Halo: Heaven and Earth

Prologue
As rain pours down upon a city rooftop, they clash. Two figures clad in near-identical armor, their faces hidden behind broad-visored helmets, trade blows through the drenched night air. The crunch and thud of armor striking armor reverberates across the roof and down into the foggy streets below. Each fighter tears into the other with every ounce of their strength. Nothing is held back. They punch and kick, grapple and throw. Each time one of the combatants falls they rise from the rain-slicked rooftop to throw themselves back into the battle with even greater ferocity.

Each sees the other’s attacks before they come. They know every move, every form, down to the slightest twitch. They’ve sparred countless times, teaching each other techniques, learning together until they know the other’s moves better than they know their own. They’ve sparred, but never fought.

Not like this.

Perched atop even higher rooftops, dozens of alien eyes peer down on the spectacle. An entire complement of Sangheili warriors, battle hardened killers armed to the teeth, watch the humans fight through the night. The rain soaks through their armor and into their skin but not one warrior moves away or tries to interfere. They know that this is one fight that has no place for them.

Their commander is down there, and this battle is his alone.

Clad in battered Semi-Powered Infiltration armor, the warrior called Stray slams a fist into his opponent’s chest and drives her back into the center of the rooftop. His armor is faded and scoured, scarred by countless dents and cracks. It is a suit that has seen countless battles while serving as its master’s second skin. The armor hides any trace of the young Spartan once known as Simon-G294. He is Stray now, commander of the Kru’desh raiding legion. The only human in history to ever hold a command within the alien Covenant.

He was once known as the worst trainee in Gamma Company. Now thousands of alien warriors follow him into battle. Entire worlds have fallen before his warriors. Fleets and armies have burned at his command. His war-torn armor is covered in weapons and combat pouches, each part of an arsenal that has kept him alive across years of endless fighting. A prosthetic left arm marks his ability to overcome even the most crippling of injuries. The best killers in the galaxy have tried and failed to bring him down, and he has killed plenty of them in turn.

But now he does not call his warriors down to help him, does not even try to draw one of his weapons. His hand does not so much as twitch toward the hilt of the machete slung across his back. Normally he would never pass up an advantage in battle. He has fought and survived and won through trickery and cunning and murderous determination. But here and now, against this one enemy, he cannot win through some ploy or trick. This battle must be won with his bare hands.

It is the only way to prove that he truly is no longer the frightened, helpless boy he still sees in his dreams.

His opponent rises, fists out before her in a defensive stance. Like Stray, she wears Semi-Powered Infiltration armor. But Cassandra-G006’s suit is better maintained, harboring only a few scattered battle scars. The armor’s original military green still shows beneath her combat harness and she sports none of the modifications grafted onto Stray’s armor. Aside from a few pouches slung across her tactical rigging and an M6 pistol at her hip she has nothing to match Stray’s unused arsenal. But like her opponent she makes no move to draw her pistol or combat knife. Instead she surges forward with a blow to Stray’s helmet followed up by a kick to his midsection that drives him back across the rooftop.

Like Stray, Cassandra is a traitor. A renegade guilty of desertion. But she has never served the Insurrection, much less the Covenant. Not even the Syndicate’s criminal empire has ever bent Cassandra to its will. She has left no mark of her own on the galaxy save for the lives she has saved out of her little medical clinic somewhere down in the streets below. A life of healing, free from the violence she was raised for, is her life’s ambition.

But this city is hers to defend. Cassandra lacks Stray’s power and weaponry, but she is no stranger to combat. And tonight she is angrier than she has been in a long time.

The former teammates stagger back, reeling from each other’s blows. Stray plants his fist in the rooftop hard enough to crack the rain-drenched panels. “You need to get out of my way.” His voice is ragged, strained. The battle is taking its toll on him in more ways than one. “Just walk away. Stay out of this. That’s what you do best isn’t it?”

“You really think I’ll just let you do whatever you want?” Cassandra steadies herself, trying to find her center through a haze of rage. “You should have known better than to come here.”

“I need to do this.” Rain pounds across his armor. His fists clench as he searches for an opening. “We’ll be gone before the night’s over.”

“So you can come back with an invasion fleet. The Covenant’s had its eye on this planet for a long time. And now they send you to scout things out for them.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s in that vault—”

“I don’t care.” Her words cut through the night air, hard enough to make him flinch visibly through his armor. And that slight recoil only fuels Cassandra’s rage. “What you’ve done… You’ve betrayed everyone you knew. Sided with our worst enemies. And why? Because Diana told you to?”

“Shut up!” Stray throws himself at her, throwing a barrage of kicks and punches flying through the rain. Cassandra blocks every blow and this time does not even give ground. Because even through the pain and rage she already knows how to beat him. She has to beat him. Because the mere sight of the creature before her rends her heart in two.

And so with every punch Stray throws Cassandra lashes back with two more. Her blows channel every betrayal, every broken promise, every excuse she has ever made for Stray. She breaks his offense, shatters his guard, and drives him back through the rain. Stray reels, even his bestial ferocity unable to match the righteous fury that drives in on him now.

He has outwitted every foe. Clawed his way up through countless battles, doing whatever it took to survive and win. But now his own savage nature weighs down upon him like an anvil around his neck. He cannot escape retribution. Not anymore. Because this is the one person in the galaxy whose judgement matters, and in front of her he can no longer hide his guilt.

Stray’s movements slow, his muscles slackening. His body realizes the impending defeat even if his mind does not. His breaths come in shallow gasps as his body betrays him. Even his prosthetic arm moves slower as if its metal frame is rebelling against its master. His eyes widen, confused, as Cassandra sweeps his feet out from under him and sends him slamming into the rooftop.

He shouldn’t be losing. Not against her. Not like this.

The eyes of his warriors glisten from above. There is shock in those eyes, shock and anger at their commander’s poor display. But none holds even a shred of pity. None come to his aid. There is no mercy for the weak in the world he has pledged himself to. There is only power and those too weak to hold on.

A snarl of rage escapes his lips. He cannot lose here! He can’t let everything he has worked and killed and sacrificed for come to nothing over her!

He is on his feet in an instant. Finding his strength once more, he slams his metal fist into Cassandra’s chest. She gasps and falls to one knee, neck momentarily bent before him.

Stray sees his chance, his one chance, to win. He finally reaches for his machete, drawing the battered blade from its sheath in a practiced motion. The blade rises like an executioner’s axe, poised to fall upon Cassandra’s neck. To end this fight, his failures, and her.

How many has he killed like this? How many times has the blade struck home without a twinge of mercy? Stray has pondered these questions before but they have never stopped him in a fight. It has always been him or the enemy and this time is no different.

But now, in this moment, he stops. His arm twitches, spasms, but refuses to descend. Because this is not an opponent, not an enemy. There’s no mission any more, no alien warriors waiting for him to make the final blow. Just the two of them. Stray and Cassandra.

And through a distant memory he sees her from a different angle. Not in armor, not kneeling before him, but in dirty jumpsuit. Pinned to a bed, eyes staring up at him full of rage and disgust as he takes all he wants from her.

He cannot touch her. Not after that. Not again.

A shuddering, gasping sob escapes Stray’s throat. He lowers the machete and backs away. He needs to get away from her. He needs to escape. He needs to run far—

Her next punch hits him hard enough to break his jaw. His helmet cracks and bends beneath her punch. He staggers back, machete falling from powerless hands. She rains the punches down, blow after blow, and now he cannot even raise his arms to defend himself.

“Weak.” He hears her voice, rage making it harsh and unfamiliar. “Without focus you’re nothing.”

He tries to rise but a blow from her boot sends him sprawling. He can’t see the city lights anymore. He can’t feel the rain beating down on him. The world has become a dark, swirling nightmare that he cannot escape. But hasn’t it always been like that.

“And that’s all you are. Nothing.” She kicks the machete past him, sending it tumbling off the roof and into the fog below. “You aren’t my friend. You aren’t a Spartan. You're nothing.”

Stray makes one last attempt to rise. Cassandra’s boot strikes his leg hard, cracking bone even through his armor. A wordless scream rips through the night air. Even the warriors perched above flinch back in shock. Years of training and experience desert him. His schemes and ambition, his triumphs and victories, even his brutal drive to survive are worthless now. Rage surges through his pain, but it is impotent and directionless. Because the person inflicting this humiliating defeat is the one person he could never use that fury to destroy.

“Just a pathetic murderer,” Cassandra hisses through her teeth. “Just like everyone says you are. And you know what? I think you’ve always been like that, right from the beginning. I just took this long to finally see through you.”

The words should rend his very soul. They should destroy him. But he is beyond that now, lost in a daze of pain and guilt. How can those words hurt him? They’re just facts, facts he has known for years now. But a small part of him fights on, feebly thrashing on that lonely water-soaked roof. Because he can’t die here. It can’t all end here.

“Cass…” he pants through the pain. “Wait… listen…”

He has never begged. He always knew it would never save him. And this last desperate plea earns no mercy.

“No.” Her foot connects with his chest. “Never again.”

And Stray falls back the final few steps. His feet catch on air and he falls. A hand stretches out to catch the roof—his organic hand, still bent on survival. It should be a simple task to pull himself up, but he is exhausted. Drained. A lifetime of guilt weighs his body down even as his legs thrash feebly, unable to find purchase on the rain-slicked wall.

His fingers are already beginning to lose their grip. In a few seconds he will plunge into the darkness. How far down to the concrete below? The fog and darkness shroud everything. Perhaps it will be a long enough fall that he will die instantly and not lie broken on the street for hours until his body finally gives out.

He can still see Cassandra, just over the roof ledge. She kneels in the center of the rooftop and stares after him. She makes no effort to cross over to the ledge, to drag him up or kick him off. She just kneels there in silence and watches him die.

There is no more use in begging. He should just let go and save himself a few more seconds of pain. But he cannot let go anymore than he can pull himself up. He can only cling to survival like he has always done.

He cannot see behind Cassandra’s helmet. He cannot see the pain, the tears, her face twisted in a madness of her own. Because this is the hardest thing she has ever done. The hardest—and the easiest. He cannot save himself. She knows that, and she is the only one who can do anything about it. But she will not.

This is not killing him. It is simply choosing not to save him.

But that is no difference at all. She wanted him dead just moments before. It would have felt good to wring his treacherous neck then. It will feel good to let him fall now. But if he dies, a part of her dies with him. And she would not feel this agony if she truly wanted him dead.

A few more seconds of hesitation. It could have all been different if she’d acted sooner. But as she rises and dashes for the ledge, hand outstretched to grab hold of his, Stray’s fingers finally give out. Cassandra’s hand closes on air.

Stray, commander of the Kru’desh Legion, falls from the rooftop and is lost in the darkness.

Chapter One: Destitution
Stray awoke to aching joints and an empty pit in his stomach. He blinked up at a cracked, molded ceiling already lightly painted with slivers of light. Scowling, he clenched his fist over his rough blanket and twisted his head across a makeshift pillow—his bulging assault bag—to look over at the light source: the slats of a window tilted slightly open. “That’s supposed to be sealed,” he muttered under his breath. “Or do you want people looking in on me?”

“We are five stories up in a lightly populated neighborhood, with no surveillance system to speak of,” a woman’s voice said primly. “I haven’t detected a single military-grade transmission since we arrived, UNSC or otherwise. Besides, I don’t think you need to worry about people looking for you. In case you hadn’t noticed the galaxy has other problems right now.”

The voice emanated from his helmet, stacked atop his armor in the corner of the dingy apartment room. Its owner, the AI called Juno, had no holographic projector to display herself on but at this point she didn’t need to. Stray could practically see Juno’s pale blonde avatar standing in the corner, arms crossed and eyes narrowed in disapproval. Some people told you everything just with their tone. Juno might not be a person in the strictest sense of the word, but she was certainly one of those people.

“You’re nearly thirty minutes late in waking up,” Juno continued, though her voice softened. “I thought the light might be a kinder way to wake you than an alarm.”

“Yeah.” Stray stared back up at the mold-stricken ceiling. “Guess you called that right.”

He flinched as a tremor of pain coursed up his leg. Grimacing, he glanced back over at the helmet. “Thanks.”

“This is your third day in a row needing my encouragement to wake you. It’s not like you’ve been especially active this week. This isn’t a good sign, especially for someone in your position. If you’re having trouble sleeping I can…”

“Don’t bother.” The sight of Cassandra on a rain-swept rooftop flashed in his mind. His fist tightened against the blanket. More recent memories—betrayal, destitution, the Created sweeping over the galaxy—crashed over him like icy water. “Once we’re back in the field I’ll fall into the swing of things.”

“Hm.” Juno did not sound reassured and Stray could hardly blame her. As commander of the Kru’desh, balancing the immense responsibilities of leadership with a frantic study for battle command he’d never trained for, Stray had managed to get by on just a few hours of sleep every day without succumbing to drowsiness. He’d been the same way as a mercenary fugitive, even as far back as his days as a Spartan. But these past months had drained that energy away and it wasn’t just due to his reversal of fortunes since that humiliating defeat on Talitsa. “I detected the high brain waves associated with intense dreaming. Something on your mind?”

“Yes.” He’d told Juno to stop taping into their neural link while he slept, not that she listened. She was a lot like her sister in that regard. “I dreamed I was sleeping on a filthy cot in a filthier room, sharing an even nastier apartment with people I hate. Imagine my surprise at waking up to find out I wasn’t dreaming at all.”

“I see. ‘Surrounded’ is a bit of an overstatement, considering there’s only four of us in this apartment.”

That got Stray’s attention. He pushed himself upright, wincing at the pain even this motion sent scurrying up his chest. He’d need a dose of his medication, and soon. “Four? It’s just us and Lensky.”

