Twin Blades

Twin Blades

Chapter the Second: Sword

Time Setting: Halo 2, during and after level “The Arbiter”


Rtas ‘Vadumee raised his muzzle and sniffed the air. The fragrance he smelled made his blood run cold and his guts twist in fear.

Death and rot and sickness, festering wounds, maggots, pain and fear—and another odour that his language had no word for, a nauseating scent that was uniquely Flood.

What was the Parasite doing here, on this holy installation? By the Rings, the Spec Ops team had come hunting heretic Sangheili and Unggoy. How had the Flood gotten here? Had Sesa ‘Refumee and his crew crossed the line from blasphemy to insanity, and brought them here? Or perhaps they had done so by accident. Or maybe the spores had already been here, waiting to contaminate the next living thing that arrived.

Or perhaps the heretics had been surprised by a Flood-laden ship, like Infinite Succor…

By the Prophets, were there other Parasite-infested ships out there, spreading the spores across the universe, threatening everything living?

‘Vadumee could not think about that. He would task his soldiers to kill the Heretics and the Parasite carriers—that was enough of an order for his new squad. Afterwards, he would warn the Prophets and the Council. If there were more Flood out there, they had to be destroyed.

For now, he steeled himself, exerting an iron will over the fear slithering through his bowels.

A brief image flashed through his mind of a Sangheili conquered by the Parasite, advancing on him, sword in hand and tentacles bursting from its other arm—and in this nightmare daydream it was not Kusovai, but the new Arbiter.

Then ‘Vadumee got a grip on his emotions and the image vanished, though on the left side of his face he felt a throbbing ache from mandibles he no longer possessed.

*

The Arbiter was fast, but Sesa ‘Refumee was faster. When ‘Vadumee entered the room with his Elites at his heels, he saw the Arbiter standing before a closed door. Echoes from the Arbiter’s punch reverberated through the room.

“Arbiter! Where is he?” Vadumee demanded.

The Arbiter did not answer. He did not need to.

‘Vadumee felt a sting of panic. They could not go back to the Hierarchs empty-handed, and even if they found a place to shelter from the storm, the prospect of sitting around this Flood-infested station waiting for ‘Refumee to get hungry or thirsty enough to come out—and who knows how many supplies he had in there with him—made his skin crawl. He could imagine Parasite spores creeping over every surface, waiting to infest his men, to turn them into monsters…

He expressed his fear only as a growl as he examined the door, which was distressingly sturdy. He wished he’d brought a fuel rod cannon—or a pair of Hunters. “Stinking Floodbait boxed himself in tight. We’ll never break through this.”

“We shall force him out,” the Arbiter said thoughtfully.

Easier said than done. “How?” ‘Vadumee asked suspiciously. Did the Arbiter have a workable plan?

He wanted it to be true. He hoped it was true. These days, though, it seemed to be only his nightmares that came true.

The Arbiter was studying the schematic of the station. “The cable,” he murmured. “I’m going to cut it.”

The plan was audacious and unorthodox – typical of the former Supreme Commander – but also insane, far more dangerous than anything the Commander would have undertaken before.

But he was the Arbiter now, and meant for danger, and it was clear that he knew it.

“Get everyone back to the ships,” the Arbiter said.

‘Vadumee felt a rush of relief and gratitude as he trailed his warriors back to the Phantoms. The Arbiter’s words on the Phantom had not been just talk. He was honourable enough to take the risks on himself, rather than force young soldiers to pay for his decisions with their lives. ‘Vadumee felt suddenly guilty for assuming the worst of him.

And fighting through the Flood alone, to send the station into a freefall towards its own destruction, then battling the Heretics in the hopes that he could defeat them before the station came apart… It was a hellish risk, and a lonely way to die.

Rtas hesitated, thinking for a moment before he turned back to the Arbiter. “Take my blade,” he offered, holding out the sword. “I doubt the cable can withstand its bite.”

The Arbiter nodded his thanks, then seized the sword and sprinted upwards.

