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  “Hope the big guy comes back,” Cirilo whispered. “He has the map, you know.”

  “No worries,” Veta said. “We can always follow the comm line back to Crime Scene India.”

  “Afraid not,” said a speaker-modulated voice behind them. “The line’s been cut.”

  Veta looked back to see Ash-G099 crawling into the glow of her lamp beam, his form blurred by the photoreactive coating of his Semi-Powered Infiltration armor. Though smaller than Fred, the Spartan-III was still large enough that he had to worm his way forward on his elbows and belly. Like Fred, he was somehow managing to do that silently—even while holding his battle rifle ready to fire.

  “Cut?” Veta asked. “By whom?”

  “Most likely by the enemy, ma’am,” Ash replied. “When the shooting starts, get low and roll to the walls so I can fire past you if I need to.”

  “And how soon will that be?” Cirilo asked. “When the shooting starts, I mean?”

  “That’s not really in our control.” Ash used the tip of his battle rifle to gesture up the passage. “But we should continue to advance. The lieutenant says he’s found a casualty.”

  Noting that neither Ash nor any of the other Spartans was using a lamp, Veta asked, “What about our headlamps?” She reached for the control button on her helmet. “Shouldn’t we turn them off to avoid making ourselves targets?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Ash said. “You won’t be able to see a thing in the dark, and the Sentinels have as many imaging systems as we do. They’ll find you whether you have your lamps on or not.”

  “Great. Thanks for the reassurance,” Cirilo muttered.

  Half-expecting to be hit by a particle beam at any moment, Veta continued forward. A few minutes later, the passage opened into a large gallery about ten meters across and perhaps twice that in height. There didn’t seem to be many cave formations in the chamber, but the floor was scattered with breakdown blocks and the walls were coated in a white precipitate the Gaos called moonmilk.

  Fred was crouched just beyond the mouth of the passage, taking cover behind a large rectangular block and ready to protect the rest of the team as they emerged. As soon as Veta stuck her head out, he removed a hand from his battle rifle and pointed toward another block about halfway across the gallery.

  “You two wait there and ready your weapons,” he said. “We’ll approach the casualty together.”

  Veta and Cirilo retrieved the equipment packs they had been dragging, then took cover where Fred had indicated and unstrapped their M7s. Even had Fred not mentioned the casualty, Veta would have known by the odor alone that they were close to a dead body—the smell was just that strong and distinct. Ash, Olivia-G291, and Mark-G313 emerged from the passage in quick succession, then disappeared into the darkness so swiftly that Veta was half-convinced she had imagined them.

  Fred rose from behind his cover and pointed up the gallery. “The body is about ten meters ahead,” he said. “And we’ll need to make this fast.”

  “Assuming we don’t get shot first,” Cirilo said.

  “You won’t get shot,” Fred assured him. “Incinerated, maybe.”

  “The Sentinel beams are that powerful?” Veta asked, following Cirilo forward.

  “Affirmative,” Fred said. “They can do a lot of damage.”

  They reached the death scene and found a marine private lying on the gallery floor, about a meter beneath the mouth of an intersecting passage. His body was stiff with rigor mortis, his arms flung out beside him, with one hand wrapped around the stock of his battle rifle. His index finger was still holding the trigger down. Veta saw no obvious cause of death, but his torso armor had a blackened heat ring over the heart, and his BDU blouse—at least the exposed portions Veta could see—had been singed into ribbons.

  She turned to Fred. “Is this Private Hayes?”

  Fred nodded.

  “Does that look like a Sentinel attack?”

  “It actually doesn’t, Inspector,” Fred said. “A Sentinel beam would have blown through the armor and agitated his molecules until his cells erupted. It would have cooked him from the inside out.”

  Veta nodded. “That’s what I thought.” She sat on her heels about two meters from the private’s body and swept the beam of her helmet lamp down his flank to his hip, where she found a charred exit wound. “This was an electrocution.”

  “That’s the way I read it,” Cirilo said, squatting next to her. “He was on his side when the bolt hit him in the chest. It went down through his body and grounded out through his hip.”

