HALO: Battle Born Read online

  Evie left Victor to his filming and ambled closer to the crowd at the stage. The band was taking their places, picking up their instruments, sending a few jagged guitar chords out into the world. Dorian had slipped onstage too, behind the holographic impressions of an elaborate QJ setup. One of the guitarists gave him a head jerk of acknowledgment.

  They began playing almost immediately, not bothering to announce themselves, just releasing a torrent of music that burned in Evie’s ears. The crowd started jumping around, and Evie wriggled her way to the back, away from the crush of bodies. Then she stood awkwardly, unsure what to do with her hands. She caught sight of Victor with his comm pad, trying to move closer to the stage. The band thrashed around, and the lead singer howled lyrics in that half-English, half-French pidgin old people used sometimes. Evie slid farther and farther back, away from the noise and the tumult.

  She bumped up against someone, and her face flushed hot with embarrassment. When she turned around to apologize, she was startled to see Saskia Nazari slouching coolly behind her.

  “Oh,” she said, then realized there was no way Saskia could hear her. “I’m sorry,” she shouted.

  Saskia shrugged in that offhand way she did everything. Her bare shoulder poked out of the drape of her fashionable silk dress. She looked even more out of place than Evie did.

  Evie took a few steps away and crossed her arms over her chest. She couldn’t stop herself from glancing sideways at Saskia, though, who stood with one hand on her hip, her head tilted to the side, her body bouncing slightly to the beat of the music. It was disconcerting seeing her here, in this run-down shelter, listening to a local band torment their instruments. Disconcerting still to see that she seemed to be enjoying herself.

  The band finished their first song, and the lead singer screamed something into the microphone that might have been the band’s name. Saskia applauded with her hands in the air. So weird. She never talked to anyone during school, just sat in the middle row of her classes in her expensive, stylish clothes, always looking bored out of her mind. Afterward she vanished to that huge locked-down house set deep in the woods on a strip of private beach. Her parents did something with weapons manufacturing. Tourists who decided to become local.

  Evie wondered where Victor had scurried off to; filming Saskia was exactly the sort of thing he’d want to do, especially with the way the crowd seemed to part around her, like she was carting around one of her parents’ experimental weapons. Plus, Evie had seen the way Victor looked at Saskia whenever she brushed past him at school. Like she was a work of art.

  Everything in the shelter cut out.

  The stage lights, the music, even the safety lighting in the stairwell: All of it vanished, and the room slid from a swirl of sound and chaos into a void. But only for a split second, before everyone started shouting like little kids afraid of the dark. Comm pads came out, transformed into spheres of light that bobbed in the darkness. Evie pulled out her own comm pad and turned on the light and shone it around. She spotted Victor loping toward her, the record light on his comm pad still blinking. Of course. He was probably lapping this up.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Circuit likely blew. I’m sure the wiring in this place is complete crap.”

  Evie frowned. Then a hundred alarms went off at once. Everyone’s comm pad lit up with blue and red lights, and the voice of Salome, the town’s artificial intelligence, came spilling out of all of them, speaking in unison with itself:

  “Attention, citizens of Brume-sur-Mer. A power failure has been noted—”

  “It’s all over town?” Evie said.

  “—and I’m in the process of fixing it up again. Hold tight!”

  The red and blue lights blinked out; the crowd grumbled.

  “Think it was the storm?” Victor asked.

  “That wasn’t a storm,” Evie said. “Just some rain. And it wouldn’t have knocked out power to the whole—”

  The lights came back on. Not just the stage lights, but the overhead lights too, flooding the room with a sallow, flickering glow. Up on stage, Dorian hit a key on the computer, releasing a wave of some distorted, sampled audio, and the band took up playing like nothing had happened.

  Dorian pressed his head against the seat of his uncle Max’s truck and sucked in a deep breath as they made their way down the bumpy road. Uncle Max’s antique junker was a bone-rattling reminder that not everyone could afford gravity compensators. At least the light was gray and misty from the rain, so there was no blazing tropical sun beating down on him.

