “By the gods, what can it be?” he barely heard Grayne ask. “The sea doesn’t care,” Iffech said, watching the dark mass move toward them. He looked around his ship. All of the masts were broken, and it appeared that half the crew was already gone. “What?” “Not many Khajiit take to the sea,” he said. “They’ll bear it for trade, to move skooma around, but few there are who love her. But I’ve adored her since I could mewl. And I love her because she doesn’t care what the gods or daedra think. She’s another world, with her own rules.” “What are you going on about?” “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I feel it, I don’t think it. But don’t you think—doesn’t it feel like …” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. Grayne stared out toward the thing. “I see it, now,” she said. “Yes.” “I saw an Oblivion gate open once,” she said.


The infernal city _ an Elder scrolls novel -- J_ Gregory Keyes -- 2011 -- Random House Digital, Inc_ -- 9780345508010 -- c16aefd9bc22fd38e6dc128b17b72e4d -- Anna’s Archive.2

“When my father worked in Leyawiin. I saw things—it feels a little like that. But Martin’s sacrifice—they say it can’t happen again. And it doesn’t look like a gate.” It wasn’t shaped like a thunderhead, Iffech realized. More like a fat cone, point down. Another wind was starting up, and on it something unbelievably foul. “It doesn’t matter what it is,” he said. “Not to us.” And a few instants later it didn’t. Sul’s throat hurt, so he knew he had been screaming. He was soaked with sweat, his chest ached, and his limbs were trembling. He opened his eyes and forced his head up so he could see where he was. A man stood in the doorway with a drawn sword. His eyes were very wide and blue beneath a shock of curly, barley-colored hair. Swearing, Sul reached for his own weapon where it hung on the bedpost. “Just hold on there,” the fellow said, backing up. “It’s just you’ve been hollering so, I was worried something was happening to you.” The dreamlight was still fading, but his mind was starting to turn. If the fellow had wanted him dead, he probably would be. “Where am I?” he asked, taking a grip on his longsword, despite his reasoning. “In the Lank Fellow Inn,” the man replied. And then, after a pause, “In Chorrol.” Chorrol. Right. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” Sul said. “Nothing to concern you.” “Ah, yes.” The man looked uncomfortable, “Do you, umm, scream like that every—” “I won’t be here tonight,” Sul cut him off. “I’m moving on.” “I didn’t mean to offend.” “You didn’t,” Sul replied. “The breakfast is out, down there.” “Thank you. Please leave me.” The man closed the door. Sul sat there for a moment rubbing the lines in his forehead. “Azura,” he murmured. He always knew the prince’s touch, even when it was light. This had not been light. He closed his eyes and tried to feel the sea jump beneath him, to hear the old Khajiit captain’s words, see again through his eyes. That thing, appearing in the sky—everything about it stank of Oblivion. After spending twenty years there, he ought to know the smell. “Vuhon,” he sighed. “It must be you, Vuhon, I think. Why else would the prince send me such a vision? What else would matter to me?” No one answered, of course. He remembered a little more, after the Khajiit had died. He had seen Ilzheven as he last saw her, pale and lifeless, and the smoking shatterlands that had once been Morrowind. Those were always there in his dreams, whether Azura meddled with them or not. But there had been another face, a young man, Colovian probably, with a slight bend in his nose. He seemed familiar, as if they had met somewhere. “That’s all I get?” Sul asked. “I don’t even know which ocean to look in.” The question was directed at Azura, but he knew it was rhetorical.


The infernal city _ an Elder scrolls novel -- J_ Gregory Keyes -- 2011 -- Random House Digital, Inc_ -- 9780345508010 -- c16aefd9bc22fd38e6dc128b17b72e4d -- Anna’s Archive.3

He also knew he was lucky to get even that. He dragged his wiry gray body out of bed and went over to the washbasin to splash water in his face and blink red eyes at himself in the mirror. He started to turn away when he noticed, behind him in the reflection, a couple of books propped in an otherwise empty shelf. He turned, walked over, and lifted the first. TALES OF SOUTHERN WATERS, it announced. He nodded his head and opened the second. THE MOST CURRENT AND HIGH ADVENTURES OF PRINCE ATTREBUS, this one read. And there, on the frontispiece, was an engraving of a young man’s face with a slightly crooked nose. For the first time in years Sul uttered a hoarse laugh. “Well, there you go,” he said. “I’m sorry I doubted you, my Prince.” An hour later, armed and armored, he rode south and east, toward madness, retribution, and death. And though he had long ago forgotten what happiness was, he imagined it must have been a bit like what he felt now.