  Veta looked back at Fred. “Could a Sentinel have electrocuted him?”

  “Negative,” Fred said. “They only use their particle beams.”

  “What about your target?” Veta asked. “Could it have made an attack like this?”

  “The answer to that would be—”

  “Let me guess,” Veta interrupted. “Classified.”

  She was getting tired of playing these spy games, especially since it was beginning to look like there could be a connection between Fred’s target and her suspect.

  But she also understood how valuable Forerunner technology was to the UNSC, and whatever the Spartans were here to capture, she was fairly certain that ONI wouldn’t hesitate to give the order to kill Veta and her entire team to protect the secret. Something to keep in mind.

  After a moment, Veta turned to Cirilo and said, “I think we need to take that as a yes.”

  “Not much choice,” Cirilo agreed. “But this is a new MO. So maybe this death isn’t on our suspect.”

  “Maybe not.” Veta ran her lamp beam up the private’s arm to the empty battle rifle. “It looks like Hayes got off some shots before he died. That’s something new, too.”

  “Can’t read much into that,” Cirilo warned. “Tourists don’t usually carry automatic weapons. Not even Gaos.”

  “Good point.”

  Cirilo gestured at the passage beside them. “So maybe Hayes is crawling out of this passage here when he hears something coming. He rolls up on his hip and opens fire, then the thing lets him have it.”

  “Which means Private Hayes might not be the only one who took damage,” Veta said. “Sweep the area. Look for bullets and blood . . . or hydraulic fluid or whatever. Just see if he hit anything.”

  “You got it.” Cirilo strapped his M7 to his vest again, then stepped back and began to pull equipment from his pack. “I’ll look for impression evidence, too.”

  “What would that be?” Fred asked.

  “Tracks and tool marks,” Veta explained. “That kind of thing.”

  Veta stepped over to the dead private’s feet, where the small passage opened into the gallery wall. The crawlway was less than a meter high, and it was rank with the smell of blood. Holding the M7 in both hands, she dropped to her knees and shined her helmet lamp into the passage. The walls and ceiling were spattered with crimson ovals, and the floor was marbled with chest-size pools of sticky dark mud.

  It wasn’t the private’s blood. Hayes showed no sign that he had been bleeding before leaving the passage—or even afterward. But where was Major Halal? The only indications of another victim were some kick marks on the floor and a long furrow where he had pushed himself back up the passage. Veta activated the handlamp attached to the barrel of her M7 submachine gun and added its power to the glow of her headlamp. At the far end of the combined beam, she finally spotted a rigid gray figure lying in a pool of congealed blood. The major’s face was not visible from the passage entrance, but Veta had no doubt that he was dead—she had looked at enough corpses to recognize rigor mortis when she saw it.

  “I found Halal,” Veta said. She sat back on her haunches. “Any sign of those Sentinels, Lieutenant? Or your target?”

  “All reports are clear so far,” the Spartan replied. “Why?”

  “Because this could take a while.” Veta pointed into the passage. “It’s not going to be easy to drag Major Halal out of there while he’s in full rigor mortis.”<
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  “Well, at least we won’t have to drag all of him out,” Cirilo replied. “Not if this piece belongs to him.”

  Veta turned toward Cee’s voice and found him about four meters away, shining his helmet lamp down upon a floor strewn with thin slabs of limestone. Before she could ask what he was looking at, Fred crossed to his side and pulled a disembodied arm from the rubble.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Cirilo demanded. “That’s evidence.”

  “And it’s classified.”

  “Yeah, isn’t everything with you?” Veta snapped. Now that Fred was holding the arm, she could see that it was sheathed in a bloody, badly tattered military sleeve. Attached to the wrist was a leather band with the tacpad Halal had been using at Crime Scene Charlie. “Goddammit, stop tampering with my crime scene!”

  “These are our casualties, not your victims,” Fred pointed out. “And you need to keep your voice down. Our position isn’t very defensible.”

  “I’ll keep my voice down when you stop obstructing my investigation,” Veta said. “Those soldiers died on Gao. I’m claiming jurisdiction.”

