Halo: The Thursday War

It could take me years to wheedle my way back in here. We might not have years.



He made his way through the rubble in the courtyard. Wal s that had stood for mil ennia, built by the Forerunners themselves, had col apsed in places, giving him jagged, chaotic glimpses of the huge plaza outside. It was pandemonium. Troops were stalking around, barking orders at Sangheili who were mil ing about, inspecting piles of what Phil ips thought was more rubble until he realized there was no masonry close enough to fal in heaps. The plaza was an open space like a parade ground.



The piles were bodies.



He stumbled out of the gates, as if the notional line between holy ground and the public space would shield him. A crater about seven or eight meters wide had gouged a scar in the elegant geometric paving. That was where the device had detonated: not in the temple grounds, but out in the plaza. Purple Sangheili blood lay in glossy pools or trickled into gutters. Phil ips tried not to focus on the dead and injured. Mal and Vaz might have been used to seeing body parts, but this was al new and sickening for him. He didn’t recognize some things. He made himself look away before he did.



It was sobering that even on an alien world, in a city of towering creatures with four jaws, the carnage that fol owed a bombing looked pretty much like any shattered street on Earth in the aftermath of a terror attack. And people were just as scared and shocked and grief-stricken.



People. Yes. They’re people to me. Sorry, Vaz. I can’t see them any other way now.



‘Telcam stood absolutely stil , fists clenched at his sides in an oddly human way. He was seething. Phil ips edged up beside him.



“So…” Nobody seemed interested in a lone human now. An hour ago, he’d been a sensation, an unlikely little pink creature who could rapidly unlock the arum puzzle that left most Sangheili perplexed. “Who did it? This isn’t about the temple, is it?”



‘Telcam scanned the scene with a slow sweep of his head, taking in the neatly trimmed shrubs and trees that lined the plaza. Phil ips thought he’d spotted something suspicious. But he curled his lips back, parting that cloverleaf set of jaws and baring his fangs in anger.



“What do you not see, scholar?” he asked.



Phil ips wasn’t back to his best yet. He tapped his radio again, hoping BB was just keeping his head down and gathering information. It took a while to check the scene and not pay too much attention to the grisly detail. A pair of Sangheili trotted past carrying something on a sheet of fabric, a makeshift stretcher. Phil ips looked away.



“Sorry. What am I missing?”



“Where are the Brutes?” ‘Telcam demanded. “There were Brutes working out here. They were tending the gardens. Where did they go?”



Phil ips’s first thought was that they’d been kil ed or taken away wounded. He was about to suggest that when ‘Telcam caught his arm and hauled him into the plaza to inspect the scene for himself. Phil ips had no choice now. He found himself looking down at a body, a male in his middle years, minus legs and part of his head. The smel —sweet, metal ic, but also tinged with ammonia and sulfur—struck him more than the glistening shreds of flesh. Somehow he managed to switch off. He hadn’t realized he could do that. When he looked up, ‘Telcam had stalked away and was moving from casualty to casualty, grabbing troops by their shoulders and questioning them.



“Where are the Brutes?” he demanded. “Have you found any Brutes? Where did they go?”



He was right, though: the Jiralhanae had vanished. Not many had stayed with the Sangheili once the Covenant fel , but their absence was suddenly conspicuous. Phil ips struggled with the idea that these might have turned on their former superiors.



‘Telcam came striding back, jaws working angrily. “Not one, ” he snarled. “Not one has remained.”



“You think this is an uprising?”



“Most of the Brutes turned on us in the Great Schism.”



“Yes, but lots of them just took ships and went home, too.”



“You seem to have missed the point, Philliss.” Yes, he real y did make it sound like Phyllis, just as Vaz Beloi had said. Those extra jaws made explosive consonants hard going. “There is no affection between our species.”



“Perhaps they just ran for it,” Phil ips said. No, he didn’t believe that. A Brute had tried to take on Naomi and lost—not that he could share that with ‘Telcam. “We’l find them quaking in a cel ar somewhere.”



“I knew we should never have tolerated them. This is the worst possible timing.”



