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  For Leif Jeffers

  If someone makes a movie out of this, I hope it’s you

  HISTORIAN’S NOTE

  * * *

  * * *

  The events of this novel take place in December 2553, approximately five months after the discovery of an archeon-class ancilla in Halo: Last Light, and two months after Veta Lopis’s Ferret Team is imperiled in the Halo: Fractures story “A Necessary Truth.”

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  * * *

  1432 hours, December 12, 2553 (military calendar)

  Trattoria Georgi

  New Tyne, Planet Venezia, Qab System

  The gunrunner in the corner booth was not the usual space trash. Wearing a high-necked tunic with an embroidered collar, he sat with three rough-looking lackeys, sipping a golden cordial while his companions gulped hiskal and wotha. His head was fashionably shaved, his dark beard closely trimmed, his eyes amber and thoughtful. And his smile—it was quick and bright, an invitation to fun and trouble that almost made ONI operative Veta Lopis regret what she was about to do to him.

  Almost.

  Leaving her backup team at the table, she rose and started across a small dining room packed with customers, mostly human and Kig-Yar. As she drew near the gunrunner’s booth, a huge Jiralhanae bodyguard stepped away from the wall to block her way. Tall enough that his head scraped the ceiling, he had a raw-boned face with pebbly gray skin, a sloped brow, and twenty-centimeter fangs rising from a massive jaw.

  Veta continued toward him, unfazed. Her backup team might look like over-pierced street punks, but they were Spartan-III super-soldiers—and all three were palming M6P pocket pistols loaded with four rounds of high-explosive ammunition. If the Jiralhanae got rough, he’d be dead before he landed a single blow.

  Two meters from the Brute, Veta stopped. “Easy, big guy,” she said. To prove she was unarmed, she pulled up her shirttail and turned around slowly. “I’m here to talk business.”

  The Jiralhanae snarled and pointed a huge finger back toward her table. She had been careful to position herself outside her team’s line of fire, so his arm extended at an angle that opened his rib cage to attack. Reassured by his ineptitude, Veta merely circled around his other side and, with the gunrunner calmly watching, continued toward the booth.

  “Just hear me out,” she said. The Jiralhanae was already spinning around to grab at her, but Veta slipped aside and hitched a thumb back over her shoulder. “Trust me, it’ll be better for everyone.”

  The gunrunner glanced toward Veta’s table, where she knew her team would be on the verge of opening fire. His smile grew wry, and he quickly signaled his bodyguard to stand down.

  “Rude and dangerous,” he said. “How can I refuse?”

  “I’m glad we understand each other,” Veta said. “Though I do apologize for the intrusion.”

  The gunrunner waved a dismissive hand. “Save your apologies for Picus.” He shot his bodyguard a scowl. “You know how dangerous Jiralhanae can be when they’ve been embarrassed.”

  “I do,” Veta said. “And I’m not that worried.”

  The gunrunner chuckled. “I imagine not.” He leaned against the booth’s backrest, then said, “So . . . talk.”

  “I need to hire one of your Razors.”

  The gunrunner’s brow rose. He was big for a human, with shoulders as wide as a door and biceps the size of HEAT rockets, and Veta could see why his Venezian business partners called him “the Goliath.”

  After a moment, he asked, “As in the old UNSC corvette? That kind of Razor?”

  Veta nodded. “As in the old UNSC stealth corvette,” she said. “And the UNSC isn’t the only outfit operating them anymore. You know that better than anyone.”

  The gunrunner assumed an innocent look. “And why would I know that?”

  “Because Lieutenant Commander Hector Nyeto commandeered three of them when he defected from the UNSC,” Veta said. “And you’re Ross Nyeto—his son.”

  Nyeto’s posture grew tense, and his companions dropped their hands beneath the table. All three wore ballistic vests over bare torsos, a popular style that was more bad-boy fashion than effective protection. Veta ran her gaze around the booth, locking eyes with each man until she saw a glimmer of uncertainty, then returned her attention to Nyeto.