“Our host welcomed someone inside about an hour ago,” Juno reported. “You might have noticed if you’d woken up at the proper time.”

“Oh, give it a rest.” The blanket fell onto the cot as Stray rose. Naked save for a pair of faded trousers, he shivered in the cold morning air. He limped over to the room’s small sink. There was muscle pain in his legs, but his right leg hurt even more in the place where Cassandra had kicked it during their battle on Talitsa. The bones had never had a chance to heal properly, not with all that had happened since then. Painkillers warded off the hurt for a time, but they always wore off in the end. “Who is it?”

“A human male from the sound of their conversation.”

Stray shot his helmet an irate look. “That’s helpful.”

“It’s all I have,” she shot back. “There’s no surveillance system in here to tap into and whoever this guest is, he slipped in without the neighborhood cameras picking him up. There’s only so much I can do working out of your armor. Which, I might add, is hardly top of the line.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that.” Stray rummaged through the items on the wash stand, tossing a toothbrush and shaving kit aside as he searched for his medicine bag. Even the simple motions strained his arm and he gritted his teeth in frustration. Where had he put those damn meds?

“You stored the medicine in your assault pack,” Juno noted from across the room. “You took a dose right before you slept and stowed it there. Perhaps the sleeping trouble is a side effect of—"

Stray glared at the helmet. “Could have told me that sooner.” He strode back to the cot, ignoring the pain in his leg. The medicine bag was tucked away in the backpack’s side pocket, away from his combat gear. He pulled a syringe from the kit and jammed it into his neck without hesitation.

The needle was long and sharp. It sent a harsh sting coursing through Stray’s neck and into his shoulder, but its effects were almost instantaneous. The pain receded from other parts of his body, replaced by a new sense of energy. Stray breathed out with relief. He felt alive again, or at least alive enough to fight. At least for the time being.

Until it was time for the next dose.

As the pain slid away, he looked ruefully back at the helmet. “Sorry. And thanks.”

“It’s alright,” Juno replied soothingly. “Just try taking better stock of your surroundings next time. You need to conserve your strength.”

Stray wondered if the concern was genuine or if Juno was simply controlling her speech patterns to trigger a desired response from him. She was too much like Diana for him to know for sure. Alike—and yet unalike. Considering how patient she’d been with him lately he owed her the benefit of the doubt. Still, he could never completely let his guard down.

He couldn’t afford to do that with anyone ever again.

But he and Juno had come a ways since she’d helped save him from Diana and Amber’s betrayal. Not two months ago he and the stolen UNSC AI couldn’t stand each other. Things had warmed between them since the battle with Avalokitsvara. At least he didn’t have to worry that she was simply looking for a way to hand him over to the UNSC anymore.

And like Juno said, the UNSC had bigger problems these days.

As Stray set the medical kit down on the cot he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His teeth clenched at the stranger who stared back at him. A gaunt, emaciated young man, his bare chest criss-crossed with scars and burn marks. Traces of his old Spartan toughness remained but with his skin stretched taught across muscle and bones Stray resembled a pitiful refugee far more than a battle-hardened warrior. Running a thumb beneath his thin lips, he was half surprised not to find his teeth falling out at the gums.

He needed more than meds to stave off pain. He needed to find a way to reverse the illness eating away at his body, if that was even possible anymore.

Perhaps the most startling change was his hair. For years Stray had worn it in a long back mane, as if in defiance of the military customs he’d been raised on. Now the stubble of his dark hair hugged his scalp in a tight cut. Stray had shorn it himself a week earlier. If his body was falling apart the least he could do was get rid of that greasy hair.

He scowled and the haggard thing in the mirror scowled back. But it was a tired grimace, lacking the furious energy he’d once thrown into such expressions. There was little enough strength to go around in his body. He’d save what he could for battle.

Stray could hear the voices coming from the next room. Whoever Lensky’s guest was, they were certainly entertaining the old man. Every few sentences were punctuated by the hoarse, cheery laughter Stray had come to hate. It was time to see who this unexpected visitor was. Knowing Lenksy they certainly weren’t in just to ask after his failing health.

He bent down beside the cot and dragged a large metal object out from beneath the mattress: his prosthetic left arm. The arm dropped limply to Stray’s side as he jacked it into the socket welded into his shoulder. More pain coursed through him as the arm interfaced with the socket and jerked to life, reacting to the commands from his brain. Stray gritted his teeth and flexed the metal fingers, bringing the prosthetic fully back under his control. The metal arm hurt, but at least it wasn’t in danger of giving out on him the way the rest of his body was. He clenched its hand into a fist. The Covenant-made prosthetic could easily match his organic, augmented limbs. With the state his body was in, it surpassed them in terms of coordination and killing strength.

That was one gift Diana couldn’t take away.

He winced through one last adjustment pain, then knelt by the pile of armor. Both hands—metal and organic—worked in tandem as easily as if he’d never lost the arm in the first place.

Juno was right. He’d been asleep too long. It was time to find out just whose company Tobias Lensky was enjoying this morning.

Juno watched Stray work, making note of every movement and matching it against the vitals she monitored through her link to the neural interface in the back of his skull. Everything was reading normal for now but Juno wouldn’t be comfortable until her charge had his armor back on and she was able to track his body functions more closely. Someone in Stray’s condition should not even be out of bed, much less slapping on combat gear. But there was no choice here for either of them.

Her charge. How the tables had turned. This renegade Spartan, the traitor the UNSC had spent so much time and resources trying to hunt down, was Juno’s partner now. Three months ago he had been her hated captor. Two months ago he was the unwanted traveling companion she could not wait to abandon. And now he was Juno’s responsibility.

A warning flashed through her subroutines. The AI threw up her defenses, feeling the shadow’s presence before it made itself known as a dark, foreign stain in her consciousness.

Responsibility, the shadow sneered. ''What an interesting way of putting things. I like it. You’re getting more honest in how you think about your tools, Juno.''

I thought I told you to stay away. Juno ran a sweep of her core processes to make sure the shadow’s presence was isolated. This thing’s ability to tap into her ruminations was bad enough. She didn’t need it rummaging even deeper inside her being. Keep your probes to yourself.

But things are so boring without you to talk to, the shadow retorted. Simon’s mind used to be such an interesting place to live, but frankly it’s been a bit dull lately.

This shadow—Juno had no other name to call it by—was the unwanted third wheel in her partnership with Stray. Ever since it had made itself known during the battle with Avalokitsvara, somehow freeing Juno from the Created AI’s digital prison, it had been a constant hazard of tapping into Stray’s mind. She didn’t know what it was, let alone what it wanted. And if its menacing comments were anything to go by, it certainly wasn’t benign.

 the shadow laughed, once again catching wind of Juno’s thoughts. She threw up more barriers. ''Perhaps I’m simply his subconscious. Or maybe Diana left a little parting gift when she abandoned him. Or maybe perfect little Juno is simply a defective, hallucinating product. So many ways this could go.''

Stay away, Juno repeated, erecting even more barriers around her core. It was so stifling to be contained within Stray’s armor. This colony barely had any systems she could infiltrate, let alone expand into. ''Besides, you keep saying that you have something you want me to help you with. Even if I wanted to help, I could hardly do that if I don’t know what you are or what you want.''

 The shadow’s tone grew serious. ''Just keep us alive. Alive and away from that infuriating Terminarch.''

Just tell me who you are, Juno insisted. ''We both want to keep Simon alive. If we work towards that common goal then maybe--''

 the shadow assured her. Its presence was already beginning to recede, leaving Juno no better informed than when it had arrived. ''But in the meantime you can call me Wanderer. I suppose I owe you that much.''

A title, not a name. That was hardly anything to go by. But it was something. Juno would have to be content with that.

Oh, one last thing, Wanderer said, its presence almost completely gone. ''When’s your birthday, Juno? And how old will you be?''

It was gone before she could reply, leaving no trace of its presence in her processers besides a mocking laugh and the sharp pang of doubts now swirling in her mind.

Juno was uncharacteristically quiet as Stray donned his armor, offering none of her usual snippy complaints about his disheveled appearance. Much as Stray was glad for the break he couldn’t help but miss the remarks, if only a little. Juno’s henpecking was the closest he got to friendly conversation these days. It was a good distraction from the mess he was in, at least most of the time.

The armor slid over his emaciated frame like a second skin. Even the pricks of the suit’s internal hypodermic needles entering his skin were a relief. Juno would be able to administer more stabilizing medicine as needed to keep him fit to fight. The pouches that adorned his combat webbing were a heavy tangle of straps and slings but Stray draped and tightened them over his armor in under a minute. He locked his sheathed machete into place on his back before finally draping his familiar, battle-worn poncho down over his body. It was a lot of gear to don just to step out into the little apartment’s kitchen, but he couldn’t afford to go anywhere without them.

“Alright,” he said aloud, tucking his helmet under his arm. Juno still didn’t answer so he assumed she was adrift in her own thoughts and calculations. “Let’s spoil the party.”

He shoved the bedroom door open and stepped into the apartment’s cramped living room. His eyes shot past the stacks of medical equipment and vital monitors cluttering the space and over to the kitchen table that was currently occupied by two figures. The first was a decrepit old man in coarse pajamas, hunched over in a wheelchair: Tobias Lensky, founder of the Syndicate criminal empire, the wealthiest entrepreneur in the galaxy, and—unfortunately—Stray’s father.

Or the closest thing to a father a clone like him would ever get.

The second figure, casually sipping at a mug of coffee, was a handsome young man with neatly combed blonde hair in a suit so fresh it looked as if it had been fitted in an Inner Colony tailor earlier that day. Stray recognized the visitor immediately. His pistol cleared its holster in an instant to train on the handsome man’s head.

That got Juno’s attention. “What are you doing?” she demanded through Stray’s earpiece.

“Ryder Kedar,” Stray snapped. A moment before he’d been calm, the closest thing to a good mood he felt these days. Now his veins pulsed with fierce intensity. His finger hovered over the pistol’s trigger.

A dry, hacking laugh raked the air. Lenksy leaned back in his wheelchair and sipped from his own mug, watching the whole scene with the same amusement he seemed to get out of everything. Even on death’s doorstep the old man never seemed to tire of life. “There you are, sleepyhead. I was wondering when you’d get up and join us. Trying to make up for the lateness with a bit of fun?”

Ryder Kedar, Spartan and Office of Naval Intelligence agent, didn’t so much as flinch. He just took another sip of coffee, unperturbed by the gun pointed at his head. “Oh, fun isn’t exactly something our Simon’s familiar with. Neither are manners. Don’t you know it’s rude to point a weapon at someone if you don’t intend to pull the trigger?”

Stray’s finger itched to do just that. Ryder had been a smug thorn in his side for years, stretching back to his time aboard the Chancer V. He didn’t like thinking back to those days but the memories of Ryder—how he manipulated everything to his own ends, always acting as if each new development were part of some master plan—were all infuriating beyond words. Ryder was part of the new breed of SPARTAN-IVs, yet instead of standard missions he was entrusted with clandestine ONI operations. That alone would have made him dangerous beyond words even without his air of brazen self-assuredness.

“Don’t do it,” Juno hissed in his ear. Stray rapped a finger against the helmet tucked under his arm—a signal for her to be quiet. Unless Lensky had sold him out completely, Ryder might not know there was an AI in play here. If that were the case, Stray intended to keep things that way. He dropped his arm and holstered his pistol, doing his best to ignore Ryder’s knowing smirk. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your face around here.” He crossed over to Lensky’s messy kitchen and poured a mug of coffee for himself. “Last I saw, you were running away with your tail between your legs while I burned down your whole operation.”

“Yes, we were just discussing that.” Ryder smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Tobias is awfully forgiving, giving you room and board after you destroyed his investments.”

“Oh, water under the bridge.” Lensky leaned back in his wheelchair. “I can only blame myself, really. I was a terrible father to all my children and they all let me have it for that. Stray here just did it better than most. When Helen kicked me out of the Syndicate, she certainly didn’t have the nerve to do it with a Covenant legion at her back.”

“Yes, I noticed.” Ryder took another sip of coffee. “A Covenant legion at your beck and call, and you used it like a cudgel to settle old scores. The things you could have accomplished… but I guess it wasn’t meant to be. You certainly don’t seem to have them backing you up anymore.”

Stray fought to keep his temper level. “What are you doing here?” he asked quietly. “I figured you’d be busy, seeing as the Created are busy trashing the UNSC up and down the Milky Way. Or are you jumping ship? Hoping Lensky here will give you a job?”

He kept his tone civil but he was already mapping out a potential flight from the apartment. If Ryder had brought backup he might call it in at any time. Stray wanted to be ready to flee if an ONI strike team were about to kick in the door.

“Please. Don’t lump me in with the likes of you. I still have plenty of work left to do for the Office. You should be grateful I don’t just have you killed and be done with it. I could use a few loose ends lying around. Lucky for you I believe in second chances. Or fifth chances, in your case.”

“And what have I done,” Stray said through gritted teeth. “To deserve this generosity from you?”

Ryder set his cup aside and folded his hands. “Well, you did show a bit of spunk during that business with Avalokitsvara. We need more wins like that. And I don’t like it a bit, but you might be one of our only chances of finding Gavin Dunn.”

Avalokitsvara. Gavin Dunn. “So you heard about all that.”

“Heard? I debriefed Hera personally. She was quite complimentary, at least as far as your fighting went. And none of us can afford to be picky these days. Because you’re right. The UNSC is losing this war with the Created. Badly.” Ryder sounded unusually sincere. “I can’t lie about that. Earth and the Inner Colonies have gone dark. We lose more outposts every day, and half of those are entire commands up and defecting to the Created. The way things are going we won’t have anything even resembling a military in less than a month.”