Ah, so that was his problem: not that they’d dared to kil Sangheili, something that he was preparing to do himself, but that they’d messed up his tidy insurrection.



“Yes, but how do you—”



Phil ips never got to the end of the sentence. A bolt of energy hit the paving twenty meters from him, spattering him with painful y sharp grit, then another and another, bright as lightning.



He dived instinctively and hit the ground, not that it would have saved him, and another alien sensation overtook him: real fear, the absolute fear that he would die any second. His body ignored his conscious mind completely. It saved itself. He couldn’t move. Al he could do was listen to the crack and sizzle of energy rounds zipping past his ears. That was how close it felt. He could smel it, too, like paint burning on a hot radiator.



“Brutes!” someone yel ed. “It’s Brutes! Filthy traitors! Kill them! ”



Boots thudded near his head. “Outrage!” one Sangheili kept shouting. “Ingrates! To think we gave you food and shelter!”



Phil ips tried to turn his head, looking for somewhere to take cover. Three Sangheili were stil trading shots with somebody up on the wal s. Was it a Brute? He couldn’t tel . He couldn’t raise his head far enough to see. He just wanted the shooting to stop. He was sure he’d crap himself if he had to lie here in the open a moment longer. He was going to die alone without even BB for company. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.



Get a grip. It’s seconds. Vaz told me so. You think it’s going on forever, but it’s only a few seconds.



There was more zip and crack as the shooting continued. Then it stopped and the echo around the wal s seemed to go on forever before being swal owed up in roars and murmurs. Phil ips didn’t know whether to raise his head or stay down, but someone made the decision for him and hauled him upright by his col ar.



‘Telcam stared down at him, nostrils flaring, looking distinctly unimpressed. “Those shots were nowhere near you.”



Phil ips had had enough for one day. He’d been bombed and shot at. He’d seen people kil ed. And he was on his own a long way from home.



The novelty of playing spy games was over. It was a lonely way to end up dead.



“I’m going to go and find Cadan,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. More heavily armed city militia were streaming into the plaza, arriving in al kinds of mismatched vehicles that parted the crowd. The mood had now changed from shock to anger, something Phil ips was certain he could smel . “My pilot. He went to a tavern. He’l be looking for me. I need to cal in to tel everyone I’m okay.”



‘Telcam stil had a tight grip on his col ar. “And then what? Go back to the Arbiter’s keep?”



“That’s the idea.”



“That would be an unwise choice of sanctuary, and you’re wel aware why.”



The closest that Phil ips had ever been to a riot was a rowdy night in Sydney when the Aussies had won some rugby trophy and the bars had started overcrowding, then overflowing into the streets. There’d been arrests, scuffles, deafening noise, and a few moments when he was sure he was going to get his head kicked in while simply trying to hail a taxi. He’d felt just as confused and alien as he did now. Just like that night, the hundreds—maybe thousands—of Sangheili were a wal of muscle and hostility, not particularly aimed at him but stil volatile and potential y lethal.



Then something distracted them. Phil ips saw every head turn simultaneously before he heard the shouts of Jir’a’ul, Jir’a’ul—Brute, a play on the Brutes’ own name for themselves and the Sangheili word for a lump of wood, a’ul. It was an ugly term of abuse. He could guess what was coming when a loud, communal hiss like escaping steam swept through the crowd. He’d never heard that before and wasn’t even sure what it was, but the meaning was instantly clear, the kind of knowledge he’d never have gleaned in a lifetime’s research in the safe comfort of his office at Wheatley University.



The crowd parted. Now Phil ips could see a Brute struggling in the grip of two Sangheili troops, snarling and spitting, and the crowd closed again like a wave. The Brute’s snarls were drowned by Sangheili roars. Phil ips couldn’t see what was happening, just the ripples of movement. It was a lynch mob. But Sangheili didn’t use ropes. They were carnivores, and they fel on the Brute like a pack of dogs. Phil ips let his imagination fil in the gaps. It was time to run.



“I’ve got to go,” Phil ips said. He could remember where the tavern was. He had to get out. Jesus, BB, why pick now to break down? “My radio’s not working. I’l contact you later.”