  “Your father used those vessels to become a hero of the Insurrection,” Veta said. “You used them to smuggle arms for Arlo Casille.”

  Nyeto forced a neutral expression, but the color drained from his face. Arlo Casille was the new president of the nearby planet Gao. He was also the most corrupt and ruthless politician in the entire sector. And before he had become president, he had been Veta’s boss.

  To suggest they had parted on bad terms was an understatement. Casille had risen to power during a military crisis of his own making, when he secretly helped a faction of ex-Covenant zealots assault a UNSC research battalion deployed on Gao. The resulting battle had destroyed an entire village and cost hundreds of innocent lives: the tragedy had given Casille the leverage he needed to crush his political rivals and claim the presidency of the Gao Republic for himself.

  Ross Nyeto’s only involvement had been running arms shipments between Casille and the zealots . . . but that had earned him a long list of enemies. The Unified Earth Government wanted Nyeto dead because he had helped arm ex-Covenant. Casille wanted him dead because Nyeto was one of the few people who knew of Casille’s involvement in the entire affair. And the Gao Ministry of War wanted him dead because his smuggling activities were a stain on the legacy of his heroic father.

  Veta just wanted to take him captive, though that wasn’t the primary objective of her first official mission leading a Ferret team. It was more of a bonus.

  After giving Nyeto a few seconds to worry, Veta said, “Relax. I’m only making sure you understand that I know who you are.”

  Nyeto’s gaze flicked toward Veta’s table and remained there as he studied the three “street punks” backing her up. “Then I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Have we met?”

  “We have now.” Veta slipped two fingers into her shirt pocket and removed a small lethron bag with a flex-mag closure. “I’m the woman who wants to hire one of your Razors. I hear the Ghost Flag can be under way by tonight.”

  She squeezed the bag open, then emptied a line of shimmering spheres across the table. Varying in size from that of a pea to a little larger than a human thumb-tip, the spheres initially appeared more liquid than solid, like drops of water on the verge of erupting into splashes. After a moment in the light, they coalesced into solid balls and developed an iridescent glow so deep and bright it seemed to be shining through a hole in the bottom of the universe.

  The tension in the air dissolved into wonder, and the man to Nyeto’s left gasped. “Phase pearls! Where did you get those?”

  “None of your business,” Veta said.

  Technically known as boson beads, the gems were created by the plasma bombardment of a Forerunner hard-light device. This particular batch had been collected on nearby Shaps III, when the UNSC’s 717th Xeno-Materials Exploitation Battalion had sent a company to survey a Forerunner site that had been glassed a few months before.

  But Veta was not about to reveal that. Phase pearl
s were among the rarest gems known to man, and if she divulged the source, it wouldn’t take a month for Shaps III to become one huge mining camp. She closed the bag and left it lying on the table, still half-full and undulating, then looked back to Nyeto.

  “That’s more than enough to hire the Ghost Flag for a month,” she said. “Probably for two months, come to think of it.”

  “Probably.” Nyeto continued to eye the phase pearls for a moment, then finally looked up at Veta. “But that’s not how I do business.”

  “I won’t pay more.”

  “It wouldn’t help. I’m not a gem dealer, and I don’t run a transport service. My interests are more . . . specialized.” Nyeto flashed a bright smile. “I think you know that.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re suggesting.” Veta was careful to remain stone-faced. Nyeto was starting to sniff at the bait, but she had to appear reluctant if she expected him to take it. “I need a ride, not a partner.”

  Nyeto spread his hands. “Then you’ve interrupted my lunch for nothing.”

  Veta glowered at Nyeto’s half-empty cordial glass. “You call that lunch?” She reached for the pearl bag. “Sorry we couldn’t do business.”

  The man to Nyeto’s left slapped a beefy hand over Veta’s. “You can leave those here.” He was a moonfaced fellow with rough skin and slit eyes, a head shorter than Nyeto, but almost as wide. “Think of it as a consulting fee.”