The Infernal City: An Elder Scrolls Novel A pale young woman with long ebon curls, and a male with muddy green scales and chocolate spines, crouched on the high rafters of a rotting villa in Lilmoth, known by some as the Festering Jewel of Black Marsh. “You’re finally going to kill me,” the reptile told the woman. His tone was thoughtful, his saurian features composed in the faint light bleeding down through the cracked slate roof. “Not so much kill you as get you killed,” she answered, pushing the tight rings of her hair off her face and pressing her slightly aquiline nose and gray-green gaze toward the vast open space beneath them. “It works out the same,” the other hissed. “Come on, Glim,” Annaïg said, tossing herself into her father’s huge leather chair and clasping her hands behind her neck. “We can’t pass this up.” “Oh, I think it can be safely said that we can,” Mere-Glim replied. He lounged on a low weavecane couch, one arm draped so as to suspend over a cypress end table whose surface was supported by the figure of a crouching Khajiit warrior. The Argonian was all silhouette, because behind him the white curtains that draped the massive bay windows of the study were soaked in sunlight. “Here are some things we could do instead.” He ticked one glossy black claw on the table. “Stay here in your father’s villa and drink his wine.” A second claw came down. “Take some of your father’s wine down to the docks and drink it there.” The third. “Drink some here and some down at the docks …” “Glim, how long has it been since we had an adventure?” His lazy lizard gaze traveled over her face. “If by adventure you mean some tiring or dangerous exercise, not that long. Not long enough anyway.” He wiggled the fingers of both hands as if trying to shake something sticky off them, a peculiarly Lilmothian expression of agitation. The membranes between his digits shone translucent green. “Have you been reading again?” He made it sound like an accusation, as if “reading” was another way of referring to, say, infanticide. “A bit,” she admitted. “What else am I to do? It’s so boring here. Nothing ever happens.” “Not for lack of your trying,” Mere-Glim replied. “We very nearly got arrested during your last little adventure.” “Yes, and didn’t you feel alive?” she said. “I don’t need to ‘feel’ alive,” the Argonian replied. “I am alive. Which state I would prefer to retain.” “You know what I mean.” “Hff. That’s a bold assertion,” he sniffed. “I’m a bold girl.” She sat forward. “Come on, Glim. He’s a were-crocodile. I’m certain of it. And we can get the proof.” “First of all,” Mere-Glim said, “there’s no such thing as a were-crocodile. Second, if there were, why on earth would we care to prove it?” “Because … well, because people would want to know. We’d be famous. And he’s dangerous.


People around there are always disappearing.” “In Pusbottom? Of course they are. It’s one of the dodgiest parts of town.” “Look,” she said. “They’ve found people bitten in half. What else could do that?” “A regular crocodile. Lots of things, really. With some effort, I might be able to do it, too.” He fidgeted again. “Look, if you’re so sure about this, get your father to talk Underwarden Ethten into sending some guards down there.” “Well, what if I’m wrong? Father would look stupid. That’s what I’m saying, Glim. I need to know for sure. I must find some sort of proof. I’ve been following him—” “You’ve what?” He gaped his mouth in incredulity. “He looks human, Glim, but he comes and goes out of the canal like an Argonian. That’s how I noticed him. And when I looked where he came out—I’m sure the first few steps were made by a crocodile, and after that by a man.” Glim closed his mouth and shook his head. “Or a man stepped in some crocodile tracks,” he said. “There are potions and amulets that let even you gaspers breathe underwater.” “But he does it all the time. Why would he do that? Help me be sure, Glim.” Her friend sibilated a long hiss. “Then can we drink your father’s wine?” “If he hasn’t drunk it all.” “Fine.” She clapped her hands in delight. “Excellent! I know his routine. He won’t be back in his lair until nightfall, so we should go now.” “Lair?” “Sure. That’s what it would be, wouldn’t it? A lair.” “Fine, a lair. Lead on.” And now here we are, Annaïg thought. They had made their way from the hills of the old Imperial quarter into the ancient, gangrenous heart of Lilmoth—Pusbottom. Imperials had dwelt here, too, in the early days when the Empire had first imposed its will and architecture on the lizard people of Black Marsh. Now only the desperate and sinister dwelt here, where patrols rarely came: the poorest of the poor, political enemies of the Argonian An-Xileel party that now dominated the city, criminals and monsters. They found the lair easily enough, which turned out to be a livable corner of a manse so ancient the first floor was entirely silted up. What remained was vastly cavernous and rickety and not that unusual in this part of town. What was odd was that it wasn’t full of squatters—there was just the one. He had furnished the place with mostly junk, but there were a few nice chairs and a decent bed. That’s about all they got to see before they heard the voices, coming in the same way they had—which was to say the only way. Annaïg and Glim were backed up in the corner, and here the walls were stone. The only way to go was up an old staircase and then even farther, using the ancient frame of the house as a ladder.