  He’d stayed out late last night, lounging around at the party after the show. They’d broken into the old tourist house and sat in the moldering living room strumming their guitars while the rain drizzled incessantly outside. He’d snuck in a little before dawn and collapsed into bed, only to be woken a few hours later by his uncle, who’d nudged him and said, “Get up. Need your help with a job.”

  So here he was, bumping along some muddy back road toward the town’s fusion reactor. It was one of the few things in town not managed by Salome, Brume-sur-Mer’s resident AI, as it lay too far outside the city limits. Which left it to the humans to deal with problems.

  “It’s your fault,” Uncle Max said, “staying out till all hours.”

  Dorian just looked out the window at the blur of wet greenery growing along the side of the road. “Lost track of time,” he finally mumbled.

  Uncle Max scoffed. “You’re as bad as your mother was.”

  Dorian didn’t want to talk about his mother. Didn’t want to talk about either of his parents, who’d decided that fighting a war was more important than having a son.

  Uncle Max pulled up to the fusion reactor station, a flat slab of gray concrete blinking with warning lights and the metal tube of the reactor itself. Even from the truck, Dorian could tell everything was fine. The reactor’s activity light winked at them, bright in the gray haze of the day.

  “Let’s see what we can find,” Uncle Max said, stepping out of the car. Dorian followed, his temple pounding. At least Uncle Max always split his wages fifty-fifty when Dorian came along. He was fair that way.

  “It looks fine,” Dorian said. “Probably just a fluke last night.”

  “It certainly didn’t mess up your plans any.” Uncle Max flashed a grin at him, and Dorian scowled in response.

  “The power cut out in the middle of our set. Threw us off for the rest of the night.”

  They trudged through the calf-high grass toward the station. Dorian’s boots sank into the mud. The forest pressed in around them, a tangle of green shadows. This was as far out as the town was allowed to build—something about the forest being protected wilderness. It looped like a semicircle around the town, pushing it up against the shoreline.

  “Let’s see what we got here.” Uncle Max punched in the access code on the control panel, then waited for the facial recognition scan. A half second later, the control panel popped open.

  While Uncle Max worked, Dorian walked around the edge of the cement slab, listening to the insects chittering around in the forest. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the pain in his head to go away. He wasn’t sure if Uncle Max had brought him out because he really needed the help, or because he was just trying to teach him a lesson.

  But then Dorian noticed an imperfection on the smooth, glossy surface of the reactor. He knelt down and pressed his fingers against it, and they came back flaked with black ash. A scorch mark.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “I think I figured out what caused the outage.”

  Uncle Max stuck his head around the generator. “What’d you find?”

  Dorian motioned toward the scorch mark. His uncle knelt beside him, frowning.

  “Looks like a bullet mark,” Dorian said.

  “How do you know what a bullet mark looks like?” Uncle Max peered at him sideways. “You better just be playing music when you’re staying out till all hours.”

  “Everyone knows what a bu
llet mark looks like.”

  “There’s no dent in the metal.” Uncle Max rubbed his finger over the black mark, smearing the ash with the rainwater. “But the metal’s damaged for sure. Look at that. Burned.” He peered closer. “I wonder how deep it goes. Call up Salome, will you?”

  Dorian pulled out his comm pad. “Salome,” he said, speaking into the local Brume-sur-Mer channel. “We need you.”

  “What’s up, Dorian Nguyen?” Salome spoke with an old-Earth-style French accent, although at some point the city council had decided to update her to sound more modern. The result was a mother trying too hard to sound cool to her teenage kids.

  Uncle Max took the comm pad from Dorian. “Salome, play back the security footage from the power station last night.” He looked over at Dorian. “Could you turn the holo on for me? I can never remember how to work this thing.”

  “Just swipe right there.” Dorian showed him. A second later, the holo switched on, revealing a transparent woman with long, glowing hair and clothes twenty years out of date.

  “Running the footage now,” she said. “But I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. I would have mentioned it.”

  “There’s a scorch mark on the reactor,” Uncle Max said. “You really didn’t notice anything?”

  Salome frowned. “You should know I can’t access the reactor’s systems.”