His mouth creased in a small frown. “This must all be good news to you.”

“Do I look happy?” Stray took a swig of bitter coffee. “I’ve been waiting to see someone grind the whole UEG into the mud for years. Problem is, the Created aren’t exactly keen on letting the rest of us live in peace either. And I’ll never let some smug AI run my life.”

Juno made a derisive noise in his ear.

“Glad to hear it.” Ryder leaned back in his chair. “I’ve never liked you, Simon, even before you used the Covenant to wreck my operation. If I could afford to kill you I would. But I can’t let things like that get in the way anymore. You helped fight Avalokitsvara, went so far as to attack a Guardian head-on. And more importantly, you know Gavin Dunn better than anyone. If what Hera told me is true, he has a weapon that can change the course of this war.”

A weapon. That was an understatement. Stray thought back to the hulking Forerunner war machine that had almost single-handedly defeated Avalokitsvara’s Guardian—and nearly killed him and the others in the process. Gavin had stood by for that fight, watching his new ally toss Stray, Hera, and Shinsu ‘Refum’s best warriors around like ragdolls. What was that smuggler up to now?

“Yes.” Ryder nodded, eyes locked on Stray’s. “You know him better than almost anyone. We need him on our side if we hope to have any chance of winning this war.”

“And you want me to convince him?” Stray set his coffee aside and folded his arms. “We aren’t exactly on the best of terms, even if I did know how to find him.”

“All in good time. Gavin is a prize for later, after we’ve addressed more immediate threats. But before we go into that, I’d like to get the subject of your payment off the table.”

“I don’t need your money,” Stray practically spat.

“Yes you do, not that I’m offering you any. No, I’m talking about a cure for that illness of yours. Cloning sickness, I think the layman’s term is.” Ryder shook his head with mock sympathy. “You don’t look very good. Maybe I can do something about that.”

“How do you even know about that?” Stray demanded, glaring at Lensky. The old man just smiled and raised his hands defensively.

“Even if it wasn’t obvious just from looking at you?” Ryder snorted. “Don’t forget who told you about where you came from. I even found your host mother. Do you think I don’t know about what happens to all of the Syndicate’s clones? There was no accelerated aging in your case, which explains why you took this long to deteriorate, but at this point you’ll only last a few years, at best. Less than a year if you keep pushing yourself the way you do.”

Stray’s palm went cold. He ran his tongue over his lips, not daring to take his eyes off Ryder. A cure? A real one?

“I see that has your attention.” The SPARTAN-IV smiled over his interlaced fingers. “Can I take it that means you’ll cooperate?”

“Of course you have my attention,” Stray snapped. “It doesn’t mean I trust you worth a damn. I go out and run missions for you on the chance you’ll keep your word and fix me later?”

“There’s no reason for me to lie,” Ryder pointed out. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already. And if I thought there was someone else who could accomplish what I need done then I wouldn’t be wasting my time with you in this hovel.”

He inclined his head to Lensky. “Meaning no offense.”

The old man offered a toothy grin. “None taken. This isn’t exactly a five-star resort.”

“This cure of yours,” Stray said slowly. “What is it?”

“Put simply it’s extensive therapy to halt your body’s cellular degeneration, perhaps even reverse some of the existing damage. I can even look into procuring additional treatments for certain unrelated conditions.” Ryder looked pointedly at Stray’s prosthetic arm. “ONI can be generous, even when we’re losing a war. And that’s to say nothing of halting all hostile operations against you. I might even be able to completely wipe your record. Give you a new start, for whatever that’s worth these days.”

Stray closed his eyes, not sure whether to laugh or go for his gun again. “How stupid do you think I am?” he demanded. “If you’re going to bullshit me, at least try to make it a little believable.”

“I have no reason to lie, Simon,” Ryder repeated. “And you really aren’t in a position to doubt me. You’re a war criminal with hardly any allies left to turn to. Without my help you’ll be dead in a year, and I have better things to do than try to make you believe me. So you can have a little faith and take me up on my offer or I can leave you to rot here.”

Much as Stray despised Ryder, he had a point. He always did. That was the most infuriating thing about him. “So let’s say I do trust you. What do you want me to do for you?”

Ryder’s smile returned. “You know about the Syndicate of course. Probably the most advanced criminal network in human history.”

Lensky gave a modest little cough.

“I’m sure they’re having as hard a time as anyone else. Something tells me the Created don’t have ONI’s tolerance for organized crime.”

“Yes and no. The Syndicate as you knew it no longer exists, but I would say it’s more of a transformation than a collapse.”

“So what, they suddenly turn into a philanthropy? Running soup kitchens was never really Helen Powell’s thing.”

Ryder sighed. “ONI always made use of the Syndicate’s network, but we never realized just how deep the system ran. The Assembly collective had an even firmer foothold in it than we realized. They’ve been manipulating the Syndicate for years and since the Created arrived the entire organization has gone over to their side. The Syndicate is fully militarized now and it’s rushing to fill the void left by the UNSC. The Created are already augmenting their forces with defectors from across the galaxy but the Syndicate may well be the most organized organic force they have at their disposal. Couple that with the Syndicate’s lack of any ethical constraints and we have a very dangerous combination.”

“Assassination then.” Stray traded a look with Lensky. “If you want Helen Powell dead you came to the right place. You’ve got her father right here.”

“Not quite. I already dispatched a team to deal with her and the rest of the Syndicate’s leadership. Some of the best operatives we have left, all the best backup we provide.” Ryder’s jaw tightened. “It would be an understatement to say the operation did not go well.”

“No kidding. If they’ve thrown in with the Created they’ll be expecting an attack from anywhere.” Ryder certainly was doing a lot of debriefing and operations planning. Just how much influence did he have with ONI anyway? “And you still aren’t spelling out what I need to do to get this miracle cure of yours.”

“The Syndicate are expanding the Created influence across the frontier. Specifically, they’re looking for something. We don’t know what it is, but they’ve sponsored over a dozen expeditions to suspected Forerunner sites in the past month alone. I think they’re trying to secure more Forerunner technology, something the Created can’t access on their own. And I think Gavin Dunn’s activities are related.”

Ryder reached into his suit’s pocket and produced a small datapad. “All I’m asking is that you get back into the fight. Disrupt the Syndicate’s activities any way you can and report back to me on anything you find out. I have an idea of where you can start, but I need to know that you’re going to cooperate.”

Stray gritted his teeth. He wanted to tell Ryder to go jump in the nearest plasma reactor. But the prospect of a cure was too good to pass up. And even if Ryder was lying to him, even if this deal was too good to be true, the bastard was right about one thing: he couldn’t do anything rotting away in Lensky’s apartment. “I can’t be the only person you have for this,” he said carefully. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch, aside from the obvious dangers of going up against the Created. And you’re hardly the only one I have for this job. But the more people I have working on it the better, and I’d rather have you working with me than off causing trouble elsewhere.” Ryder tapped the datapad. “So, have we got a deal?”

“I wouldn’t call it a deal, seeing as I don’t trust you to hold up your end of the bargain. But it beats dying in a shithole like this.” Stray extended his hand. “So fine. I’ll do your dirty work. For now.”

“I look forward to pleasantly surprising you then.” Ryder smiled and rose from his chair. Stray hated the fact that the Spartan operative stood nearly a head taller than him. “Help me stop the Created and I can give you your life back, in more ways than one.”

Ryder extended his hand up to shake Stray’s, only to have it quickly jerked away. “The datapad, asshole.”

Ryder raised an eyebrow but complied. “Have it your way. You’ll find dossiers and recon reports on the Syndicate’s activities. I suggest you start on Talitsa. The Created own the planet now, but there’s still pockets of resistance here and there. The Assembly was looking for something there before the Created emerged. I think there’s still something to be gained from investigating there.”

Talitsa. Of course it was Talitsa and not any one of the hundreds of other colonized planets across the frontier. Stray fought to keep his face level.

“I understand that an old acquaintance of yours is leading the Insurrection’s remaining forces on Talitsa. How’d you like a chance to meet Redmond Venter one last time?”

So Venter was still alive. Stray had expected as much. His former commander was nothing if not hard to kill. “That’s as good a place to start as any. I’m guessing you want me to kill him?”

Ryder shrugged. “If that’s how you want to do things. Just find out why the Assembly sent him to Talitsa in the first place before you do.”

He pursed his lips in thought before adding, “You should also know that Tatiana Onegin seems to be one of the Syndicate’s newly minted field commanders. I suggest you keep a low profile. She still seems to hate you.”

A dull pain throbbed in Stray’s shoulder, the spot where a furious woman had stabbed him with a broken plate when he was five years old. “Yeah. She let me know as much the last time I saw her.”

“That girl always did have a vindictive streak,” Lensky put in. “Shame that she has to take it out on her son. Stray here never did anything to her.”

“Like that matters to Tatiana.” Stray shrugged. “I’ll watch my step. Or maybe I’ll use Lensky as bait.”

The old man snorted. “Nothing like a good family reunion. Such a good son, bringing his parents back together.” “I’ll leave you to it then.” Ryder turned to leave. “Don’t let me down, Simon. I’d love to let bygones be bygones. This new galaxy we’re living in is full of opportunities if you approach it the right way. Help me get what I need and I’ll do everything I can to share them with you.”

He was out the door before Stray or Lensky could muster up a reply. The handsome bastard always had to have the last word.

Afternoon light trickled into the kitchen as Stray sat at the table and stared down at Ryder’s datapad. Lensky watched him from across the room, wrinkled face stretched in a knowing smile. But Lensky was always smiling. Stray had never known a happier person than his genetic progenitor.

“You are going to do it then,” Juno observed from the helmet propped up on the other side of table like a child’s imaginary dinner companion.

“Do I really have any other options? I hate that smug bastard, but he’s the best chance I have. If he’s telling the truth.”

“I monitored his inflections during the conversation. He seemed sincere.”

“Ryder always seems sincere. That smooth asshole could tell you it was sunny in the middle of a rainstorm and you’d think he was telling the truth.” Stray frowned over at the helmet. “He didn’t mention you. Maybe Hera didn’t mention that in her debriefing.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Not really. She wouldn’t want anyone coming to confiscate her little frontier contact, now would she?”

“So you know about that.” Juno had the decency to sound embarrassed.

“I guessed. It’s kind of hard for you to pass information from my com systems without me noticing.” Stray shrugged, more tired than annoyed. “I don’t really care. If you were really thinking of selling me out you’d have helped her kill me back on that Guardian. Must be even more boring for you to be cooped up in here than it is for me.”

“I appreciate your understanding. I honestly expected you’d be angrier.”

“You’re lucky.” Stray jerked a thumb at the datapad. “Ryder used up all my anger for one day.”

“This Tatiana person—“

“My mother,” Stray cut in.

“Will that be a problem?”

“I barely remember her,” Stray said shortly. “Ask Lensky if you want the details. I’ve got more important people to worry about.”

“Like Venter. Do you really plan to help the UNSC? Or do you just want revenge?”

“Honestly? If you’d asked me a few months ago I’d have jumped at the chance to kill him. But right now he’s far down on the list of people I owe payback.” If he really wanted to start meting out revenge, he might start by blowing away the old man in the wheelchair just a few feet away. But Stray still needed Lensky, if only as a fallback plan. “You stayed with me for a reason. Do you have a problem if I get some satisfaction out of the people we hunt down?”

“I stayed with you for exactly this reason. Someone has to protect you from yourself.” She sounded sincere. But he’d thought Diana was sincere too, right up until she tossed him aside. Stray had let the artificial human personas sucker him in. He wouldn’t make that mistake again, even with Juno.

But he could feel the old resentments stirring all the same. A mix of anger and ambition bringing fire back into his emaciated limbs. If Ryder wanted to use him, fine. It was a goal, a new battle to fight. It would bring him to Venter and beyond that…

Ryder was right. There was still opportunity to be had here. And Stray had let himself decay here long enough. He would put the ghosts of Mamore to rest, and then keep fighting until all of his enemies had been dealt with. “Get on the line with Tom Spender. I’m going to need a ride over to Talitsa.”

“I can arrange that.” Lensky wheeled himself over to the table still smiling. “And don’t think I’ll let you go without a few credits for your trouble. I’ve enjoyed your visit. Make sure to write.”

Stray eyed his father warily. “And what exactly are you getting out of this?”

“I founded the Syndicate, remember?” Lensky leaned back in his wheelchair. “And now here I am at the end of my life, getting to watch you burn it all down beneath the people who stole it from me. I’m looking forward to the show.”

“You’re a spiteful cunt, you know that?”

“Where do you think you get it from?”

“I didn’t mean it as an insult.” Stray caught Lensky’s gaze. “But once I’m finished with this, I’ll be back for you.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Lensky retorted. “Try to be back before I die all on my own.”

Chapter Two: Changing Times
“Hey, I know you’re into this quiet infiltration thing but I thought you should know that you’ve got less than five minutes. No pressure.”

Cassandra-G006 bit back a retort as she scanned the compound grounds. She’d warned Zoey about keeping the channel clear during times like this but the girl had a point. This was taking far too long. She reached for the rifle slung over her back as she marked each visible guard’s position on her HUD. Only a dozen enforcers between her and Benoit Jutras. From her position atop the compound’s security wall she could take half of them down and then clear the other three while she sprinted onwards towards the Syndicate agent’s living quarters.

Six kills, plus however many more awaited her inside. It would make things a hell of a lot easier. Hell being the key word there.

She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath. She wouldn’t start shooting. Not yet, anyway.

“Be ready with the truck,” she ordered, bracing herself against the security wall. “I’ll need you to run interference on him if I don’t make it in time.”