Annaïg wondered what sort of wood—if wood it was—could resist decomposition for so long. The wall-and floorboards here had been made of something else, and were almost like paper. So they had to take care to stay on the beams. Glim hushed himself; the figures in the group below were gazing up—not at them, but in their vague direction. Annaïg took a small vial from the left pocket of her double-breasted jacket and drank its contents. It tasted a bit like melon, but very bitter. She felt her lungs fill and empty, the elastic pull of her body around her bones. Her heart seemed to be vibrating instead of beating, and the oddest thing was, she couldn’t tell if this was fear. The faint noises below suddenly became much louder, as if she was standing among them. “Where is he?” one of the figures asked. They were hard to make out in the dim light, but this one looked darker than the rest, possibly a Dunmer. “He’ll be here,” another said. He—or maybe she—was obviously a Khajiit—everything about the way he moved was feline. “He will,” a third voice said. Annaïg watched as the man she had been following for the last few days approached the others. Like them, he was too far away to see, but she knew him by the hump of his back, and her memory filled in the details of his brutish face and long, unkempt hair. “Do you have it?” the Khajiit asked. “Just brought it in under the river.” “Seems like a lot of trouble,” the Khajiit said. “I’ve always wondered why you don’t use an Argonian for that.” “I don’t trust ’em. Besides, they have ripper eels trained to hunt Argonians trying to cross the outer canal. They’re not so good at spotting me, especially if I rub myself with eel-slime first.” “Disgusting. You can keep your end of the job.” “Just as long as I get paid for it.” He pulled off his shirt and removed his hump. “Have a look. Have a taste, if you want.” “Oh, daedra and Divines,” Annaïg swore, from the beam they crouched on. “He’s not a were-croc. He’s a skooma smuggler.” “You’re finally going to kill me,” Glim said. “Not so much kill you as get you killed.” “It works out the same.” And now Annaïg was quite sure that what she felt was fear. Bright, terrible, animal fear. “By the way,” the Khajiit below said, lowering his voice. “Who are those two in the rafters?” The man looked up. “Xhuth! if I know,” he said. “None of mine.” “I hope not. I sent Patch and Flichs up to kill them.” “Oh, kaoc’,” Annaïg hissed. “Come on, Glim.” As she stood, something wisped through the air near her, and a shriek tore out of her throat. “I knew it,” Glim snapped. “Just—come on, we have to get to the roof.” They ran across the beams, and someone behind her shouted.


The infernal city _ an Elder scrolls novel -- J_ Gregory Keyes -- 2011 -- Random House Digital, Inc_ -- 9780345508010 -- c16aefd9bc22fd38e6dc128b17b72e4d -- Anna’s Archive.4

She could hear their footfalls now—why hadn’t she before? An enchantment of some sort? “There.” Glim said. She saw it; part of the roof had caved in and was resting on the rafters, forming a ramp. They scrambled up it. Something hot and wet was trying to pull out of her chest, and she hysterically wondered if an arrow hadn’t hit her, if she wasn’t bleeding inside. But they made it to the roof. And a fifty-foot fall. She pulled out two vials and handed one to Mere-Glim. “Drink this and jump,” she said. “What? What is it?” “It’s—I’m not sure. It’s supposed to make us fly.” “Supposed to? Where did you get it?” “Why is that important?” “Oh, Thtal, you made it didn’t you? Without a formula. Remember that stuff that was supposed to make me invisible?” “It made you sort of invisible.” “It made my skin translucent. I looked like a bag of offal walking around.” She drank hers. “No time, Glim. It’s our only hope.” Their pursuers were coming up the ramp, so she jumped, wondering if she should flap her arms or … But what she did was fall, and shriek. But then she wasn’t falling so fast, and then she was sort of drifting, so the wind actually pushed her like a soap bubble. She heard the men hollering from the roof, and turned to see Glim floating just behind her. “See?” she said. “You need to have a little faith in me.” She barely got the sentence out before they were falling again. Later, battered, sore, and stinking of the trash pile that broke their final fall, they returned to her father’s villa. They found him passed out in the same chair Annaïg had been in earlier that morning. She stood looking at him for a moment, at his pale fingers clutched on a wine bottle, at his thinning gray hair. She was trying to remember the man he had been before her mother died, before the An-Xileel wrested Lilmoth from the Empire and looted their estates. She couldn’t see him. “Come on,” she told Glim. They took three bottles of wine from the cellar and wound their way up the spiral stair to the upper balcony. She lit a small paper lantern and in its light poured full two delicate crystal goblets. “To us,” she said. They drank. Old Imperial Lilmoth spread below them, crumbling hulks of villas festooned with vines and grounds overgrown with sleeping palms and bamboo, all dark now as if cut from black velvet, except where illumined by the pale phosphorescences of lucan mold or the wispy yellow airborne shines, harmless cousins of the deadly will-o’-wisps in the deep swamps. “There now,” she said, refilling her glass. “Don’t you feel more alive?” He blinked his eyes, very slowly. “Well, I certainly feel more aware of the contrast between life and death,” he replied. “That’s a start,” she said. A small moment passed. “We were lucky,” Glim said.