It was hard to see what was happening because he was a lot shorter than the average male Sangheili. He was a child lost in a dark forest, staring at legs and weapon belts. Then the firing started again. But it was coming from the wal s: he risked looking around and now he could see a lot more Brutes with rifles. His belief in invincible Elite superiority was waning fast. Bolts of energy sizzled through the air before an explosion sent debris flying. The blast was much farther away on the north side of the plaza, but stil deafening, stil powerful enough for Phil ips to feel it in his chest and ears.



“Oh, shit—”



“There is your answer, scholar.” ‘Telcam yanked him back toward the temple so hard that his arm hurt. “You’l be safe here.”



“Cadan wil come looking for me.”



“It’s too late. It must begin now.”



Phil ips struggled to match ‘Telcam’s huge stride. Somewhere at his back, al hel had broken loose. He didn’t know if it was a pitched battle or just the crowd erupting in fury, but his legs had made the decision to keep moving away from the noise as fast as they could.



“What does? What’s got to begin?”



‘Telcam shoved him through the gate into the temple grounds. “What do you think? We have to bring the revolt forward, to strike before the Brutes force us to fight on another front.” ‘Telcam slipped into English. He was fluent, trained as an interpreter for the fleet, and it was hard to tel whether he thought that Phil ips didn’t understand him or if he’d switched languages for some other reason. “Cowards. Utter cowards. Why do they plant bombs? This is a filthy, sly habit they have learned from you humans. Terrorism. That is the word, yes?”



That was the whole point of being here: Phil ips had known the unspoken deal with ONI from the start. He wasn’t here to study the Sangheili or build bridges with them. ONI’s mission was to crush them before they regained their military strength, and he was the one man who could talk to them and gain their trust because he was so harmless. He felt like a complete bastard. But then he thought of bil ions of dead humans, and Sydney in flames, and talked himself back into knowing which side he had to be on.



Terrorism. That’s the word, ‘Telcam. We’re all doing it, one way or another. It’s just semantics. I’m good at that.



“It works, though,” Phil ips said, catching his breath. He could stil hear the rioting but the wal s muffled the sounds, creating an il usion of safety.



“Efficient. Cheap. You can keep it up for years. You could learn a lot from us monkeys.”



Phil ips was only saying what was factual y true, and playing the game of planting a suggestion that ‘Telcam might fol ow to the benefit of Earth, but the monk rounded on him as if it was blasphemy.



“No!” For a moment Phil ips thought he was going to shake him like a badly behaved child. “That is not war! There is a line between catching the enemy off guard and being too cowardly to show yourself. I will not cross it. It defiles us. We fight for faith, Philliss, we fight to restore what we were, to come close to knowing the gods’ intent for us again—not to make them shun us in disgust.”



Phil ips had never real y got used to rules of engagement. He wasn’t going to debate about them now. ‘Telcam strode back into the temple lobby, pushing Phil ips ahead of him. Monk-warriors and former Sangheili soldiers who’d found themselves purposeless in what was to them a sudden, catastrophic peace were already sweeping up the blast damage and fortifying the temple again.



How could he get word back to Osman that he was okay? He had nothing with him except a broken radio—not even a change of underwear. He was sitting in the middle of an unfolding civil war, clueless and alone. He might be back on board Port Stanley in a few days, or stil hiding in tunnels months from now.



Or he might have been counting down the days to his death.



Suddenly he realized he felt more real, more alive, more relevant than he ever had in his life. The thril of it ambushed him. It wasn’t fun, but the adrenaline had ebbed and the paralyzing fear had been replaced with an extreme focus. He liked this new feeling. It was sharp, bright, and intense.



Everything—sound, color, smel , every sensation in his body—was vivid and minutely detailed.



Maybe this was what kept his UNSC buddies going. He understood them a lot better now. If he played his cards right, he might live to swap this tale with them over a beer.



‘Telcam walked up to a table that had just been set upright again and slammed his fist down on it to get attention. Everyone stopped and listened.



“Brothers,” he boomed. “This is the work of the Brutes. An irrelevance. An annoyance. Are we al fit to fight?”