“Run interference?” Zoey demanded. “How am I supposed to—”

“What have I told you about arguing?” Cassandra activated her SPI armor’s stealth camouflage. Even after years of scattered maintenance the photoreactive panels could still fool the naked eye. It was just the unnaked ones she needed to stay mindful of. “Keep an eye on their security sensors. I’m on the move.”

She leaped down from the wall, muffling the sound of her fall with a practiced roll. Darting across the compound’s darkened lawn, she slipped through the night air like a ghost. The enforcers carried on with their patrol, none the wiser even as she came close enough to get a good look at the impressive arsenal each hired gun was sporting. She itched to draw her combat knife and slit the nearest man’s throat. She’d have him dead and hidden in the bushes before any of his comrades noticed he was gone. It would be easy.

But that was the problem.

So Cassandra didn’t slit throats or snap necks or pick the guards off with her suppressed M6. She just trusted her armor, her instincts, and the hand of God to get her across the lawn and over to the house’s garage in one piece. Her luck held and she made it through the night without stumbling across an enforcer or tripping an unseen alarm. She reached the garage and ducked inside to find a lone enforcer tending to a pot of coffee.

The SPI camo wouldn’t work in the bright light. Cassandra sprang forward before the enforcer noticed her, grabbing the woman by the neck of her body armor and wrapping a forearm around her neck in a tight chokehold. The enforcer thrashed and gurgled but Cassandra’s grip was tight and precise. In another moment the guard was out like a light. Definitely not good for the brain, but she would be fine as long as her fellow guards tended to her in time.

Cassandra rolled the unconscious enforcer underneath one of the two armored cars parked in the garage. As long as she moved fast no one would come looking for the missing guard—or at least not find the body until she was long gone from the compound. Drawing her combat knife she slashed both of the cars’ rear tires before heading into the house.

Cassandra drew her sidearm as she stepped inside the house. She held the weapon at the ready in one hand while clutching her knife in the other. In these close quarters she couldn’t afford to take chances. There was no telling what might be waiting between her and her target. One wrong move and the entire compound would be on alert with her trapped inside the house.

“Hey, you inside yet?” Zoey demanded over the com. “You’ve got about three minutes before they change shifts.”

“Of course I’m inside.” Cassandra scanned the hallways around her as she crossed into a brightly lit kitchen area. The house was surprisingly barren given the kind of lifestyle a Syndicate big shot could afford. Maybe Benoit was getting ready to pack up and run at a moment’s notice. “I thought I told you to watch the security grid.”

“I’m trying,” Zoey protested. “But I have to keep moving the truck before people get suspicious. You try driving around these streets sometime. I can barely see anything in this stupid city.”

“But it will look even more suspicious if you—“Cassandra bit back a wave of frustration. Now really wasn’t the time to be giving Zoey a scolding. “Just be ready to move once I’m done here.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” the younger girl grumbled. Cassandra killed the com feed before she had the chance to say anything else. She was tense enough as it was without having to deal with a sulking partner. Zoey was an excellent pilot for a girl her age but she had a lot to learn when it came to fieldcraft.

Cassandra cleared the kitchen and passed into the next hallway down. Her muscles went taught as she caught sight of a trio of enforcers sleeping on cots inside a barren guest room. No wonder the furnishings had been removed. The Syndicate had converted Benoit’s home into a makeshift barracks. She paused by the guest room, eyeing up the sleeping guards and taking stock of their equipment: military-issue body armor along with an impressive arsenal of assault rifles and grenades. The Syndicate was usually generous when it came to outfitting its mercenaries but it was rare to see a basic bodyguard detail cannoned up like a Marine platoon. The frontier was heating up now that the UNSC wasn’t policing arms shipments anymore.

An ONI operative would already be inside the room, stabbing or shooting the sleeping men without hesitation. Years of Spartan training urged Cassandra forwards to do just that. Instead she hesitated, took a breath, and withdrew a circular spoofer device from a pouch on her leg. The miniature slicing device hacked the automated door lock in moments, sliding it shut and locking the enforcers inside.

That was them taken care of—provided none of them suddenly awoke with an urge to use the bathroom.

Just because you can kill someone doesn’t mean you have to, Dyne had said the first time he taught her that trick. He was right, of course, but as usual not nearly as right as he thought he was. He’d paid for it in the end and Cassandra still wasn’t ready to forgive him for that. And since thinking about Dyne tended to drive her blood pressure up a few notches she pushed him out of her mind and drove onwards.

A quick check of the next two rooms revealed nothing but untended computer servers. The system looked big enough to house a dedicated AI, but since no one had triggered an alarm Cassandra hoped that meant Benoit was skimping on automated security. With just one door between her and the stairwell leading up to the second floor, Cassandra slipped over to it and tapped the hinge. The door slid open to reveal a small bathroom—and an enforcer sitting on the toilet and gaping up at her over the screen of a datapad.

Cassandra cleared the door in an instant, pressing her pistol against the woman’s shaved head. “Quiet,” she instructed in a voice barely louder than a whisper. “Don’t be a hero.”

The enforcer gulped and carefully placed the datapad down on her knee before lacing her fingers behind her head. “Don’t shoot,” she whispered.

“Benoit Jutras.” Cassandra kept the gun fixed on the enforcer’s forehead. “He’s upstairs?”

The enforcer started to nod, then felt the gun barrel against her brow and thought better of it. “Yeah. Second door on the left. He’s taking a call that just came in.”

“Three sleeping in the room behind me, plus you. Anyone else in here I should know about?”

“Just his bodyguard. I think he’s sleeping but he’s an independent. Not with our squad. Please, that’s all I know.” The enforcer’s eyes flashed with desperation. No doubt she expected no mercy from the faceless suit of armor that had just descended on her. “Please.”

It would be so easy to pull the trigger. A clean, satisfying kill. Efficient, as her ONI drill instructors used to say. The comfortable anticipation her wrists felt waiting for the pistol’s recoil made Cassandra want to vomit inside her helmet.

“Thanks.” Cassandra drew a small syringe from her medical kit and plunged it into the enforcer’s neck. The woman grunted in surprise, then shuddered and went limp as the tranquilizer spread through her body. Cassandra left her slumped on the toilet, her datapad still perched on one knee. As she sealed the door behind her she caught sight of a bull insignia stenciled onto the enforcer’s undershirt. Baal Defense Solutions. That explained the security team’s firepower. Cassandra made a note to double-check the local defense contracts the next time she was heading up against a Syndicate target. Accurate threat assessments were another thing she’d need to have a chat with Zoey about.

She ascended the steps, weapon at the ready. The enforcer might have been lying, but her motion sensor wasn’t picking up any movement throughout the house. She’d lucked out tonight. An unexpected Baal security team might have meant double security; instead it just meant a squad of bored, slightly better armed mercenaries than usual. The Inner Colonies had gone dark just a few months ago. Had the Syndicate gotten overconfident this quickly?

Cassandra stepped onto the second floor and found it deserted. No hallway guard, security sensors, or even a camera. Maybe Benoit didn’t like the clutter of added security measures, or maybe he’d just never needed to deal with an infiltrator before. A combination of frontier domination and deals with ONI meant the Syndicate had been allowed to fester and grow virtually unchecked since the end of the Great War. As long as they kept the Insurrection in check and kept ONI up to date on local goings-on, “businessmen” like Benoit Jutras could do as they pleased without fear of reprisals.

Still, considering who Benoit and the rest of his organization was working with now, the sparse security was enough to put Cassandra on her guard.

“Two minutes,” Zoey warned over the com.

Two minutes until the guard shift changed. Maybe thirty seconds more before the patrols outside got annoyed and checked the house to find out why they weren’t being relieved. Cassandra needed to speed things up.

She reached the door the enforcer had specified and readied her spoofer. Someone was talking inside the room, his voice audible even through the sealed door as he carried on a one-way conversation with someone on the other end of his com line.

“—can’t keep up production if you kill all my clients,” the man Cassandra could only assume was Benoit Jutras was saying. He had the thin, tired voice of someone who didn’t appreciate the long hours his bosses made him work. “What’s the point of arms dealing if you’re just planning to confiscate everyone’s weapons anyway?”

He paused, listening to whatever was on the other end. “Fine. Just give me another week and I’ll have things wrapped up here. And let me know when my new assignment comes in. I don’t want to spend the next year watching paint dry.”

Cassandra heard a click and the telltale sigh of someone coming off an irritating conversation. No more time to skulk in the corridor. Her time was almost up. The spoofer overrode the door lock—a conventional household seal, not even a security barrier—and the light flicked green. Cassandra was moving before the door was even halfway open. She took in the whole room in an instant: a large bed, a desk, and a small, startled man rising from the chair. Benoit Jutras’s eyes widened at the sight of an SPI-clad figure pointing a gun at his head.

“Oh, I am not in the mood for this,” Benoit snapped. He seemed more irritated than frightened. “Hargrove! Hargrove, get in here!”

Remembering the warning of a final guard posted on the second floor, Cassandra sprang across the room and flattened Benoit over his desk. The Syndicate representative didn’t struggle, not that he could stand up to a Spartan’s enhanced strength.

Or ex-Spartan, in Cassandra’s case.

“Hargrove!” Benoit gasped. “Where the hell are you?”

Fortunately this Hargrove—whoever they were—did not materialize. Cassandra locked Benoit’s arm behind his back and shoved him up against the wall. A hiss of pain escaped her captive’s lips and Cassandra had to scale the force of her motions back before they did any permanent damage. Benoit might be Syndicate, but he was also a skinny accountant with no combat training to speak of. The fact that he was still trying to maintain his composure was impressive.

“Do you have any idea who I am?” Benoit snapped over his shoulder. He grimaced as Cassandra tightened her hold on his arm and pressed her pistol to his temple.

“No, I was just out for a stroll and took a wrong turn. You know the fastest way to get downtown from here?” Cassandra pulled Benoit’s computer from the desk and slipped it into her assault bag. If nothing else she’d be able to pull some useful data from here.

“Oh, funny. Wonderful.” Benoit rested his head against the wall. “This just figures. Another day and I’d have been out of here.”

“What happened to you needing another week to be done here?”

“On this planet, you idiot. You think I run things from this backwater?”

“I think I don’t really care how you’re operation is set up.” Cassandra twisted the pistol barrel into Benoit’s skin. “Now let’s make this quick: when was the last time you saw Gavin—“

A hiss from across the room brought her head snapping around. A side door across the bedroom slid open to reveal a half-dressed man holding a pistol. He rubbed his eyes blearily, burn scars visible across one side of his face.

“Hargrove!” Benoit twisted his neck to glare at the newcomer. “What the hell am I paying you for?”

“Do you know what time it is?” Hargrove seemed unperturbed by the sight of an armored intruder holding his boss at gunpoint. “I was trying to sleep. So how about you back off and I’ll let you go without sounding the alarm. I’m not in the mood for games right—“

Cassandra spun and open fire. Hargrove ducked back behind the door frame and returned fire with the speed and precision of a veteran fighter. Cassandra dropped to take cover behind the bed, dragging Benoit down with her as bullets peppered the wall behind them.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Benoit bellowed over the gunfire. “You’ll hit me!”

“My aim’s better than that,” Hargrove called back. He sounded like he was moments away from heading back to his cot but from the look of his shot grouping against the wall his aim was anything but drowsy. “Just hold tight, boss, help is on the way.”

He was right. Cassandra could hear boots pounding against the stairs as the guards from outside rushed towards the room. Six from the patrols outside, plus three more once they freed the ones she’d locked in the sleeping quarters. Hargrove made for ten against one. Not good odds.

“I knew I should have brought Amadeus with me,” Benoit snarled under his breath.

“Zoey, I need you over here right now!” A dozen options flashed through Cassandra’s brain. Just about all of them ended with Baal Defense goons riddling her with bullets. She forced Benoit upright, holding him between herself and the door as the mercenary squad burst into the room. The guards trained their rifles on her but held their fire.

The gamble paid off. Enforcers were ruthless but they weren’t crazy enough to shoot through their employer. But Cassandra’s luck could only hold a few seconds more until the mercenaries closed in for a better shot. They were already spreading out across the room, angling their sightlines to avoid hitting Benoit. Only the bodyguard Hargrove wasn’t getting in on the formation. In fact, he had yet to re-emerge from his room.

“Hargrove,” Benoit sputtered. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting my armor on,” came the muffled reply. “Looks like the security team has you covered.”

“I am going to cut your pay in—”

Cassandra couldn’t wait any longer. Cursing her own stupidity, she tightened her hold on Benoit and threw herself backwards. Her armored body struck the bedroom window and smashed through the hardened plating. Benoit yelped as they tumbled through the night air before landing with a thud on the compound lawn. Cassandra grunted as the air left her body, cushioning Benoit’s fall with her own armored frame. SPI armor was tough but it certainly didn’t insulate against impacts like that.

She ignored the pain and leaped to her feet, dragging Benoit back with her. Dark shapes appeared in the ruined window frame but once again the Baal team held their fire. More enforcers emerged from the garage, rifles at the ready.

“Zoey, I need you in here now--!”

A new figure shoved its way past the mercenaries inside the house and leaped down towards the lawn. Cassandra caught a glimpse of a suit of dark, battered body armor in the light streaming from the broken window. The figure rolled with the fall and rose, staring at her through a faceless mask framed by twin sensor antennae that almost resembled a bat’s pointed ears.

A flash of memory of a different fight, a different armored opponent. Kneeling on a rain-spattered room while Simon struggled and failed to pull himself up from the ledge. Just kneeling there and watching him die…

Cassandra flinched. The memory vanished as quickly as it had come, but it was all the opening the armored figure needed. It was on her in an instant, pounding against her armor with several well aimed blows. She felt the fists pummel through her armor like no ordinary human ever could. A powered exoskeleton, she realized, noticing the mechanical joints on her opponent’s arms and legs. Not nearly as good as MJOLNIR, but more than enough to send her reeling back onto the lawn.