The infernal city _ an Elder scrolls novel -- J_ Gregory Keyes -- 2011 -- Random House Digital, Inc_ -- 9780345508010 -- c16aefd9bc22fd38e6dc128b17b72e4d -- Anna’s Archive.5

“I know,” she replied. “But …” “What?” “Well, it’s no were-croc, but we can at least report the skooma dealers to the underwarden.” “They’ll have moved by then. And even if they catch them, that’s a drop of water in the ocean. There’s no stopping the skooma trade.” “There certainly isn’t if no one tries,” she replied. “No offense, Glim, but I wish we were still in the Empire.” “No doubt. Then your father would still be a wealthy man, and not a poorly paid advisor to the An-Xileel.” “It’s not that,” she said. “I just—there was justice under the Empire. There was honor.” “You weren’t even born.” “Yes, but I can read, Mere-Glim.” “But who wrote those books? Bretons. Imperials.” “And that’s An-Xileel propaganda. The Empire is rebuilding itself. Titus Mede started it, and now his son Attrebus is at his side. They’re bringing order back to the world, and we’re just—just dreaming ourselves away here, waiting for things to get better by themselves.” The Argonian gave his imitation shrug. “There are worse places than Lilmoth.” “There are better places, too. Places we could go, places where we could make a difference.” “Is this your Imperial City speech again? I like it here, Nn. It’s my home. We’ve known each other since we were hatchlings, yes, and if you didn’t already know you could talk me into almost anything, you do now. But leaving Black Marsh—that you won’t get me to do. Don’t even try.” “Don’t you want more out of life, Glim?” “Food, drink, good times—why should anyone want more than that? It’s people wanting to ‘make a difference’ causing all the troubles in the world. People who think they know what’s better for everyone else, people who believe they know what other people need but never bother to ask. That’s what your Titus Mede is spreading around—his version of how things ought to be, right?” “There is such a thing as right and wrong, Glim. Good and evil.” “If you say so.” “Prince Attrebus rescued an entire colony of your people from slavery. How do you think they feel about the Empire?” “My people knew slavery under the old Empire. We knew it pretty well.” “Yes, but that was ending when the Oblivion crisis happened. Look, even you have to admit that if Mehrunes Dagon had won, if Martin hadn’t beaten him—” “Martin and the Empire didn’t beat him in Black Marsh,” Glim said, his voice rising. “The An-Xileel did. When the gates opened, Argonians poured into Oblivion with such fury and might, Dagon’s lieutenants had to close them.” Annaïg realized that she was leaning away from her friend and that her pulse had picked up. She smelled something sharp and faintly sulfurous. Amazed, she regarded him for a moment. “Yes,” she finally said, when the scent diminished, “but without Martin’s sacrifice, Dagon would have eventually taken Black Marsh, too, and made this world his sportground.” Glim shifted and held out his glass to be refilled.


The infernal city _ an Elder scrolls novel -- J_ Gregory Keyes -- 2011 -- Random House Digital, Inc_ -- 9780345508010 -- c16aefd9bc22fd38e6dc128b17b72e4d -- Anna’s Archive.6