‘Vadumee wasn’t sure what to make of the Arbiter’s expression in that moment, but he knew one thing—he would support his former Supreme Commander, rank or no rank, Mark of Shame or no. He would not flee with his men and leave the Arbiter to die. No matter what it cost him.

*

With the Heretic ‘Refumee dead at last, the Arbiter rode back from the mission in silence, trying to avoid contact with Tartarus and his crew of Brutes as much as possible. They seemed quite happy to let him ride in the back corner of their Phantom; mercifully, they ignored him.

The words of Sesa ‘Refumee and the Oracle still rang in his earbuds. Was it at all possible that the heresy had some basis in fact?

No. It was not possible. The Oracle had to have been corrupted, or tampered with…’Refumee had been speaking twisted word, designed to confuse and to raise doubt. Faith and devotion were the twin blades of righteousness.

And then Tartarus had appeared and taken possession of the Oracle. The Brute was becoming too presumptious and also far too powerful. The Arbiter wondered what Tartarus’ rank was, exactly. Chieftan of the Brutes, that he understood, but his role seemed to have expanded beyond simple leadership of his people. He appeared to be working very closely with the Prophets—they had even let him administer the Mark of Shame, a job which better belonged to a fellow Sangheili. The Arbiter should have been punished by his own people, preferably his successor as Supreme Commander, not some miserable Brute…

The only good thing that happened today was ‘Vadumee. The Arbiter turned ‘Vadumee’s sword hilt over in his hands. He was reluctant to give it back—the loan of the blade provided tangible proof that someone still believed in him, or even cared the least bit for his welfare.

*

Back on High Charity, in the Elite military complex, the Arbiter sidestepped neatly around two Elites making out in the hall.

This was a heterosexual couple: one of ‘Vadumee’s young SpecOps soldiers and a female doctor whom the Arbiter recognized from the city’s medical staff. The male was already out of his armour and had his jumpsuit unzipped; the female was still wearing her robe, but the pile on the floor indicated there was nothing underneath it save for her lover’s hands. The Arbiter could not find the heart in himself to tell them to take it to private quarters.

It was common practice for Sangheili to go seeking their lovers after a battle. Sex made you feel alive, made you glad you were still alive. The arms of a partner reassured, let you feel safe and loved you no matter what horrors you’d committed in the name of the Covenant. The SpecOps Elites who had bondmates or even regular consorts would likely already be locked away in whatever private space they could find. The rest…

The Arbiter pushed open the door to the ship’s mess.

This room was reserved for Sangheili only; the Grunts, Jackals, Drones, Engineers and Hunters had their own messes, and the Prophets dined in a separate and much more ornate lounge. At the back was a small room restricted to senior officers. The Arbiter used to eat there exclusively; now he wondered if he’d even be allowed inside. He didn’t care. The last thing he needed was to isolate himself farther.

It didn’t seem to matter. The other Sangheili, upon noticing him, would nod their heads respectfully and then turn their attention elsewhere—even if that meant straight down at their drink pouches or straight up to pretend to examine some nonexistant mark on the ceiling.

High position plus dishonour equalled persona non grata in here.

The Arbiter cast his gaze around the mess, looking desperately for ‘Vadumee, because he still had ‘Vadumee’s energy sword in his possession. The blade gave him an excuse to seek out ‘Vadumee’s company, but ‘Vadumee was nowhere to be found.

A sickening thought crossed his mind—perhaps ‘Vadumee was already busy with this evening’s consort.

The Arbiter felt useless and awkward, standing there in the middle of the mess hall while life boomed all around him. It was as though he was no longer part of his own species. He stood there, as alien as a human being, being ignored by half the mess and stared at by the others who turned away when he glanced in their direction.

“You c’n sit here, sir.”

The voice was rough and very informal, and the hand grabbing at his armour (the hand that dared to grab!) utterly lacked in grace, but right now the Arbiter was willing to forgive the affront in exchange for a place where he was wanted. He let the individual pull him into a seat.