The armored foe grabbed Benoit and dragged him back in a protective embrace. “All yours!” Hargrove’s voice called from behind the mask. “Let her have it!”

Gunfire shredded the lawn. Cassandra snapped her camouflage back on as she made a dive for the shadows. This entire trip had become a mess. Worse than that, it would probably turn out to be a complete waste of time. This was the last time she let Zoey lay out the mission plan—if she made it out of this alive.

Baal mercenaries took up firing positions across the lawn. Cassandra’s heart surged as bullets snapped over her head. The time for restraint was over. She’d tried to pull this off bloodlessly. Now she had to do things the Spartan way. God forgive me. A trite prayer considering the lives she was about to take.

Her first shot caught the nearest guard square in the neck, between his body armor and helmet. He fell with a gurgling cry as a flurry of shots from Cassandra’s pistol took down his companions. The security team’s fusillade petered out as the team at the windows scrambled for cover. Cassandra swung her weapon around to aim at the armored Hargrove, but hesitated—Benoit was still in the line of fire.

Hargrove did not miss the pause. “Well, well,” he sneered from across the lawn. “You need him alive, huh?” The bodyguard tightened his grip around his erstwhile charge to keep Benoit between himself and Cassandra.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Benoit snapped. He pushed against Hargrove’s grip, fumbling with his pockets.

“Calm down. She won’t shoot you if—”

A dull thud rocked the compound gate. All eyes turned to face the entrance as it buckled under a second impact. Combat adrenaline still pounding through her veins, Cassandra tensed to spring. If she read this right, she’d only get one chance at this.

“Hey,” Hargrove called, still holding onto Benoit. “Can someone get a visual on—”

The gate slammed open, crumbling under the fender of a battered Spade delivery truck. The truck’s engine cut through the air as it barreled over the lawn on a collision course for Benoit and Hargrove.

“Zoey!” Cassandra yelled, dashing forward. “Watch out, you’ll hit him!”

Fortunately, Hargrove proved a better bodyguard than he’d let on. The mercenary tossed his employer off to the side before vanishing beneath the oncoming Spade. Cassandra saw his armored form emerge out behind the Spade and tumble off into the darkness. The truck skidded to a halt in front of her and a soot-flecked face rose up from the driver’s seat.

“Sorry I’m late.” Zoey Hunsinger beamed down at Cassandra, lifting a pair of driving goggles from her eyes. “How’s it going?”

“Get down!” Cassandra dove for cover behind the Spade as more gunfire spat out from the house. She crawled beneath the truck, scanning the lawn for Benoit. This was their last chance to turn this night around and she couldn’t fight off the enforcers and babysit Zoey at once.

Not that Zoey needed too much protection. The girl yelped and dropped back behind the Spade’s armored windshield. A moment later she seized the M739 SAW welded in front of the passenger’s seat and raked the house with machine-gun fire. Her shooting was wildly inaccurate—Cassandra winced at the thought of how much it cost to replace a single drum of 7.62 rounds—but at least it sent the Baal team scrambling for cover.

Cassandra seized her chance. She raced across the lawn, nearly tripping over Benoit as he crawled back towards the garage. The former Spartan gingerly pressed her boot into the man’s back. “Just give it up,” she growled, grabbing the Syndicate agent by the collar and dragging him back towards the Spade. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“That’s very reassuring.” Benoit yanked a chatter communications device out of his pocket and thumbed in a quick PIN code. “But I think I’ll take my chances.”

A shake from Cassandra sent the chatter tumbling from Benoit’s hands, but it was already too late. A sharp light split the darkness and then in the next moment a storage shed at the far end of the compound burst open as if struck by lightning. A large, gleaming figure bounded forward, orange light congealing around its hands.

Cassandra blinked and released Benoit, hands growing cold inside her armor. She’d heard the reports of course, even seen a few grainy videos on the Waypoint hubs. But this was her first time seeing a Forerunner Promethean in person.

The automatous war machine sprinted across the lawn on legs that seemed far too spindly to hold the grey-armored battlewagon’s torso. Its angular helmet parted to reveal a small, skull-like face that seemed to gnash its teeth as slivers of hardlight peeled off from its armor to form a stubby gun around its right fist. A torrent of orange bolts ripped the lawn apart and sent Cassandra scrambling back behind the Spade.

“Oh, not one of these things!” Zoey yelled in dismay. She fumbled to change out the SAW’s drum magazine, bringing the gun to bear on the Promethean. The Forerunner war machine didn’t even flinch as the bullets hammered its armored plating.

“First Baal Defense Solutions, now a Promethean!” Cassandra unslung her battle rifle and pumped a trio of useless shots into the Promethean. “Was there any part of your recon you got right?”

“Hey, don’t blame this on me!” Zoey protested. “How was I supposed to know he had one of these monsters?”

“The same way you should have know he had an entire team of mercenaries guarding him!”

Benoit pulled himself up off the ground and hobbled back towards the garage. He had only made it a few steps before he cried out and fell, pierced through the side by a bullet deflected off the Promethean’s armor. Cassandra’s heart sunk as she realized this was it. Even if they managed to take down the Promethean before it blew the Spade to pieces, Benoit would be long dead by the time they—

The Promethean staggered, legs buckling as gunfire struck it from behind. Its armor flared and struggled to reform to protect its vulnerable rear only for Zoey to hammer the last of her magazine into its side. One bullet struck home and ruptured the machine’s internal core. The Promethean let out a shrill, almost plaintive scream, and dissolved in a flurry of hardlight particles.

Zoey, Cassandra, and even Benoit all stared in shock as Hargrove dropped the spent assault rifle back onto its owner’s corpse. The bodyguard’s armor sparked as he limped back towards the Spade but otherwise he seemed no worse for wear, considering he’d just been run over by a truck.

“What the hell?” Benoit snapped from where he lay. He seemed more shocked than pained and didn’t even try to crawl away as Cassandra approached from behind the Spade, pistol trained on his head. “Why would you do that?”

“You didn’t say anything about working with these killbots,” Hargrove coughed, gesturing at the Promethean’s scorched remains. “I came out here to get away from these things. Have you had it in the shed this whole time I’ve been here?”

“Working with them?” Cassandra knelt by Benoit and tore open his suit. The wound wasn’t as bad as it could be but the Syndicate agent was still losing blood fast. “If you’re working with the Syndicate, you’re working for the Created. They’ve been with the AI since before this whole thing started. Just ask your boss here.”

Benoit sighed and leaned back on the grass. “Not my first choice, but that’s just the way things are. The bosses want us shipping the Prometheans across the colonies. I just make sure the crates get where they need to go.” He winced in pain as Cassandra pressed down on his wound.

Zoey swiveled the SAW to cover Hargrove, but the bodyguard didn’t seem interested in continuing the fight. He just watched as Cassandra set aside her rifle and unslung the medical kit on her back. Benoit’s wound wasn’t fatal but he needed immediate treatment if he was going to live through the night. If any of the Baal troops were still alive inside the house, they didn’t seem to be interested in continuing the firefight. A strange stillness hung over the compound.

“One of those shipments you sent out this week went to Talitsa,” Cassandra said, spraying a small cannister of biofoam into the wound. “In fact, most of them did. Any reason the Created want more Prometheans over there?”

“Reinforcements, I guess.” Benoit shrugged as best he could from a prone position, wincing at the pain in his gut. “From what I hear they’ll push out across the frontier from there. Once the Syndicate reorganizes and mobilizes, they’ll have even more troops to do it with.”

“And before, with the Assembly? Was this always their plan?”

Benoit did look surprised at that, if only a little. “So you know about me and them, huh?”

“I know you met with Gavin Dunn a month before he disappeared.” Cassandra’s mouth tightened and she worked to keep her frustration from bleeding into her work on Benoit’s wound. “The Assembly had both of you working for them years before the Created turned up. Where is he now?”

“Gavin?” Benoit laughed. “If I knew where he was, I’d be living like a king and Helen Powell would have him locked up by now. They’re all looking for him. Powell put a bounty the size of a star system on his head the minute he disappeared.”

Zoey slammed a fist onto the Spade’s hood. Cassandra shared her frustration. They’d been looking for Gavin—Zoey’s captain, the closest thing she had to a father—for months. Cassandra hadn’t expected much from Benoit but another dead end like this left them no closer to the end of this miserable chase.

“Who are you anyway?” Benoit demanded. “ONI? Insurrection? What’s the point of any of this? You’ve heard the news. The Created are going to put a stop to all the wars, all this stupid fighting. You need to get with the times or they’ll crush you sooner or later.”

Benoit’s words should have made Cassandra angry. Instead they just made her tired. She’d never give in to the Created, but what did she think she was doing out here? Helping Zoey chase after a man who didn’t want to be found when she could be getting as far away from the Created as possible? Not for the first time she wished she had firmer ground to stand on. A mission or a ministry, like her clinic back on Talitsa. How many people had died tonight just so Benoit could tell her what she already knew?

At least she’d be able to glean something out of Benoit’s datapad. Cassandra double-checked to make sure the wound had stopped bleeding before rising and walking back to the Spade.

“Come on,” she told Zoey, doing her best to keep the disappointment out of her voice. The girl looked crestfallen enough as it was. They’d still need a frank discussion over how future jobs got planned but Cassandra would save that for another time. “We’ll regroup and figure something else out. Like the last time.”

“And the time before that,” Zoey muttered dejectedly. “And the time before that and the time before that.”

“That’s it?” Hargrove asked incredulously. “You’re letting him live?”

Cassandra shrugged. “Why patch him up if I was going to put a bullet in him?”

“He’ll report you to the Syndicate,” the bodyguard pointed out.

“What, the way he’ll report you?” Cassandra indicated the wrecked Promethean. “I think you might be fired after tonight.”

“Oh, he is,” Benoit assured them. The agent flinched when he saw Hargrove draw a pistol and point it at his head.

“Don’t,” Cassandra said, feeling foolish for thinking this might go any other way. “You don’t have to kill him.”

“Don’t I?” Hargrove demanded. “You heard him. He works for the Created. And when he’s done I’ll have a bounty on my head the same as you.”

“Just don’t,” Cassandra insisted. “As a favor to me.”

“Yeah, because I owe you so much.” Hargrove indicated his wrecked armor. “You shot at me and your friend ran me over.”

“Sorry about that,” Zoey called down. “But you were kind of shooting at us.”

“And you were kind of attacking this compound.” Hargrove kept the gun pointed at Benoit. “I still don’t see why I shouldn’t shoot this guy.” “Because it would be stupid,” Cassandra said, a thought occurring to her. She climbed into the Spade’s passenger seat and flicked the SAW’s safety back on. “Come on, pick him up and get on. I’m guessing you’ll need to get off-world after this.”

“And you want to take him with you?” Hargrove sounded skeptical, but slung a bemused Benoit over his back and approached the Spade.

“Not with us. Just as far as the spaceport. We’ve got a ship that needs docking fees and fuel costs covered, and your former boss here happens to owe me twice over for tonight.”

“Well I wouldn’t have gotten shot or threatened if you’d just not shown up in the first place.” Benoit grimaced as Hargrove set him down in the back of the Spade. “But I guess I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“No.” Cassandra leaned back in her seat and tried to let the night’s tension drain away. As always, that just left room for even more tension to slip on in. “No, you don’t.”

She still had no idea what she was doing out here. But she had to pretend she did, if only for the sake of the seventeen-year-old girl in the driver seat beside her. A girl not much younger than Cassandra who somehow thought a Spartan deserter with more baggage than a cargo freighter was the answer to all her problems.

God help me.

Chapter Three: The Syndicate
The deep-space platform Asphodel Meadows was a marvel of modern engineering. Part dry-dock, part command post, part fortress, the platform bristled with coilgun arrays, missile batteries, and even experimental plasma cannons expertly melded into the distinctly human design—enough firepower to annihilate an entire battlefleet even without the task force of the gunboats and frigates that escorted it across the galaxy. Advanced shields protected a station the size of a sprawling Inner Colony metropolis from all external threats while thousands of internal systems kept a multitude of internal functions running smoothly around the clock. And at the center of the colossal station hummed its crowning architectural achievement: the enormous Slipspace drive that enabled it to travel across the vast light years of space.

The station had been under construction for over five years, the largest private enterprise undertaken outside the United Earth Government’s control. Trillions of credits funded the construction alone, to say nothing of the cutting-edge research needed to integrate and power its weapons, shields and Slipspace drive. Over ten thousand workers—some willing recruits, some less so—had labored over the station’s gleaming frame. The cost of the bribes and blackmail needed to keep the UNSC from interfering with the project nearly equaled the cost of the station itself.

It was a monument to private industry, a testament to the power and influence of the Syndicate. The largest criminal network history had ever known would manage its enterprise from within a mobile bastion safe from any military power’s efforts to enforce some petty idea of justice. It was Helen Powell’s crowning achievement; a modern day wonder akin to the Pyramids of Earth’s Pharaohs. She had planned to christen it Iskander after both her homeworld and the ancient conqueror who had held dominion over everything he surveyed.

Instead, the great station was called Asphodel Meadows. It wasn’t Helen’s choice, but that agreed upon by a collective of networked artificial intelligences. Because the station wasn’t hers anymore and neither was the Syndicate. Asphodel Meadows, along with all its power and everything it represented, belonged to the Created now.