“I don’t want to argue about this,” he said. “I don’t see that it’s important.” “You sounded as if you thought so for a second there, old friend. I thought I heard a little passion in your voice. And you smelled like you were spoiling for a fight.” “It’s just the wine,” he muttered, waving it off. “And all of the excitement. For the rest of the night, can we just celebrate that your ‘flying’ potion wasn’t a complete failure?” She was starting to feel warm in her belly, the wine at its business. “Well, yes,” she said. “I suppose that’s worth a toast or two.” They drank those, and then Glim looked a little sidewise at her. “Anyway—” he began, then stopped. “What?” He grinned his lizard grin and shook his head. “You may not have to go looking for trouble. From what I heard, it might be coming for us.” “What’s this?” “The Wind Oracle put into port today.” “Your cousin Ixtah-Nasha’s boat.” “Yah. Says he saw something out on the deep, something coming this way.” “Something?” “That’s the crazy part. He said it looked like an island with a city on it.” “An uncharted island?” “An unmoored island. Floating in the air. Flying.” Annaïg frowned, set her glass down and wagged a finger at him. “That’s not funny, Glim. You’re teasing me.” “No, I wasn’t going to tell you. But the wine …” She sat up straighter in her chair. “You’re serious. Coming this way?” “’Swat he said.” “Huh,” she replied, taking up the wine again and sinking back into her chair. “I’ll have to think about that. A flying city. Sounds like something left over from the Merithic era. Or before.” She felt her ample mouth pull in a huge smile. “Exciting. I’d better go see Hecua tomorrow.” And so they finished that bottle, and opened another—an expensive one—and outside the rains came, as they always did, a moving curtain, glittering in the lamplight, clean and wet, washing away, for the moment, Lilmoth’s scent of mildew and decay.


The Infernal City: An Elder Scrolls Novel A boy was once born with a knife instead of a right hand, or so Colin had heard. Rape and attempted murder planted him in his mother, but she had lived and turned all of her thoughts toward vengeance. She laughed when he carved his way out of her and went gleefully into the world to slaughter all who had wronged her and many who had not. And when his victims were drowning in their own blood, they might ask, “Who are you?” and he would answer simply, “Dalk,” which in the northern tongue is an old word for knife. According to the legend, it happened in Skyrim, but assassins liked the story, and it wasn’t that uncommon for a brash young up-and-coming killer to take that alias and daydream of making that cryptic reply. The knife in Colin’s hand didn’t feel remotely a part of him. The handle was slick and clammy, and it made his arm feel huge and obvious, hanging by his side just under the edge of his cloak. Why hadn’t the man noticed him? He was just standing there, leaning against the banister of the bridge, staring off toward the lighthouse. He came here each Loredas, after visiting his horse at the stables. Often he met someone here; there was a brief conversation, and they would part. He never spoke to the same person twice. Colin continued toward him. There was traffic on the bridge—mostly folks from Weye going home for the night with their wagons and the things they hadn’t sold at market, lovers trying to find a nice place to be secret. But it was thinning out. They were almost alone. “There you are,” the man said. His face was hard to see, as it was cast in shadow by a watch-light a little farther up. Colin knew it well, though. It was long and bony. His hair was black with a little gray, his eyes startling blue. “Here I am,” Colin replied, his mouth feeling dry. “Come on over.” A few steps and Colin was standing next to him. A group of students from the College of Whispers were loudly approaching. “I like this place,” the man said. “I like to hear the bells of the ships and see the light. It reminds me of the sea. Do you know the sea?” Shut up! Colin thought. Please don’t talk to me. The students were dithering, pointing at something in the hills northwest. “I’m from Anvil,” Colin said, unable to think of anything but the truth. “Ah, nice town, Anvil. What’s that place, the one with the dark beer?” “The Undertow.” The man smiled. “Right. I like that place.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “What times, eh? I used to have a beautiful villa on the headland off Topal Bay. I had a little boat, two sails, just for plying near the coast.


Now …” He raised his hands and let them drop. “But you didn’t come here for any of that, did you?” The students were finally moving off, talking busily in what sounded like a made-up language. “I guess not,” Colin agreed. His arm felt larger than ever, the knife like a stone in his hand. “No. Well, it’s simple today. You can tell them there’s nothing new. And if anyone asks, tell them that no food, no wine, no lover’s kiss is as beautiful as a long, deep, breath.” “What?” “Astorie, book three. Chapter—What are you holding there?” Stupidly, Colin looked down at the knife, which had slipped from the folds of his cloak and gleamed in the lamplight. Their eyes met. “No!” the man shouted. So Colin stabbed him—or tried. The man’s palms came up and the knife cut into them. Colin reached with his left hand to try to slap them aside and thrust again, this time slicing deep into the forearm. “Just stop it!” the man gasped. “Wait a minute, talk—” The knife slipped past the thrashing limbs and sank into his solar plexus. His mouth still working, the fellow staggered back, staring at his hand and arm. “What are you doing?” he asked. Colin took a step toward the man, who slumped against the banister. “Don’t,” he wheezed. “I have to,” Colin whispered. He stooped down. The man’s arms came up, too weak now to stop Colin from cutting his throat. The corpse slipped to a sitting position. Colin slid down next to him and watched the students, distant now, entirely unaware of what had just happened. Unlike the two men coming from the city, who were walking purposefully toward him. Colin put his arms around the dead man’s shoulders, as if the fellow had passed out from drinking and he was keeping him warm. But there wasn’t any need for that. One of the pair was a tall bald man with angular features, the other an almost snoutless Khajiit. Arcus and Khasha. “Into the river with him now,” Arcus said. “Just catching my breath, sir.” “Yes, I saw. Quite a fracas, when all we asked you to do was slit his throat.” “He … he fought.” “You were careless.” “First time, Arcus,” Khasha said, smoothing his whiskers and twitching his tail impatiently. “How slick were you? Let’s get him in the river and be gone.” “Fine. Lift, Inspector.” When Colin didn’t move, Arcus snapped his fingers. “Sir? You meant me?” “I meant you. Sloppily done, but you did do it. You’re one of us now.” Colin took the dead man’s legs, and together they heaved him over. He hit the water and lay there, floating, staring up at Colin. Inspector. He’d been waiting three years to be called that. Now it sounded like just another word. “Put on this robe,” Khasha said. “Hide the blood until we get you cleaned up.” “Right,” Colin said dully.