  Veta clamped her free hand over his. “You’re a funny man.”

  She grabbed his thumb and peeled. When he tried to jerk loose, she slipped into a wrist lock and pivoted sideways, increasing her leverage and forcing him to flop across Nyeto’s lap. The pain-compliance technique was one she had often used during her time as a Special Inspector in the Gao Ministry of Protection, and one she still preferred to the more lethal methods favored by her current employer.

  Chairs began to scrape across the floor as nervous patrons started for the exit, and she glimpsed her backup team moving to cover her.

  Olivia-G291 was already in front of the Jiralhanae, pointing an M6P up at his face, while Mark-G313 and Ash-G099 were flanking Nyeto’s booth from opposite sides. With bloodshot eyes, hollow cheeks, and gold bling in their brows, nostrils, and lips, the trio looked like a crew of twenty-year-old zoneouts—but that was just the makeup. They were actually closer to fifteen, and by far the most dangerous people in the room.

  Veta began to lift Moonface’s arm, drawing a bellow of pain as the angle put pressure on his shoulder. She looked back to Nyeto.

  “This doesn’t need to get bloody.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” The raspy, raised voice came from the near end of the bar, where a gray-haired man in a purple vest was emerging from a door marked OFFICE. He was holding a glass of coppery liquid in one hand and nothing in the other, and he looked more irritated than alarmed. “The Georgi is a quiet place.”

  Nyeto was quick to dip his chin. “My apologies, Mr. Baklanov.” He looked toward the line of patrons heading for the exit, then added, “I hope you’ll allow me to reimburse the trattoria for the disturbance.”

  Baklanov nodded. “That will be fine.” He turned to a slender brunette woman behind the bar, then spoke loudly enough to make himself heard by everyone in the dining room. “The Goliath will be paying everyone’s tab while he’s here.”

  Nyeto’s smile grew strained. “It will be my pleasure.”

  The exodus slowed as human and Kig-Yar customers began to murmur and cackle, weighing the prospect of free drinks against the likelihood of a firefight breaking out any second. When they remained wary of returning to their tables, Baklanov turned to Veta and waved two fingers in her team’s direction.

  “You and your friends are visitors here,” he said. “Maybe you should remember that.”

  Veta returned his stare, pretending she did not know who he was, then finally shrugged and began to ease Moonface’s wrist toward the table.

  “All we want is what belongs to us,” she said. “As long as it’s returned, there won’t be any trouble.”

  “Good,” Baklanov said. “Then it’s decided.”

  He did not bother to ask Nyeto’s opinion. In addition to the Trattoria Georgi—which served as an informal meeting place for smugglers of all kinds—Georgi Baklanov controlled an orbital warehouse complex named Uashon Station. Between the two businesses, he facilitated fully half the black-market commerce on Venezia, and any gunrunner foolish enough to defy him in his own establishment would soon be looking for a new planet to call home base.

  Veta motioned her team to secure their weapons. Once they had tucked the pistols into their belts, Baklanov swirled his drink and shot Nyeto a warning look, then retreated into his office.

  Nyeto assumed a placating smile and gestured at Moonface. “I apologize for Marco’s manner. He only meant to say we’d like more information before making a counterproposal.”

  “I don’t have time for counterproposals.” Veta released Marco’s wrist completely. “The offer is take-it-or-leave-it.”

  “Why are you in such a hurry?” Nyeto eased Marco out of his lap, then said, “You don’t strike me as someone who plans poorly.”

  “I’m not.” Veta began to collect the phase pearls off the table and return them to their bag. “You might say we had an equipment failure.”

  “So you have your own vessel?”

  “We did.”