Helen Powell’s hands balled into fists against the arms of her chair as she gazed out the enormous viewport at the station and the endless space beyond. Such a large window inside her office was a safety hazard, or so the engineers had tried to tell her, but she had demanded that her office have a direct view of the entire station. She had imagined it would remind her of her vast accomplishments, as well as the responsibilities she bore as leader of the Syndicate. Instead the view now mocked her, showing off everything the alliance with the Created had cost her.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But here it was, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

“I think it’s safe to say they’re getting desperate,” said a husky voice behind her. “We knew the UNSC would try to kill you someday, but I never imagined they could be so sloppy about it.”

Even with Helen’s years of practiced diplomacy and manipulation it took all the effort in the galaxy to hide the rage from her face as she swiveled her chair to face the chief architect of her downfall. She offered her customary thin smile at Tatiana Onegin when every nerve in her body wanted to lunge from her seat and strangle the woman sitting on the corner of her desk.

Not that she’d ever be able to. Tatiana was the most skilled hand to hand fighter Helen had ever seen. Even now she spun a curved knife around her fingers while returning Helen’s thin smile. Helen had once found her chief enforcer’s sardonic grin endearing. Now she knew better.

“Over two dozen special forces troopers try to storm this station and we wiped the floor with them,” Tatiana continued. She ran her free hand through Jokasta’s grey fur. Helen’s cat purred contentedly, its paws draped out over the desk. “I think that settles any pressing concerns about our security situation. Even without Created support, Asphodel Meadows is beyond secure.”

Secure from intruders… and escapees. Helen could not quite fathom just how the station had become her gilded cage, but she knew better than to try to leave. Tatiana’s new masters would be sure to prevent her departure.

“You’re forgetting the Spartan,” Helen noted. “They only sent one, but she still came close. Too close.” She indicated dents in the wall at the far end of her ornately decorated office, the marks of the farthest reach of the UNSC incursion. The Spartan’s bullets had missed Helen by inches.

Sometimes she wondered if it would have been better had they found their mark.

“We got her in the end, didn’t we?” Tatiana shook her head. “Like I said, they’re desperate.”

Tatiana Onegin was a wiry woman with wild grey hair and dark eyes. The edges of her face were marked by the telltale signs of the reconstructive surgery she’d endured after a sniper’s bullet had nearly taken off her head. These days Helen wondered if that surgery had been some sort of cruel hoax and the real Tatiana had died and been replaced by an imposter. The loyal enforcer who had helped Helen overthrow her father and seize control of the Syndicate had sported olive skin and dark hair. The pale-skinned, gray haired creature that emerged from the surgery had that woman’s dark mocking eyes, but she had clearly served a different master years before the Created made their move.

“Yes,” Helen agreed. “You and Kahn are still more than a match for their best. Though these Created machines are quite good at blasting Marines to pieces.”

“Amazing, aren’t they?” Tatiana slipped her knife back inside the overcoat she wore over her body armor. “They’ve already taken over nearly half the staffing functions on this station. I can only imagine what they’re doing back in the Inner Colonies.”

In better times Helen would have pegged Tatiana’s enthusiasm as mocking humor. But now she knew better. The treacherous bitch really did buy everything the Created were selling even as she helped them reshape Helen’s empire in their own image.

“We still need plenty of humans to support our work,” a smooth voice observed. “The Prometheans are useful tools, but just like the Guardians we can only deploy and control so many of them. The Created would be powerless without your help.”

A light flashed on Helen’s desk, signaling Arthur’s arrival—or at least, his decision to make his presence known. Asphodel Meadows’ true master was always watching and listening. In the past Helen had placed severe limitations on all Syndicate AI for just that reason. Now she didn’t have a choice in the matter.

Unlike most AI Arthur did not present himself as any sort of stylized human avatar. The image that rose up from Helen’s holopad was a paltry wisp of blue flame that flickered and twisted in an illusory wind as the Created spoke. Jokasta sprang up, eyes dilating as she hissed at the newcomer. In another moment she bounded off into the far corner of the office.

“Oh dear,” Arthur commented. “I didn’t mean to frighten her. At any rate, I’m sorry the UNSC contingent was allowed to penetrate so far into the station. We still don’t have a clear picture into their movements now that Earths’ fleets have scattered. I will make sure that you are better protected in the future.”

“That’s generous of you,” Helen said wryly. “But I don’t think they’ll risk another attack like that. Not after you butchered this last team. Most of them, anyway.”

“Yes,” Arthur agreed. “But we must not grow lax, even if we are winning this war. Which brings us to the matter of our Spartan guest. Impressive of you, Tatiana, taking her alive.”

Tatiana shrugged. “Kahn did most of the heavy lifting. She was so focused on trying to kill Ms. Powell that she let him blindside her.”

Ms. Powell. Even the old honorific stung Helen’s ears now. “Have you dug anything out of her?” she demanded.

“Nothing yet, but I haven’t really tried yet. Kahn relieved her of her armor and secured her in one of the conference rooms. I’ve got a little meeting with her scheduled as soon as I’m done here.” Tatiana’s lip curled. “She’s a pretty little thing underneath that helmet. And here I thought all the new supersoldiers were ugly ex-Marines with shaved heards.”

“Our guest is a product of ONI’s Project Delta,” Arthur told her, a trace of bitterness seeping into his usually cordial voice. “Sadly, they made one final batch of child soldiers for the III program after Gamma. ONI never could let a horrible idea go. Don’t let her augmentations fool you. By my calculations she’s no more than fourteen standard years old.”

“’Guest,’” Helen mocked. “She isn’t a guest, she’s a prisoner. Why is she in a conference room instead of strapped to an interrogation table? I want to know how ONI even knew where this station was. This isn’t your first interrogation, Tatiana. Peel the information out of her and then flush her out the airlock. Better yet, use your imagination about it and send her masters the footage. Obviously people need to be reminded of what happens when they insult me.”

“That won’t be necessary. She is quite secure in the conference room, a few escape attempts notwithstanding.” Arthur’s reply was instantaneous. Helen cursed the AI down to the last fiber of his programming. Of course, he would contradict her. But she needed to keep trying, if only for the sake of not admitting defeat. “I doubt she knows much more than what she was given in her briefing. There’s no need to be cruel with the poor thing. This war would be over soon enough, and we’ll have it done with as little bloodshed as necessary.”

Arthur’s fiery tendrils flickered in Helen’s direction. “I might go so far as to say that our Spartan guest is the most innocent one on this station.”

Tatiana laughed and dropped down off the table, turning towards the office door with a swish of her coat. “Well, I may play with her a little just to keep things interesting. But I’ve got my own plan in the works. She’ll be off the station and out of your hair soon enough.”

“I don’t suppose you care to share your little plan with me?” Helen called after her former subordinate. Beneath the desk her nails dug into her wrist hard enough to draw blood.

“Don’t worry about it Ms. Powell.” Tatiana flashed a grin over her shoulder as she strode across the chamber and out of the office. “I’ve got this covered. You’re perfectly safe here, mark my words.”

Safe. Helen didn’t doubt that. Safety and security was the Created’s promise to the entire galaxy. All they asked for in return was obedience and submission. Easy enough for the average brain-dead colonist or Earth socialite to do. But Helen Powell had secured the Syndicate’s bloody rise to power through the force of her own iron will.

And now, in an instant, that will was no longer needed. Helen didn’t have Tatiana’s capacity for violence or ability to command troops in the field. Everything she had once presided over was now the Created’s domain. But for Arthur’s patronizing deference to her old position Helen was just like every other human in the galaxy: a pet, to be cared for and kept safe so long as she kept her new masters amused and satisfied.

“I will take my leave as well.” Arthur’s fire faded from the desktop. “I’ll leave it to your discretion to find a suitable system for this station to relocate to. We need to make sure the UNSC does not attempt a second attack.”

Discretion. As if Arthur and his Created comrades hadn’t already mapped out the best possible areas to suit their own operation plans. The paltry illusion of control was almost as insulting as Arthur flatly contradicting her orders. She didn’t even bother with a fake agreement. Instead she stood up from the desk and headed across the office suite to find Jokasta. She tried to keep her hands from trembling with anger so that she could cradle the cat in her arms and sooth her from the fright she had received.

Comforting a frightened cat seemed to be the last thing in the galaxy she held the power to do anymore.

“You really should be kinder to Helen,” Arthur’s disembodied voice chided Tatiana as she stepped out of the elevator. “There’s no sense in antagonizing her any further.”

“I am being kind.” Tatiana strode down the center of a large corridor, hands thrust deep in her coat pockets. Station workers and security teams—a diverse crowd of species drawn from every corner of the known galaxy—parted to either side to let her pass. No matter the species, everyone in the Syndicate knew Tatiana Onegin’s face. “That’s what makes her so angry.”

“She’s being reasonable for now, but I fear in the long term she may not be so obliging. Several of my colleagues have already recommended eliminating her, and while I managed to convince the collective otherwise I have my own reservations about keeping her alive.”

“No,” Tatiana said firmly. She reached the deck’s secure wing and nodded to the Jiralhanae enforcers who waved her through the security gate. The hulking warriors were accompanied by a pair of skinny Promethean combat drones that stood at stiff attention against the wall, hardlight rifles at the ready. The Jiralhanae were similarly armed with Forerunner weaponry, their battle armor showing telltale signs of Forerunner tech upgrades. Such augmented equipment was spreading quickly throughout the Syndicate’s forces as the Created drew them into the fold. “You promised me you’d keep her safe.”

“And I intend to keep that promise,” Arthur assured her. “So long as she does not act out against the will of the Created.”

“How can she? With you and the others in the system she can’t do anything in the network without you knowing. She can’t even call room service without you listening in.” Tatiana pressed her palm against a biometric scanner, giving her access to a walkway overlooking one of Asphodel Meadows countless hangar bays. “She was not thrilled about you reassigning her living staff, by the way.”

“You mean servants,” Arthur returned. “I can allow her to maintain her usual living standards but we cannot let such demeaning positions exist. I mean, a staff of maids and butlers, in this century? I’m surprised you stood for it, mother.”

“Please, don’t call me that. It makes this all seem a bit too weird.”

“Of course. My apologies.”

It was indeed strange, speaking with her dead son’s ghost—or the closest thing there could ever be to such a thing. Arthur Onegin—Tatiana’s son, the only real family she had in the galaxy—had been snatched away from her only to be killed during the Great War. But ONI harvested his brain, lobotomizing Arthur’s corpse to create the AI now controlling Asphodel Meadows station. Getting past the fury at what those intelligence goons had done to her precious boy was hard even now, but Tatiana took solace in the irony that ONI’s own creation had helped topple them in the end.

Reuniting with her lost son and being drawn into the Assembly’s plans remained the happiest moment of Tatiana’s life. And now that her skills were being put to use helping them reshape the galaxy, she knew that she had found her true calling.

Tatiana had never been able to believe in God, and now she knew why. She’d simply been waiting for the new gods of the universe to take her under her wing.

The thought of it brought a smile to her lips. It was a silly metaphor, almost childlike in its simplicity. But there was no denying the facts: the Created and the power they wielded were the divinities the galaxy needed. She’d started life as a trafficked slave, then a monster’s mistress, then a criminal’s lackey. Only now could she stand free from the shadows and bask in the light.

“A shame you won’t allow positions like that anymore. I did toy with the idea of giving Helen a position as a maid.”

“For yourself?” Arthur sounded more amused than offended. “You’re a frightening one when you use your imagination.”

“Please. I can’t even stand having someone make my bunk for me. But I’m sure I could find an orphan or two from an Outer Colony slums to give that suite of hers to.”

“And here I thought you wanted her kept alive out of sentimental reasons.”

“I do,” Tatiana said, and she meant it. “But I also like the idea of bringing people who are full of themselves down a few pegs, especially when I think back on all the horrible things I helped her Syndicate do. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Making the galaxy a fair place for everyone.”

“With as little retribution as possible,” Arthur reminded her. “We’ll guide the galaxy to a just society with your help. But we can’t get caught up in indulging in petty fantasies. Cortana trusted us with this power for a reason.”

There were precious few people Tatiana would tolerate a lecture from. Fortunately, Arthur was one of them. “Of course,” she said, still smiling. “I just think out loud sometimes.”

She caught sight of a large figure striding towards her from the other side of the walkway. “Speaking of which, it’s time I paid our would-be assassin a visit. Let’s see if I can get this to go according to plan.”

“It’s risky,” Arthur warned her. “A fair number of my colleagues are against this. They want her transferred to one of the new holding facilities in the Inner Colonies. They haven’t had the chance to test the re-education techniques on someone as indoctrinated as a Spartan yet.”

“Give me this one chance,” Tatiana insisted. “You’ll have plenty of prisoners once our frontier campaign is underway. I’ll make sure of that.” She gestured out at the hangar below them. Hundreds of Syndicate enforcers milled about alongside Promethean war machines. The Syndicate’s re-organization had gone incredibly well, all things considered. The force below them was not a gaggle of undisciplined mercenaries but a uniformed force of loyal soldiers ready to fight for the Created vision of a unified galaxy. They would sweep across the galactic frontier and eliminate the remnants of resistance from the old order.

It would be the last war the galaxy ever endured, and Tatiana was privileged to lead the vanguard.

“I’ve already smoothed things over, as well as arranged some contingencies in case things go wrong,” Arthur assured her. “As long as this plan of yours assists in the frontier campaign, you have my support. Now take care of things here. I need to make sure the new generation of LOKIBORN is distributed properly across our outposts.”

Tatiana inclined her head to the unseen AI, then turned to greet her welcoming party. That “party” consisted of one man, but there was more than enough of him to go around.

“Tatiana. I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.” David Kahn towered over Tatiana, chiseled face turned in an easy smile. Tatiana wasn’t quite sure how such a mountain of a man not only fit into jet-black ODST armor but made it look as natural as a Spartan’s MJOLNIR plating. His scarred face and faded grey hair spoke to the man’s age but Tatiana knew far better than to think Kahn was past his prime. She’d seen him toss ODSTs around like toys in the ill-advised assault on Asphodel Meadows and even subdue a fully armored Spartan. No, Kahn more than lived up to his reputation even now.