He got his documents the next day, from Intendant Marall, a round-faced man with an odd ruff of beard beneath his chin. “You’ll lodge in the Telhall,” Marall told him. “I believe they already have a case for you.” He put down the pen and looked hard at Colin. “Are you well, son? You look haggard.” “Couldn’t sleep, sir.” The intendant nodded. “Who was he, sir?” Colin blurted out. “What did he do?” “You don’t want to know that, son,” Marall said. “I advise you not to try and find out.” ‘“But sir—” “What does it matter?” Marall said. “If I told you he was responsible for the kidnapping and murder of sixteen toddlers, would that make you happy?” “No, sir.” “What if I told you his crime was to make a treasonous joke about her majesty’s thighs?” Colin blinked. “I can’t imagine—” “You’re not supposed to imagine, son. Yours is not the power of life and death. That lies far above you. It comes, in essence, from the authority of the Emperor. There is always a reason, and it is always a good one, and it is not your business, do you understand? You do not imagine, you do not think. You do what you’re told.” “But I’ve been trained to think, sir. This office trained me to think.” “Yes, and you do it very well. All of your instructors agree on that. You’re a very bright young man, or the Penitus Oculatus would not have approached you in the first place, and you have done very well here. But any thinking you do, you see, is in service to your job. If you’re asked to find a spy in the Emperor’s guard, you must use every bit of logic at your disposal. If you’re asked to quietly discover which of Count Caro’s daughters has been poisoning his guests, again, use your forensic training. But if you’re given a clear order to steal, injure, poison, stab, or generally do murder, your brain is only to help you with the method and the execution. You are an instrument, a utensil of the Empire.” “I know that, sir.” “Not well enough, or you wouldn’t be asking these questions.” He stood up. “You’re from Anvil, I seem to remember. One of the city guardsmen recommended you for testing.” “Regin Oprenus, yes sir.” “Without his recommendation, what would you be doing right now?” “I don’t know, sir.” But he did, in a general way. His father was dead, his mother barely got by doing laundry for the better off. He’d managed to teach himself to read, but his education wouldn’t have gone much further than that, and if it had, it wouldn’t have been of any use to him. At best he might have worked in the shipyard or managed to hire onto a ship. The Imperial invitation had been a dream come true, offering him everything he’d wanted as a young boy. And that was still the case, despite … this.


And now he would draw a salary. He could send his mother some of that before she worked herself to death. “This is the test, isn’t it?” he said. “Not last night. Now.” The intendant ghosted a little smile. “Both were tests, son. And this isn’t the last, just the last official one. Every day on this job is a new challenge. If you’re not up to it, the time to say so is now, before you’re in over your head.” “I’m up to it, sir,” Colin said. “Very well, then, Inspector. Take the rest of the day off. Report for duty tomorrow.” Colin nodded and walked away, in search of his new lodgings.