  Veta stole a glance at the patrons returning to their seats and noticed two thin-snouted Kig-Yar switching to a table closer to Nyeto’s booth. They were either information dealers or spies from an ex-Covenant religious sect known as the Keepers of the One Freedom—and Veta was hoping for the latter. The Trattoria Georgi was a known hangout for the sect’s smuggling gangs, and local sources reported that a Keeper gunrunning crew was in port looking for a cargo. In fact, the whole point of approaching Nyeto in public was to catch the attention of his Keeper rivals.

  Veta turned back to Nyeto. “You know anyone interested in a damaged Crow?” she asked. “It can be repaired, but we really need to be on our way.”

  Nyeto’s companions shifted in their seats, but he merely forced a smirk and tried to look indifferent.

  “Crows are a little small for our operation,” he said. “But I can ask around. What series?”

  “A modified S77,” Veta said. Originally used as convoy accompaniment by private cargo-hauling firms, Crows were lightly armored escort fighters. Obsolete by current standards, they were nevertheless so swift and packed with weapons systems that small pirate gangs still flew them as corsairs. “We added ten Archer pods and a Mini-MAC.”

  Nyeto’s smirk vanished. “I didn’t know a Crow could carry that much firepower.”

  “We found a way.” Veta closed the pearl bag. “Five pods on each side and the Mini-MAC under the belly. Now are you interested?”

  “Not in the Crow itself,” Nyeto said. “But how you used it? That interests me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Taulanti,” Nyeto said. “Someone hits a UNSC munitions ship in the Isbanola sector—and you think I won’t hear about it?”

  “That doesn’t mean it was us.”

  “No? The UNSC has been sniffing around the Qab System for days now.” Nyeto leaned across the table and spoke in a softer voice. “They’re boarding Crows and looking for Archers and Mini-MACS.”

  “Still doesn’t mean it was us,” Veta said.

  Nyeto studied Veta through narrowed eyes, and she began to fear something in her manner had tipped him off. As a former detective, she’d done some undercover work, but nothing like this. And while she and her Ferret team had just spent five-and-a-half months training for field operations, the one thing their ONI instructors had drilled into them from day one was that if something could go wrong on an op, it usually did.

  But after a moment, Nyeto merely nodded and gave her a knowing smile. “Ah, it was you,” he said. “That’s why you’re in such a hurry.”

  �
��That was a bold move, hitting a UNSC munitions ship,” Marco added. “But you didn’t get away clean. And it’s going to get you killed.”

  “Not necessarily.” Nyeto kept his eyes locked on Veta. “They still have time . . . if they let us help them.”

  “Great.” Veta dangled the pearl bag between her fingers. “Half at the starport, half at the destination.”

  “Like I said, that’s not the way I work,” Nyeto replied. “I want in.”

  Veta was careful to keep her brow furrowed and her mouth tight. Nyeto was hooked, but the operation could still go bad.

  “In what?” she asked.

  Nyeto’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I want in on the nukes. From what I’m hearing, you got away with ten. I want five.”

  “Can’t do it.”

  Veta stole a glance toward the trattoria office and found the Kig-Yar still seated at their new table. They were being sure to face one another instead of Nyeto’s booth, but their bulbous eyes were unfocused, and their dorsal head-quills were standing on end. Good. Veta needed them to hear the Taulanti story before she left the Trattoria Georgi.

  She turned back to Nyeto. “Look . . . okay. I can let you have some of the Argent Vs and Gauss cannons. But the Havoks?” She paused to make sure the Kig-Yar eavesdroppers heard her clearly, then shook her head. “The Havoks are already spoken for.”

  “Better to deliver some than none,” Nyeto said. “Blame the shortfall on me. I’m sure your clients will—”

  “I told you, we can’t do it,” Veta said. “The people I work for? No one disappoints them.”

  She exhaled sharply, relying on the show of frustration to mask the prickle of apprehension digging at the base of her skull. She had just uttered the GO phrase, and in about four minutes, all hell would break loose.

  “These people you work for,” Nyeto said. “Who are they?”

  “Sorry.” Veta gave him a sardonic smile. “I’d tell you, but then—”