“You look like shit, sir.”

The Arbiter struggled to recognize the garish lavendar-and-white armour, which didn’t look like the ceremonial colours of any unit he’d ever encountered. He also didn’t recognize the shield insignia painted on the armour’s shoulders. Come to think of it, the armour itself looked like a mishmash of different kinds of chestplates, shoulder plates and the regulation combat headdress, as though the owner had run amok in Stores and sampled a little bit of everything…

“Storamee?” he asked. By the Rings, was that voice female? Between her warrior’s armour and her scarred neck and the fact that she was built like a Wraith, it was easy to mistake her for a male. He supposed there was no mistaking that outrageous armour though—now that he thought of it, she had always worn pale purple.

“You like it?” she asked, chuckling a laugh that sounded like claws against steel. “I thought I might trade the headdress for one of those fancy High Council helmets.”

The Arbiter shook his head in a combination of astonishment and admiration. “You’d best take care that the new Supreme Commander will be as tolerant of your…eccentricities…as I was.”

“You said it best yourself, the fleet wouldn’t run nearly so smoothly without me. He’s seen reason.”

“You convinced him?”

“I let him put me on general duties for a week. I got my old job back this morning.” She snorted smugly and took a long slurp out of whatever was in her pouch. “And you wouldn’t believe what a mess they made of my stores in only eight days. Anyway, figured I deserved a perk so I built myself some new armour. Like the paint?”

The Arbiter could only shake his head.

Across the room, a young male made a hesitant approach towards them. Fil Storamee noticed him and turned her head to the Arbiter. “You fancy this one? Because if not, I’m going to bite him.”

The Arbiter guessed she’d been shooting down offers all night from new arrivals who didn’t know better. He wondered why she was in the bar at all instead of hiding in her storerooms. Maybe she liked the excuse to fight. He wouldn’t put it past her.


If it turned out the young Elite was coming for him, not her, would he…?

He sighed. He was lonely beyond words, but his thoughts had been swallowed up by despair. He was simply not in the mood. He shook his head.

One snap of the mandibles later, the young Elite was beating a hasty retreat and Stormaee was muttering something about ‘Vadumee’s boys being exceptionally fast and how she’d definitely chew a piece out of the little whelp next time.

The Arbiter seized on the name. “Have you seen ‘Vadumee? Recently?”

Fil shook her head. “No. And you won’t find him down here. But I know exactly where he is.”

The Arbiter gazed at her, and she elaborated.

“You used to be Supreme Commander and I know what kind of soldier you were. That’s why I’m telling you this. ‘Vadumee has been going off the rails ever since Infinite Succor.”

“Off the rails?” the Arbiter inquired.

“Oh, not professionally…he’s the epitome of professionalism in public. Privately. I never see him down here any more.” She twirled the straw in her pouch. “He spends all his spare time locked up in his quarters, messed up about Kusovai.”

The Arbiter didn’t bother to ask how she knew that; Storamee seemed to have a line on everything that went on in the fleet. The name she’d said was somehow familiar. Kusovai. Where had he heard that name before?

“Kusovai,” he mused.

“‘Vadumee’s Subcommander. You know, the one that could beat me with a sword?”

That was saying a lot, coming from Fil. Yes, now he remembered. Kusovai had been an exemplary swordsman.

“He died on the Infinite Succor, didn’t he?”

“You know how he died, right?”

“No. I heard only that he did not make it back.”

Fil shook her head. “He got infected by the Parasite. ‘Vadumee had to fight him in a duel to the death—that’s how Rtas got his mandibles chopped off.”

The Arbiter nodded, understanding how being forced to kill a trusted subordinate, and receiving a permanent physical reminder of the incident, would hurt, but Fil was still speaking.

“...and I can’t even imagine how it would feel to put a sword through your bondmate’s heart. You know?”

Understanding struck like lighting.

That was why he’d never pursued ‘Vadumee farther. ‘Vadumee had had a bondmate: Kusovai.