  Fred remained silent behind his faceplate.

  “Didn’t Commander Nelson order you to cooperate?”

  “Within limits,” Fred said. “Which I am.”

  Realizing she would not get far trying to bully a Spartan, Veta took a deep breath.

  “All right. Let’s see if we can work this out, then.” She pointed to the tacpad strapped to the wrist of the disembodied arm. “Isn’t Wendell in there?”

  “A limited aspect, yes. That’s why I’m recovering it.” Fred tucked the arm under his elbow and snapped the tacpad off the wrist, then handed the bloody limb to Cirilo. “I’m sorry, Inspector, but the AI is classified. You can keep the rest.”

  “I need to talk to Wendell,” Veta said. “He was here.”

  Fred’s helmet tipped to one side.

  “Wendell is a witness,” Cirilo clarified. “We need to interview him.”

  Fred’s helmet came back to center, and the faceplate turned toward Veta. “Does it have to be here?” he asked. “Right now?”

  “It would save us a lot of time,” Veta said. “And no one wants to be here any longer than we have to.”

  Fred remained silent for a moment, then said, “Understand that Wendell is under orders, too. There may be some questions he isn’t allowed to answer.”

  “Huh. Imagine that,” Veta said. She turned to Cirilo and pointed at the arm. “Put that in a bag, and then finish your sweep. I’ll see what Wendell has to say.”

  Cirilo nodded and moved off.

  Fred tapped the tacpad’s power tab and held the screen out where Veta could see it. A weary-looking gentleman sporting a gray goatee and a fedora hat appeared in the little display. He glanced in Veta’s direction only briefly, then directed his attention to Fred.

  “Spartan-104,” he said. “I am relieved to see you. I was beginning to think I would power out down here.”

  “Glad we found you.” Fred turned the tacpad so that Wendell had no choice except to look at Veta. “Inspector Lopis has some questions for you. Tell her what you can without violating Foxtrot Tango Angel 7012.”

  “Of course, but I don’t have long.” Static began to flash through Wendell’s image. “This device suffered surge damage during the—”

  The screen went blank.

  Fred turned the tacpad back toward his faceplate and tapped the power tab again. “Wendell?”

  Wendell’s voice returned. “I’m sorry, but these circuits are burning out as we speak. I’m afraid I won’t last long enough to be of any use . . . unless . . . well, perhaps you could allow me to reside in your armor interface? Just temporarily, of course, until we return to base and I reincorporate with Wendell Prime.”

  Fred paused, then removed a thumbnail-size memory chip from the tacpad and inserted it into a slot at the back of his helmet. “Welcome aboard.”

  Nothing happened for a moment, then Fred turned his faceplate toward Veta and asked, “What do you want to know?”

  “Start a few moments before the attack, Wendell,” Veta said. “Just tell us what happened.”

  Wendell’s voice began to sound from Fred’s helmet speaker. “As you wish. Private Hayes was in the lead, preparing to exit the passage, when Major Halal saw something pass in front of them. Hayes suggested they wait, which they did. After five minutes, Hayes proceeded.”

  Veta waited for the AI to continue, but Wendell remained silent, and finally Fred asked, “Anything else, Inspector?”

  “Actually, yes,” Veta said. “Wendell, exactly what did Major Halal see?”

  “I’m afraid that is classified, Inspector Lopis.”

  “In other words, Major Halal saw the mission target?”

  “I did not say that.”

  “So, he saw a Sentinel?”

  “Where did you hear that term?” Wendell demanded.

  The helmet speaker fell silent for a moment—no doubt while Fred brought Wendell up-to-date on Commander Nelson’s guidance regarding security directive Foxtrot Tango Angel 7012.

  Then Wendell said, “There is nothing more I can tell you, Inspector. All I saw was a white flash, then a surge of current overloaded the tacpad circuits. I was lucky to remain integrated.”

  “Wendell, I’m asking about Private Hayes and Major Halal,” Veta said. “What happened to them?”