  Uncle Max sighed. “I know, but you had to have noticed something unusual on the security footage.”

  Salome tilted her head. “Perhaps. Let me run it for you.”

  Salome vanished in a streak of blue light, which stretched out until it became a shot of the reactor station. The surrounding trees trembled with rain. Then—

  A flash of white near the reactor. A trickle of smoke. Then nothing.

  “The hell was that?” Dorian asked. “Lightning?”

  “No lightning appeared in the area,” Salome chimed in, her disembodied voice floating out of the comm pad.

  “You didn’t think this was worth reporting?” Dorian said. “This—whatever? Look at the time stamp.”

  “Yeah. I see it,” said Uncle Max. 19:48.

  “Right in the middle of our set.”

  “Salome?” Uncle Max said. “Any suggestions?”

  Salome’s holographic form materialized again. She gave a jaunty shrug. “’Fraid it didn’t ping any of the usual threats.”

  “You said there was no damage to the reactor,” Uncle Max said.

  “There isn’t. It’s working quite fine, as far as I can tell from its effects in town. Any of the damage you see is purely cosmetic.” She flipped her hair; the hologram shimmered in a gust of damp wind.

  Uncle Max sighed. “Fair enough. Let me run a diagnostic just to be sure. Dorian? Some help?”

  “See you later, Salome,” Dorian said. She waved goodbye and flipped her hair again.

  Dorian switched off his comm pad and leaned up against the reactor while Uncle Max ran back to the truck to get the mapping scanner. The wind blew harder, bringing with it more rain. So something sparked against the reactor last night and shut down the power for a couple of minutes. It really did look like a gunshot. What was it the Covenant used? Plasma rifles? He’d seen images on the comm channel like everyone else, bursts of violet light that incinerated whatever they touched.

  But even if the Covenant made it to Meridian, Brume-sur-Mer was a middle-of-nowhere town. Why would the Covenant even bother?

  Still, Dorian squinted into the dark green of the forest, looking for monsters among the rain and ferns and tangled vines.

  Uncle Max got a notification as they were driving home from the reactor. “Looks like Mr. Garzon’s having some trouble down at the docks. Roof’s leaking all over the dry storage again. Got some other jobs for us too.”

  “Fine.” Dorian’s headache was starting to fade.

  “Didn’t give you a choice.” Uncle Max laughed. “Still, want to swing by the house first. Make sure Remy’s doing okay.”

  “Wait, you left him alone?” Dorian jerked his gaze away from the window and over to his uncle. “He’s only eight years old, man!”

  “Left you alone when you were eight. He was all wrapped up in those comm channel games. I’ll bet he hasn’t moved from the living room.”

  Dorian crossed his arms over his chest and returned to his vigil of the overgrown road. He hated when Uncle Max left Remy alone. Little kids shouldn’t be abandoned liked that.

  They pulled up to the house ten minutes later, the road emerging suddenly out of the forest and dumping them unceremoniously onto the beach. White-capped waves dragged seaweed toward the shore. The sky, the water, the sand—everything was gray from the rain.

  Dorian jumped out of the car and took the steps to the front door of the house two at a time. Not that it mattered—he spotted Remy through the window in the door, and just like Uncle Max said, he was sprawled out on the rug beside the couch, a headset pulled over his eyes.

  Dorian slipped in quietly and crept over to where Remy was playing his game. He was still wrapped up in it when Dorian pounced, grabbing him around the shoulders. Remy shrieked and tore off his headset.

  “I was just about to kill that guy!” Remy shouted. “You made me miss.”

  Dorian shrugged. “Just keeping you on your toes.”

  Remy swung a tiny fist at Dorian’s shoulder, and Dorian curled up in fake pain, howling like he did when he was performing with his band. Remy giggled and kept hitting him while Dorian writhed around.

  “Knock it off, you two.” Uncle Max clomped into the house. “Remy, you doing okay?”

  “I was,” Remy said, before giving Dorian a final, decisive punch. “But then Dorian came and ruined my game.”

  “I didn’t ruin anything,” Dorian said. “It’s a game. You’ll get another chance to kill Hinfelm the Horrible.”