The Infernal City: An Elder Scrolls Novel When Annaïg awoke, Mere-Glim was still sprawled on the floor, his breath rasping loudly. “Oh!” she muttered as she rose, pressing her throbbing temples, feeling her belly turn. How much wine had they drunk? She stumbled her way to the kitchen, winced at the sun as she unshuttered the windows. She built a fire in the stove, then opened the walk-in pantry in the diffuse light and considered the sausages hanging in bundles, the long blades of salted pogfish, barrels of flour, salt, sugar, rice, the pitiful basket of mostly wilted vegetables. There were eggs on the counter, still warm, so Tai-Tai must be up and doing his job, which wasn’t always the case. And there was her mother’s antique leather-bound spice case with its seventy-eight bottles of seeds and dried leaves. Everything she needed. Mere-Glim wandered in a few minutes after the garlic and chilies hit the oil and the air went sharp and pungent. “I’m too sick to eat,” he complained. “You’ll eat this,” Annaïg told him. “And you’ll like it. Old Tenny used to make this for Dad, before we couldn’t afford her anymore.” “If that’s so, why is it different every time you make it? Last time it had peanuts and pickled pork, not chilies and garlic.” “We don’t have any pork pickle,” she replied. “It’s not the specific ingredients that matter—it’s the principles of composition, the balance of essences, flavors, oils, and herbs.” Saying that, she emptied the spices she had ground a bit before with mortar and pestle, and the earthy scents of coriander, cardamom, lady’s mantel seeds, and ginger wafted about the kitchen. She added two handfuls of crushed rice, stirred that a bit, covered it with a finger of coconut milk, and set it to simmer with a lid on the pot. When the porridge was done, she ladled it into bowls and added slices of venison sausage, red ham, and pickled watermelon rind. “That looks disgusting,” Mere-Glim said. “Not done yet,” she said. She broke two eggs and dropped them, raw, into each bowl. Glim perked up and his tongue licked out. “Goose eggs?” “Uh-huh.” “Maybe I will try it.” She set a bowl in front of him, and after an experimental bite, he began downing it with gusto. Annaïg tucked into her own. “I already feel better,” Mere-Glim said. “See?” “Yes, yes.” She took another bite. “So tell me more about this ‘floating city,’” she said. “When is it supposed to be here?” “Ix said they outpaced it for three days and it never changed course before they finally got the wind they needed to really leave it behind. It was headed straight here, he said, and will arrive sometime early tomorrow at the pace it’s coming.” “So what did he figure it was?” “A big chunk of rock, shaped like a top. They could see buildings on the rim. The ship’s wind-caller didn’t like it.


Quit the minute they got into port and left town, fast, on a horse.” “What didn’t the wind-caller like?” “He kept saying it wasn’t right, that none of his magicks could tell him anything about it. Said it smelled like death.” “Did anyone take word to the Organism?” “I can never understand you two when you’re together,” a soft voice wisped. She turned her gaze to the door and found her father standing there. “That smells good,” he went on. “Is there any for me?” “Sure, Taig,” she said. “I made plenty.” She ladled him up a bowl and passed it. He took a spoonful and closed his eyes. “Better than Tenithar’s,” he said. “Always in the kitchen, weren’t you? You learned well.” “Do you know anything about this?” Annaïg said, a bit impatiently. It always bothered her, talking to her father, and she knew it shouldn’t, and that bothered her twice. But he sounded so soul-weak, as if most of his spirit had leaked out of him. “I wasn’t kidding,” he said. “You’ve been like this since you were children. I recognize a few words here and there …” Annaïg waved the old complaint aside. “This—flying city that’s supposed to be heading toward us. Do you know anything about that?” “I know the stories,” he sighed, picking at the stew. “It started with Urvwen—” Annaïg rolled her eyes. “Crazy old Psijic priest. Or whatever they call themselves.” “Said he felt something out in the deep water, a movement of some kind. So, yes, he’s crazy and the An-Xileel are irritated by him, especially Archwarden Qajalil, so he was dismissed. But then there were the reports from the sea, and the Organism sent out some exploratory ships.” “And?” “They’re still out there, looking for a phantom probably. After all, Urvwen has been spreading his message down at the docks. No wonder if sailors are seeing things.” “My cousin’s ship put to sea from Anvil three weeks ago,” Mere-Glim said. “He did not talk to Urvwen.” Her father’s face tightened oddly, the way it did when he was trying to hide something. “Taig!” she said. “Nothing,” he replied. “It’s nothing to worry about. If it’s dangerous the An-Xileel will meet it with the same might that drove the Empire out of Black Marsh and the Dunmer out of Morrowind. But what would a flying city want with Lil-moth?” “What do the Hist say?” Annaïg asked. The spoon hesitated halfway up to her father’s lips, then continued. He chewed and swallowed. “Taig!” “The city tree said it was nothing to worry about.” Mere-Glim made a high, scratchy humming sound and fluttered his eyes. “What do you mean? The ‘city’ tree?” He hesitated, as if he had said too much. “Lorkhan’s bits, Glim,” Annaïg said. “We’re not visitors here, you know.” He nodded. She hated how he was when he spoke straight Tamrielic. He didn’t sound like himself. “It’s just, the Hist, they are all—connected. Of the same mind.