  “I should think that’s apparent,” Wendell replied. “They were killed.”

  “By who, Wendell? Or should I ask, by what?”

  There was a pause, then Wendell said, “I’m afraid I cannot tell you that, Inspector.”

  “Because it’s classified?”

  “Because I did not actually see the attacker,” Wendell said. “As I’ve explained, my coding was turning to smoke. I was busy reconfiguring my memory.”

  “But you must have heard the gunfire,” Veta said immediately. “How many shots did Private Hayes take?”

  “I didn’t hear any.” Wendell paused, then added, “Your attempts to wear me down are a waste of time, Inspector. My logic routines are quite stable.”

  “I can tell,” Veta said. “But I also know that AIs can perform hundreds of operations at once. You’re hiding something. What is it?”

  Wendell paused, then said, “I’m hiding a great many things, Inspector.”

  Veta waited for him to elaborate, but it was Fred’s voice that sounded from the helmet speaker next.

  “Sorry, Inspector. He’s gone.”

  Veta frowned. “Gone . . .? Gone where?”

  “Wherever code goes when it doesn’t want to be found,” Fred said. “My system is telling me Wendell has withdrawn.”

  “Just like that?” Veta asked. “Without another word, he just takes off from my interview? And just how is that a matter of cooperating?”

  Fred turned his faceplate away.

  “What is it, Lieutenant?” Veta demanded. “He must have told you something.”

  “Well, yeah.” Fred looked back toward her. “He said I ought to shoot you.”

  Veta’s gaze slid toward Fred’s weapon hand, and she felt herself reaching for her M7’s charging handle.

  He was already swinging his battle rifle away from her. “Relax, Inspector. I don’t take orders from Wendell.”

  Veta didn’t know quite what to say. She was well acquainted with being threatened by angry suspects, but they didn’t usually reside in Mjolnir armor. And they certainly couldn’t vanish simply because the interrogation had taken an uncomfortable turn.

  On the other hand, Wendell wasn’t much of a suspect. It was hard to imagine him electrocuting Private Hayes or dismembering Major Halal’s arm—that just wasn’t the kind of damage a tacpad could inflict.

  “Hey . . . boss.” Cirilo’s voice was soft but urgent. “Got something here.”

  Veta looked over and, about eight meters away, saw a pale crescent of blue light sweeping down the cavern wall. She heard the soft hiss of Fluoresc
el being sprayed, then saw a spatter pattern appear on the stone. But instead of glowing blue-white, as blood did when it reacted with the fluorescing agent, the oval was glowing orange.

  Veta started toward him. “Cee . . . what is that?”

  “I don’t know,” Cirilo said. “But whatever spilled it took a couple of slugs from Hayes.”

  The nozzle of the Fluorescel bottle appeared in the blue light, pointing to a pair of fresh divots near the smaller end of the spatter pattern.

  “I haven’t actually found the bullets yet, but you can see where they hit.”

  Veta stopped at Cirilo’s side. “Wow. Good work.”

  “You haven’t seen the best part yet.” Cirilo walked a few steps down the gallery, then sprayed the Fluorescel on the cavern floor and shined the light on it. Several orange dots began to fluoresce in the mud. “Whatever Hayes hit is bleeding . . . or something.”

  Veta dropped to her haunches and examined the dots. They were in a crooked line, leading more or less down the gallery. “Cirilo, sometimes I could kiss you.”

  Cirilo chuckled. “Only sometimes?”

  “That’s not enough for you?” Veta spent a moment thinking about priorities, then said, “Okay, we need to recover Major Halal, then get him and Private Hayes into bags and cache the bodies somewhere safe.”

  “Cache them?” Fred’s faceplate turned toward the line of fluorescing dots. “What are you thinking, Inspector?”

  “Probably the same thing you are, Fred.” Veta stood, then pointed at the line of fluorescing dots. “That’s a trail . . . and we need to follow it.”

  CHAPTER 8

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  * * *

  0026 hours, July 4, 2553 (military calendar)

  Probable Launching Silo, 1,500 Meters belowground,