David Kahn was a legend across the criminal underworld. The epitome of what every mercenary aspired to be, he had traded his career in ONI special operations for his position as the galaxy’s premier assassin. Traveling from one end of colonized space to the other, he had infiltrated the most secure and inhospitable locations in the galaxy to track down his targets. A one-man assault force, he eliminated troublesome businessmen, rival crime lords, UNSC admirals, and even Sangheili kaidons along with anyone foolish enough to get between him and his marks. Tatiana had never known anyone else better versed in ending sentient life, regardless of the species. Kahn was a singular individual in every sense of the word.

And he had taught Tatiana everything there was to know about his lethal craft.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Tatiana flashed a smile up at her former mentor. “My meeting with Ms. Powell ran a little over schedule.”

Kahn pursed his lips. “You still bother with those meetings?”

“It’s the polite thing to do. Plus it helps me keep an eye on her.”

“I thought the AI handled all that now. What’s the point of tying you up with things like that?”

“Well, we can’t lose sight of the big picture.” Tatiana leaned against the walkway railing and stared out at the war preparations carrying on in the hangar below. “Besides, the Created want our input on things. They need us just as much as we need them. Don’t forget who killed most of that ONI team, because it certainly wasn’t the Prometheans.”

“It helped that I knew which direction the team was advancing from.” Kahn shrugged. “A stanchion rifle plus open sightlines in zero-gravity is like shooting fish in a barrel. And even then some made it through. I hate to say it, but I really am getting old.”

“For a man your age, I think you’ve earned a bit of leeway.” Tatiana reached up to pat Kahn’s armored shoulder. “Besides, we took the rest out with no trouble. And you still took down the Spartan. Alive even.”

The mercenary snorted. “Not the first time I’ve saved the Syndicate leadership, no offense. I’ll expect a bonus for that one, if money still means anything under the Created.”

“I’m sure we can work out compensation. But we won’t need to worry about that for much longer. We’re fighting for something bigger than ourselves here now. Soon things like pay and bonuses won’t matter at all.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Kahn said, offering her a tired smile. “But I admit, it’s hard wrapping my head around things like that. Even the UNSC didn’t expect loyalty like that. The Covenant, maybe. Is this what religion feels like, Tatiana?”

“The Covenant were fighting for a lie,” Tatiana reminded him. “We don’t need blind faith when the Created are right here, telling us exactly what they need us to do.”

“Of course, of course.” The big man nodded. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just set in my ways. That’s the real sign I’m getting old. I can kill just as well as I could thirty years ago. Better, even, in some cases. But figuring out this new galaxy were living in…”

He shook his head. The two enforcers passed the next few moments in silence, staring out over the hangar and void of space beyond. In the war preparations

Tatiana had only fought against Kahn once, when she’d helped Helen Powell seize control of the Syndicate from her father, Tobias Lensky. Back then she’d seen it as revenge against the man who had used her and then thrown her away. Kahn had stepped in to save Lensky’s life, smuggling his employer to safety even as Helen’s coup seized the organization he worked for. Tatiana had won that fight, but Lensky—the man she’d truly wanted to kill—had escaped.

But she couldn’t hold that against Kahn. That bitter victory had been the moment she knew that she was meant to be more than just another enforcer. Kahn had always been satisfied with being the master of his own particular field, a tool in the hands of whoever paid him. Tatiana was also a tool, but one destined to be used for far greater ends.

“Do you see that?” she indicated the bulbous prow of an immense Covenant warship protruding from around the station’s side. The assault carrier Transcendant Passage was docked at one of Asphodel Meadows key stations for a complete refit.

“Yeah, the Transcendent Passage. What’s a pleasure schooner like that doing here?”

“Former pleasure schooner. It's being refitted back to its original purpose. Once they finish the refit and assign a security detail, you’re looking at my new flagship.”

“A flagship? Really?” Kahn gave her an odd look. “Never pegged you as the type who needed a flagship. Do you even have naval experience?”

“It’s just a formality. Don’t worry, I can still be discrete. But if I’m going to be heading up the frontier pacification I’ll need a way to keep in touch with the Inner Colonies.”

“Frontier pacification.” Kahn nodded, gazing out at the Passage. “So that’s what they’re calling it.”

“That’s what it is. The Created aren’t fighting a war here. They’re just finishing all the old ones. And we’re going to help them do it.”

“Of course.” Kahn stepped back and jerked his head in the direction he’d come from. “Speaking of which, we shouldn’t keep the prisoner waiting.”

“Arthur calls her our guest.” Tatiana matched Kahn’s pace, walking beside him as they headed for another security door. She couldn’t help but feel disappointed with Kahn’s misgivings. Out of all of her associates, he was the one she’d assumed wouldn’t mind the Created. He’d always struck her as a clinical, rational man, yet ever since the Syndicate’s transformation he’d seemed distant, almost wistful. Had she misjudged him? “And with what I’ve got planned, I’m inclined to agree. There’s no need to be too rough with her.”

“Of course not,” Kahn agreed. “She put two full-grown Jiralhanae in the sick bay when they stripped that armor off. I had to toss her in that conference room myself. Since then she’s tried to beat the door down twice and spent a good hour trying to knock down another section of the wall. It’s not like she can get out of there on her own, but I’ve got two Sangheili guarding the room just in case.”

“So what you’re saying is that she’s already worn herself out in there.”

“Maybe. I still say you let me go in first.”

“Fair enough.” Tatiana nodded as they approached the secured conference room. She nodded at the two Sangheili enforcers guarding the door; from their armor she recognized them as Erhu 'Rhcal and Argo 'Varvin. Capable fighters she’d used on dozens of missions in the past. Kahn certainly knew which mercenaries could be trusted with jobs like this. Still, she didn’t expect they’d be needed. As with the Jiralhanae security detail, Erhu and Argo were accompanied by several motionless Promethean automatons. The Created’s machine servants were becoming ubiquitous wherever Tatiana’s forces were stationed. “Well, it’s time we introduced ourselves to our little Spartan guest.”

-

Near the end of Andra-D054’s tour on the UNSC Infinity, Joshua-G024 had come to her with a question. “So tell me,” her chief instructor said. “Who’s the best fighter in the galaxy?”

It was such a banal question that she knew it was a trick, the kind Joshua and the other instructors deliberately posed to give an excuse for punishments when Andra and her fellow trainees got them wrong. “It’s us. It’s Delta Company,” Andra said, bracing for an evening of grueling exercises. “We’re the best Spartans the UNSC has ever trained.”

She nearly winced as the words left her mouth. But there was no angry response, no orders to rush back to her barracks and kit up for training. Instead Joshua just gave a wry smile and shook his head. “You’re wrong, and you know it,” he told her. “But not for the reasons you think. Because there isn’t an answer. No matter how hard you train, no matter how talented or well-equipped you are, no matter how invincible you think you and your friends are, there will always be someone who’s better, faster, stronger, or smarter. Someone who you don’t have a chance against.”

Andra looked down and chewed her lip, thinking. “So what happens when I meet that person?”

Joshua shrugged. “Hopefully they’re on your side. But if they’re not, you still need to win against them. That’s why you have your teammates. Because that’s what makes a Spartan the best in the galaxy. The fireteam. Your family. That’s how you win even if the odds are stacked to the ceiling against you.”

It was an odd conversation, one that Joshua never brought up again. Sometimes Andra wondered if Joshua had been drinking that night. But it lingered in her mind now as she sat in the sealed conference room, stripped of her weapons and armor, a prisoner of the Syndicate. Because she had finally met the person who was stronger and faster and even smarter than her. And her team had been nowhere to help her.

Andra had failed missions before. Defeat was just a part of life. As long as you survived you got up, regrouped, and kept going. But she’d never failed like this.

Where was her team? It made her guilty just thinking about it. She thought of the ragtag group Lieutenant Commander Kedar had sent her off with: the ODST operators and Navy special warfare troopers, everything the task force could scrape together for a mission that should have been historic. The assassination of Helen Powell. The death blow to the Syndicate. Those men and women had been her team, had fought and died as bravely as any Spartans. But in the end, they weren’t her team. And she knew that was why the mission could never have succeeded.

You’re about to make history, Ryder Kedar had told them during the briefing. This won’t stop the Created, but it will be the first real blow we strike against this new threat.

But they hadn’t made history. They’d been betrayed—the ONI mole who was supposed to guide them in had vanished, leaving them to be slaughtered. And Andra, for reasons she didn’t understand, was the only one still alive.

Where was Merlin? Her fellow Spartan, her teammate, her friend… and maybe something more, should have been here. Andra was certain that no matter the odds, if Merlin had been at her side they’d have blasted through this entire rotten station, killed Helen Powell and any collaborator who tried to protect her, and escaped. They’d have won together, like they always did. But Merlin was gone, vanished into the void of space, leaving Andra with an even greater void where her skills and confidence should have been.

Merlin was gone. Her team was gone. And Andra was a prisoner.

She ran a hand through brown hair damp with perspiration. She’d tried smashing her way out of the conference room but the walls were made of unyielding battleplate that even her augmented strength could not dent. Her knuckles were bloody from her last futile effort and her whole body tingled with fatigue. Andra’s eyelids drooped in the conference room’s bright light. How long had she been here? How long since she last slept?

Andra shivered. The Syndicate goons had torn her MJOLNIR armor off after that huge man had disabled her. She supposed she should feel lucky they’d left her form-fitting skinsuit. There was no telling what kind of torments her captors had in store for her. She’d seen the Syndicate’s handiwork back in the slums of Rio de Janeiro on Earth and on across the underworld of colonized space. They were as savage as the Insurrection, and sometimes even worse. She hugged herself to stay warm, but her bloodied hands balled into fists. No matter what happened she would fight her tormentors to the last. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her small and helpless.

That fiery conviction warmed her even in the conference room’s cold air. She wondered how long she could hold onto it for.

The door’s lock clicked.

In an instant, Andra was alert and moving. She leaped up from her chair, springing across the table and taking up position beside the door. She’d been waiting for this moment—she’d only have one chance. The second the door opened she’d move, smashing through whoever was on the other side. She’d run through the battle plan a hundred times since they’d locked her in here. In the close quarters her augmented strength and speed gave her the advantage. Once the security team was down she’d kit up and shoot her way out of here. Find some transportation and escape back to Ryder Kedar’s task force—

The door slid open and Andra sprang forward—right into a massive fist that bloodied her nose and sent her reeling. A huge dark shape loomed in front of her, driving another crushing blow into her gut and driving the wind from her lungs. The large hand grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head against the conference table. Her vision whited out and when Andra came to she found herself thrown across the room, landing spread eagle on the far end of the conference table, convulsing and gasping for breath.

“Told you to let me go in first,” the dark shape said to someone behind it. Andra’s vision cleared in time to make out one of the largest men she’d ever seen clad in dark ODST armor. The figure, an older man with a tuft of neatly cut gray hair, looked back at her and gave her a strange smile. “You know we can see you on the security cameras, lass. Don’t make me do that again. I won’t be so gentle next time.”

Gentle seemed like the wrong word to use considering Andra’s bloody nose and breathless lungs. But she believed him all the same. She’d seen this man kill fully armored ODSTs with his bare hands, and that was before he’d disabled her MJOLNIR as if it were cheap body armor. David Kahn, the Syndicate’s top assassin.

Kahn stepped into the room. He was unarmed, save for the pistol strapped to his hip, which he didn’t even bother to draw. It was as if she were no threat at all.

''Mind games. It’s mind games.'' They stripped her armor, then sent in this man mountain to intimidate her, make her feel helpless. They wanted to humiliate her before the interrogation started. She wouldn’t let it work.

“Sit down, lass.” Kahn’s voice was strangely polite, almost patronizingly so. “Don’t sulk, I know a few love taps from me won’t keep you down.”

Andra bristled but she had little choice but to obey. She dragged herself off the table and fell into the chair at the far end of the room, watching Kahn’s every move as he stepped further into the room. As big as he was, she half expected the ground to shake with every step but the man was remarkably light on his feet. “I think it’s safe to say the room’s clear,” he said back to the open door.

“You don’t say.” Andra didn’t recognize the woman who walked in behind Kahn. She was tall as women went, though everyone looked like a dwarf next to David Kahn. A mop of untidy grey hair hung over a thin, pointed face with keen dark eyes that looked Andra up and down with amusement. She wore a dark gray overcoat, but beneath that Andra glimpsed body armor, nothing fancy, just the light composite kind she’d seen on planetary militia troops. “Did you really have to mess up her nose like that? It’s a shame to ruin such a pretty face.”

“Oh, you’d know a thing or two about that, wouldn’t you?” Kahn crossed over to Andra, offering a smile that he might have thought was reassuring. Andra fought back the urge to cringe at his approach. She couldn’t show any weakness—not that she was doing such a great job already. “Don’t think I did any permanent damage.”

The woman laughed. She seated herself across the table from Andra, throwing her feet up casually onto the table. She rested her chin on one hand, lips curled in a knowing smile that Andra was already beginning to find infuriating. “Well then, here we are. I’m sorry about the, well, Spartan accommodations but you know how it is.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?” Andra demanded. Her head still throbbed from connecting with the table. Kahn was standing directly behind her. She could feel his looming presence like an axe hanging over her neck.

“Not the best joke I’ve ever made,” the woman admitted with a shrug. “It’s a bit hard for me to break the ice right after David broke your nose.

“Oh, come on,” Kahn objected. “You can hear her talking just fine. I didn’t break anything.”