So why mention the city tree in particular?” Her father’s eyes searched about a bit aimlessly, and he sighed again. “The An-Xileel in Lilmoth talk only to the city tree.” “What’s the difference?” Annaïg said. “Like Glim said, they’re all connected at the root, right? So what the city tree says is what they all say.” Glim’s face was like stone. “Maybe not,” he said. “What’s that mean?” “Annaïg—” her father started. His voice sounded strained. When he didn’t continue for a moment, she raised her hands. “What, Taig?” “Thistle, this might be a good time for you to visit your aunt in Leyawiin. I’ve been thinking you ought to anyway. I went so far as to set aside money for the voyage, and there is a ship leaving at dawn.” “That sounds worried to me, Taig. It sounds like you think something’s wrong.” “You’re all that’s left me that matters,” the old man said. “Even if the risk is small …” He opened his hands but would not meet her eye. Then his forehead smoothed and he stood. “I have to go. I am called to the Organism this morning. I will see you tonight, and we can discuss this further. Why don’t you pack, in case you decide to take the trip?” For a moment she saw farther; Leyawiin was an ocean voyage away, but from there she could reach the Imperial City, even if all she had were her own two feet. Maybe … “Can Glim go?” “I’m sorry, I’ve only money for one passage,” he replied. “I wouldn’t go anyway,” Glim said. “Right, then,” her father said. “I’ll be off. I’ll have dinner brought from the Coquina, Thistle. No need to cook tonight. And we’ll talk about this.” “Right, Taig,” she said. As soon as he was out of earshot, she leveled a finger at Mere-Glim. “You go down to the docks and see what that crazy priest has to say, and anything else you can find out. I’m going to Hecua’s.” “Why Hecua’s?” “I need to fine-tune my new invention.” “Your falling potion, you mean?” “It saved our lives,” she pointed out. “On a related note,” Glim said, “why, by the rotting wells, are you worried about flying at this time?” “How else are we going to get up on a flying island, by catapult?” “Ahh …” Mere-Glim sighed. “Ah, no.” “Look at me, Glim,” Annaïg said. Slowly, reluctantly, he did so. “I love you, and I’d love to have you along, but if you don’t want to go, no worries. I’m not going to give you a hard time. But I’m going, Xhu?” He held her gaze for a moment, and then his nostrils contracted. “Xhu,” he said. “Meet you here at noon.” As Mere-Glim followed Lilmoth’s long slump to the bay Imperials named Oliis, he felt the cloud-rippled sky gently pressing on him, on the trees, on the ancient ballast-stone paving.


He wondered, which is to say that he gave his mind its way, let it slip away from speech into the obscure nimbus of pure thinking. Words hammered thought into shape, put it in cages, bound it in chains. Jel—the tongue of his ancestors—was the closest speech to real thought, but even Annaïg—who knew as much Jel as anyone not of the root—her throat couldn’t make all the right sounds, couldn’t shade the meanings enough for him to really converse with her. He was four people, really. Mere-Glim the Argonian, when he spoke the language of the Empire, which cut his thoughts into human shapes. When he spoke to his mother or siblings he was Wuthilul the Saxhleel. When he spoke with a Saxhleel from the deep forest, or even with a member of the An-Xileel, he was a Lukiul, “assimilated,” because his family had been living under Imperial ways for so long. When he spoke with Annaïg he was something else, not between the two, but something very different from either. Glim. But even their shared language was far from true thought. True thought was close to the root. The Hist were many, and they were one. Their roots burrowed deep beneath the black soil and soft white stone of Black Marsh, connecting them all, and thus connecting all Saxhleel, all Argonians. The Hist gave his people life, form, purpose. It was the Hist who had seen through the shadows to the Oblivion crisis, who called all of the people back to the marsh, defeated the forces of Mehrunes Dagon, drove the Empire into the sea, and laid waste to their ancient enemies in Morrowind. The Hist were of one mind, but just as he was four beings, the mind of the Hist could sometimes escape itself. It had happened before. It had happened in Lilmoth. If the city tree had separated itself, and the An-Xileel with it, what did that mean? And why was he going to do what Annaïg had asked him to do rather than trying to discover what was happening to the tree whose sap had molded him? But he was, wasn’t he? He stopped and stared into the bulbous stone eyes of Xhon-Mehl the Fisher, once Ascendant Organ Lord of Lilmoth. Now all that was visible of him was his lower snout up to his head. The rest of him was sunken, like most of ancient Lilmoth, into the soft, shifting soil the city had been built on. If one could swim through mud and earth, there were many Lilmoths to discover beneath one’s webbed feet. An image arose behind his eyes; the great stepped pyramid of Ixtaxh-thtithil-meht. Only the topmost chamber still jutted above the silt, but the An-Xileel had excavated it, room by room, pumping it out and laying magicks to keep the water from returning. As if they wanted to go back, not forward.