  “Remy, don’t you have something more productive to do than sit around playing games all day?” Uncle Max pulled open the hall closet door and switched the light on, then fumbled around in the mess of tools and beach toys.

  “No.”

  Dorian grinned and bumped Remy’s fist.

  “Now, that’s just not true.” Uncle Max emerged from the closet with his tattered black supply bag. “I seem to remember giving you a list of chores to get done today.”

  Remy shrugged.

  “I want ’em done by the time me and Dorian get back,” Uncle Max said. “We’re going down to the docks. Should be back in a couple of hours.” He jerked his head toward Dorian. “You ready?”

  Dorian lounged back on the couch. “You really need me? I can stick around here—”

  “Yes, I need you.” Uncle Max shouldered the bag. “Somebody’s got to fly that scud-rider.”

  Dorian felt a surge of excitement, not that he let Uncle Max see it. “I thought you said the roof was leaking.”

  “It is. But he also needs somebody to fly out and adjust the signal towers. Too choppy to take a boat, and it’s something Salome can’t fix on her own. Must need a power cell.” He pushed the door open.

  Dorian leaned over Remy. “Don’t get too much work done,” he whispered.

  “I won’t,” Remy said.

  “Stop encouraging him.”

  Dorian jumped off the couch and strolled across the living room. The rain was picking up again. Nice. He always did enjoy a challenge when it came to flying.

  They loaded up Uncle Max’s truck with some old plywood for the leaky roof and then headed on their way. Dorian’s comm pad chimed—it was Xavier, the guitarist for Drowning Chromium.

  “Girlfriend?” Uncle Max said.

  “No.”

  “Boyfriend, then?”

  “Wrong again.” Dorian opened up the message:

  HEY MAN, GREAT NEWS. TOMAS REYNéS SAW OUR SHOW LAST NIGHT AND WANTS US FOR TONIGHT. BOAT SHOW, OUT AT SEA. YOU IN?

  Dorian grinned. HELL YEAH, he wrote back. Then he shoved the comm pad back in his pocket and said, “Don’t make any work plans
for me tomorrow. We got another gig.”

  Uncle Max glanced at him. “Oh yeah? Well, congratulations. I mean that.”

  Dorian smiled a little and ducked his head to hide the blush. Uncle Max gave him a hard time, but he wasn’t so bad. Better than Dorian’s parents, who didn’t even bother to send transmissions most of the time.

  They arrived at the docks a few minutes later. The place was shut down for the season, all the boats tucked away in storage. During the dry season, Uncle Max would take tourists out on trips around the bay. He usually roped Dorian into helping him too. Not that they got many tourists these days.

  Mr. Garzon was waiting for them outside, standing underneath the overhang. He lifted one hand in greeting.

  “You sure you can fly that thing in this weather?” Uncle Max asked, slapping Dorian on the shoulder. “Rain’s picking up.”

  “I’ve flown in worse.” It was Mr. Garzon who’d taught him to fly, actually, a couple years ago, before Dorian got into music and joined up with Drowning Chromium. He’d said Dorian had the knack for it and ought to consider joining the UNSC, a suggestion that left the air bitter. Like his parents, that was the implication. Even then Dorian hadn’t wanted to be like them, though he did like flying.

  Dorian jumped out of the truck and ambled over to Mr. Garzon, not minding the patter of rain. Mr. Garzon nodded at him. “Still haven’t cut that hair, I see.”

  Dorian shrugged.

  “Where’s the leak?” Uncle Max said.

  “Left side of the structure. Let me get Dorian up to speed, and then I’ll be over there to help.”

  Uncle Max nodded and vanished around the corner of the building.

  “What’s up?” Dorian asked.

  Mr. Garzon nodded toward the ocean. “Having trouble with the light signals out there. Blinked out during the power outage last night and never came back on. Salome didn’t see anybody messing with them either. Water’s too choppy to take a boat out.”

  Dorian frowned, wondered if he would find scorch marks on the light signals like he did the reactor. But he didn’t say anything to Mr. Garzon beyond “Sure, I can check it out.”