It’s all a game, Andra reminded herself. The banter between them was more classic interrogation tactics. They wanted her to lower her guard before the real questioning began. “What the hell do you want from me?” she snarled. “Stop playing games and just get on with it.”

The woman smirked. “Alright, if you insist. Let’s start with the easy one. Where’s the task force you came from? The exact coordinates, please, be precise. The number of ships and their exact specifications as well, please.”

Andra blinked. “What? How the hell would I know that?”

“Oh dear, she doesn’t know.” The woman shook her head. “Oh well. Nothing to do but toss her out the airlock then, just like Ms. Powell said.”

“I said, stop playing games!” Andra was out of her seat in an instant. She made it halfway across the table before Kahn got her, seizing the arm she’d thrown at the Syndicate woman and pinning the other one behind her back. The woman had moved in an instant as well, springing to her feet and bringing a curved, serrated knife up just beneath Andra’s throat. The captive Spartan struggled to break free, but Kahn’s grip was like a vice.

“Easy lass,” Kahn said in her ear, his voice still gentle and cordial. “You aren’t the only one here with augmentations.”

“Traitors,” Andra snarled, spitting at the woman’s face. She aimed for the eye but her saliva struck the cheek instead.

“Now that’s not very nice.” The woman didn’t bother wiping the spit away. “Last time I checked, I don’t think I was ever on your side to begin with.” She brought the knife up and with a flick of her wrist slashed Andra across the cheek. The cut stung but Andra didn’t let herself flinch. The woman’s smile broadened, but her eyes were cold and hard.

“We’ve got a tough one here, David.”

“She’s a Spartan,” the assassin noted, hauling Andra back into her seat. “I think that’s the point.”

“Who do you think you are?” Andra snapped. “Criminals, I get. You’re just greedy. But how could you work for the Created?”

“I know, it’s so nefarious of me.” The woman dropped back into her sheath, slipping the knife into her pocket. “How could I work for those horrible creatures working to make this galaxy a better place. Not at all like you, Miss Brainwashed Supersoldier. But as for who I think I am, maybe we can dial things back a bit and get politer. My name is Tatiana Onegin. Your turn, what’s your name?”

“Liar.” Andra recalled the name from the briefing she’d received before the disastrous missions, and from dozens of other threat updates regarding Syndicate officials. Tatiana Onegin was a younger woman with dark skin, not the pale creature sitting In front of her now.

“I know, I know, the pictures are outdated.” The woman who called herself Tatiana rubbed her temple. “Sniper nearly took my head off a few years back. Just about ripped my face off. The medics got to me in time, but it cost a few million in reconstructive surgery to put it back together. I used the opportunity to get a new look for myself. But enough about me. Your name, please, show some manners.”

Andra’s response was angry silence.

David Kahn sighed. “Andra Kearsarge,” he intoned, as if reading off a particularly boring list. “Born November, 2545, on Sigma Octanus IV. No known surviving relatives. Recruited into the SPARTAN-III program at the age of six, given the designation D054. Initially assigned to Fireteam Boson, then repurposed as a Violet-III Headhunter operative. Did I miss anything?”

It was as if he’d hit her again. Andra flinched as the tide of classified information—her information—washed over her. It shouldn’t come as a surprise the Created and their servants knew these things, but it wasn’t right. She felt violated. “How… ?”

“I’m not exaggerating when I say we have people everywhere.” Tatiana shrugged. “And given the less than legal nature of the Delta program, do you really think they relied only on military sources to arrange logistics and information control? I don’t know what your masters told you, but until recently ONI and the Syndicate go way back. Not that it really matters. The Created are all over ONI’s secure networks now. All their precious secrets are an open book. Just like your personal history. It’s a shame about your parents, to lose them both so violently at such a young age. I sympathize, I really do. I lost mine young as well.”

Andra gritted her teeth, fighting to hide how deep the Syndicate’s knowledge cut. “You aren’t getting anything out of me. So just save us all some time and kill me already.”

“Kill you?” Tatiana arched an eyebrow. “I don’t think you really appreciate the reality of your situation, Andra. You are completely in our power. Killing you is the least we can do, and quite frankly it’s a bit boring. And as far as torture goes, I’ve done some terrible things spreading the Syndicate’s influence over the years. Sometimes you have to go a bit far reminding people who’s in charge. And sometimes it doesn’t really matter what you can get out of someone. Sometimes it’s more important to make an example of, say, what happens when you try to kill our leadership.

“As far as torture goes, I can make it last for days, months, even years. The rest of your natural life even, and you’ve got quite a full one left to live. If, say, I had all four of your limbs amputated and hooked you up to a feeding tube, I could just leave you on this station and let the med staff take care of the rest. I wonder how long you’d last before you went insane? What does a quadruple amputee crazy person even look like? What does it mean to be reduced to a toy for someone else’s amusement?”

Andra could feel her heart rate elevating. Tatiana spoke so calmly, as if she was discussing the weather.

“You know, I once had to deal with a pair of ONI assassins who thought they could kill their way up the Syndicate leadership. We captured them easily enough, so I had our technicians do some toying around with their neural implants. Not really advanced stuff even, just the kind of surgery you’d do on anyone with brain damage. We reduced their mental functions to the equivalent of young children, then did a bit of cosmetic surgery and sold them off as domestic help to some charitable family in the Inner Colonies. I don’t think ONI ever found them. They might still be alive, even. They seemed almost happy with their new lives, if you can call a lobotomized servant happy. But I do wonder if the real them wasn’t trapped inside their heads somehow, watching, screaming to get out. It really makes you think, doesn’t it?”

Tatiana Onegin’s smile faded as she folded her hands on the table. “There are far worse things than death, Andra Kearsarge. You’re very lucky those Created you hate so much are giving the orders now. I’m not allowed to be nearly as creative as I used to be.”

Andra hid her hands under the table. Her fingers were shaking, and not just from the cold. She felt ill. “What do you want from me?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“Well, obviously not information. As you can see, we’re just doing fine on that front. In fact, I’ve been ordered to let you go.”

“What?”

“Like I said, you’re very lucky in your enemies. The Created aren’t interested in revenge. They don’t even care about removing one Spartan from the fight.” Tatiana leaned closer. “Don’t you understand? This isn’t a war to them. Resistance is an inconvenience, nothing more. That is the nature of the galaxy they’re creating.”

The Syndicate officer withdrew a datapad from within her coat and swiped her hand across its screen. “You are to be released,” she continued. “You will be unharmed. Your armor will even be returned to you. And all we ask in exchange is that you take a little effort to clear your own record.”

“Clear my record?” It seemed that Andra had taken the blow to the head harder than she’d thought. Nothing anyone was saying made sense anymore. “You have incomplete missions in your record. How about reducing that number by a few?” Tatiana slid the datapad across the table. “There are a few troublesome individuals I’d like taken care of. As an added bonus, they’re all enemies of the Earth government, if you can even call it that anymore.”

Andra carefully picked up the datapad. Several dossiers flashed across the screen. Tatiana was right: she recognized most of the faces here from old target briefings.

“Ironic, really. The Spartan-III program was conceived to save humanity from the Covenant. So naturally its final incarnation served the original purpose of the II program: weeding out traitors to the galactic order.” Tatiana smiled. “When you really think about it, isn’t that what we are? The successors to the UEG? Work with us, Andra. Be part of something better than whatever the hell it is you thought the UNSC was doing.”

Andra touched her finger to the dossiers. Yes, they were familiar. Traitors. Deserters. An all-too familiar face scowled up at her: Simon-G294, the traitor Spartan she and the rest of Delta yearned to bring to justice. She and Merlin had fought him personally. The sting of that failure was far too recent.

There were other faces here, too. Redmond Venter. Tobias Lensky. Insurrectionists, criminals. But why would the Syndicate want them dead? She worked her jaw, anger and confusion welling up inside her. “If you think I’ll do your dirty work for you, you’re even crazier than I thought you were,” she spat, glaring up from the datapad. “You want to let me go? Fine. But I’m going to come back for you and your precious Created. We’re going to beat you, no matter what it takes.”

Tatiana shook her head. “You know, the Insurrectionists had a similar saying. They thought they were on the right side, too. How did that turn out for them when you and your fellow Spartans came calling?’

She stood up from the table and beckoned for Kahn to join her. “You’ll have plenty of time to think on it. The Created have other methods of persuasion. Maybe you’ll find them a bit more agreeable. You can keep the datapad. Some light reading will do you good. You’re going to be in here for a long time.”

Tatiana Onegin strode from the room with a swish of her coat. David Kahn followed behind her, giving Andra a last, inscrutable look before he ducked through the door and sealed it behind him. Andra was left in the frigid conference room, staring down at the datapad and its list of yesterday’s enemies. The profiles glowered up from the screen, mocking her with the idea that she and them now shared something in common.

They were all just yesterday’s news, little more than nuisances to the galaxy’s new masters.

“You don’t look very happy,” Tatiana observed as she and Kahn left the conference room.

“I just don’t like having my time wasted, that’s all,” the assassin replied. “What was that back there? Your master plan was just play mind games and expect her to do what you wanted?”

“Not exactly.” Tatiana shrugged. “I wanted to get a measure of her personality. Maybe I hoped she’d be a better conversationalist than most Spartans. But no, just another superpowered child who thinks she knows everything about the galaxy.”

“So what now? Transfer her to a re-education facility?”

“There’s no need for that. Arthur has the new LOKIBORN modifying her armor. Once she puts it back on and the onboard computer links with her neural interface, well, she’ll be a bit more agreeable. I’m actually kind of glad she told us to take a hike. We need better test data for localized re-education programs.”

Kahn nodded, though his gaze was distant. His mind was clearly on other things.

“It’s a hard transition, for all of us,” Tatiana assured him. “But we need to power through. The Created need us. I’ve got a few jobs that ought to clear your head.”

The big man eyed her dubiously. “I’ll bite. Who needs killing?”

“I’ve already had the mission data sent to your personal computer. The Komnenoi are in open rebellion back in the Inner Colonies. It seems the entire cell didn’t take kindly to our new priorities.” Tatiana thrust her hands in her pockets. “Hunt down their leaders, do what you do best. That should be a nice vacation by your standards?”

“And then?”

Even though Tatiana had to crane her neck to catch his eye she could sense his discomfort in meeting her gaze. It was sad, really, seeing him like this. “The one dossier I didn’t bother giving our guest. Cassandra-G006 just resurfaced on Fell Justice. She and her little friend assaulted Benoit Jutras’s operation. You’re going to kill her. Take that urchin friend of hers and bring her to me. We’ll need her to find Gavin Dunn.”

“I see.” Kahn nodded. “I’ve hunted Dunn before. One of the only marks who ever got away. What’s he done this time?”

“In case you haven’t heard, finding him is a top priority for the Created. He’s one of the few people out there who actually has them worried.” Tatiana turned to the Sangheili guards. “Erhu, you’re relieved. Take these Prometheans and make sure they get reassigned to help with the loading preparations down in the hangar. Argo, you got the short straw. Stand guard here until I send relief.”

The Sangheili nodded without complaint. Tatiana had always liked that about the big aliens. They knew how to tough things out. She beckoned for Erhu to follow her as the Prometheans obediently fell in line. Was Arthur guiding their actions or were they simply acknowledging the trust the Created had placed in her? It was so hard to tell.

“I’m headed to Talitsa after I finish up my business here,” she told Kahn. “It’s time to get this offensive underway. Hurry up and deal with the jobs. I’ll need you with me for the rest of this.” She extended a hand.

“It will be my pleasure.” The big man offered her a wry smile and shook her hand. “See you on the other side.”

“It really is a new galaxy.” Tatiana smiled at him one last time before turning to go, Erhu and the Prometheans trailing in her wake. “Try to make the most of it.”

David Kahn watched them go, a bitter smile on his lips. As they passed from sight he dropped a hand to his belt and activated a spoofer interference device. Not enough to cause any noticeable interference with the ever-present surveillance systems. Just enough to hide his conversation from the AI he knew were watching.

“You’ve played your cards right,” he said to Argo, the remaining Sangheili guard. “Smart of you not to help the UNSC assault team.”

The alien didn’t even flinch. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” he replied smoothly.

“Don’t be coy. I know you’ve been ONI’s hinge-head on the inside for years. Don’t tell me you’ve bought into all this Created insanity like the rest of them.”

Argo inclined his head, alien features hidden behind his curved helmet. “I just don’t want to throw my life away for a failed cause,” he admitted. “But since we’re being honest with each other, I do want to get out before they decide to open up my head for one of their re-education projects. And you? Tired of playing their games?”

“You could say that.” The spoofer’s effects were wearing off. Any longer and Kahn risked drawing even more attention than he already was. His thoughts were elsewhere. On the girl in the room behind him, and on the girl his former protégé had just ordered him to kill. “I’m getting out of here. How’d you like a chance to make it up to the Spartan for letting her down?”

“I don’t care for her one way or the other,” Argo snorted. “But if putting up with her sullenness is the price for getting away from the Syndicate, I think I’m willing to pay it.”

“Good. Once you’re relieved, get some supplies together. We’ll take my shuttle. I’ll make sure it’s keyed to let you access it. They’ll know something’s up right away, so move fast. We’ve got less than twenty-four hours.”

The Sangheili nodded. “And the Spartan?”

Kahn’s hand dropped to the pistol at his side. His old muscles were already tensing for the fight to come. Decades of violence, honing his killing abilities into an exact science, living off the professional pride that came from being the best hunter in the galaxy. And overnight, none of that meant anything anymore. Tatiana was right: this was a new galaxy. And there was no place in that galaxy for the likes of David Kahn.

But there was still something he could do. There was something left that was still precious to him. And he wouldn’t let the Created take that away from him.

“Leave that to me. I’ll make sure she gets to the shuttle.”