It certainly put ‘Vadumee’s obvious hatred and fear of the Flood into perspective. But he knowledge that ‘Vadumee was newly single was rendered irrelevant by the fact that Rtas was clearly in mourning for his partner and his horrible and untimely death at ‘Vadumee’s own hand.

The Arbiter looked down at the sword hilt in his hand.

So close, and yet so far.

Fil Storamee was watching him with a gaze that was far too perceptive. The female was truly frightening sometimes.

“I don’t want Rtas falling apart,” she said abruptly, as she pulled out a data pad and began typing something into it. “He and I have an…understanding.”

“An understanding?” the Arbiter said slowly, again feeling a pang of jealousy.

“He stays out of my face,” she elaborated, as she handed him the pad. “I like people who stay out of my face. It’s why I also like you.”

The datapad contained a series of coordinates—directions. The Arbiter looked at her questioningly.

“I’m guessing ‘Vadumee would like his sword back.” The Chief Quartermaster nodded to the hilt in his hands. It figured that she’d be able to recognize it on sight. Then her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare hurt him.”

The Arbiter pretended to not know what she was talking about. “Why would I do that? We need his combat skills on the battlefield more than ever.”

“Not what I meant, wise ass. And I’m serious.” She stared at him with an expression that clearly said cut the bullshit. “I’ve heard the stories about you. So if you’re going over to his place to be his friend, you’d better treat him like a friend, not like entertainment. Are we clear? Even before…” She stumbled on her words, not able to speak the name. “‘Vadumee has never been interested in flavour of the week or even flavor of the year. Do you understand what I’m saying? Go the distance or punch out now, flyboy.”

The Arbiter mumbled something noncommittal and stormed away from the now cranky Chief Quartermaster, who was yelling something at his back. He couldn’t be bothered listening to her any longer.

First ‘Vadumee, then Storamee, telling him what the score was. He didn’t like it. Supreme Commanders did not take orders. Ex-Supreme Commanders did not take orders well.

Rtas ‘Vadumee had doubtlessly heard the same rumours everyone else heard about the Arbiter’s sex life. He knew what he was getting into. And, the Arbiter thought, if ‘Vadumee slammed the door in his face, he could take a hint. If he didn’t, though…that was ‘Vadumee’s own choice, and as with any action, consequences happened. The consequences of ‘Vadumee’s decisions were not the Arbiter’s responsibility, no matter what Fil Storamee thought.

*

The coordinates Storamee had given him led the Arbiter directly to a door sporting a nameplate reading:

RTAS ‘VADUMEE
SPEC OPS COMMANDER

She might have all the charm of a Jackal, but the Arbiter suspected the Chief Quartermaster actually worried about ‘Vadumee.

And it was contagious.

The Arbiter knocked on the door. Silence. He knocked again, and then he heard ‘Vadumee’s voice from within. “A moment.” It was a very long moment before the SpecOps commander opened the door.

He looked neat and trim and wholly in control, wearing his white armour—full battle dress, in his private quarters?—and presenting such a fine figure that the Arbiter’s pulse reacted instinctively. The Arbiter kept his head by reminding himself that ‘Vadumee had needed time to make himself presentable. He could only guess what ‘Vadumee might have looked like before he opened the door.

But he could make an educated guess. He took a glance past ‘Vadumee. The sheets on his bunk were twisted and he had a row of pillows in the middle of the bed, lying in a manner which might approximate the feel of another individual in the bunk.

Mourning Kusovai.

The Arbiter felt a sudden flash of envy for the dead Subcommander, who if nothing else, had enjoyed ‘Vadumee’s company while he’d been alive. The Arbiter would also be dead sooner or later, probably sooner, and he might never get that chance.

Might? Would never get that chance…

“Arbiter,” ‘Vadumee said, his tone and expression once again guarded.

“Good evening, Rtas. I’ve come to return your sword,” the Arbiter said, holding out the hilt.

He was hoping ‘Vadumee might invite him in, but the other Elite simply accepted the sword hilt and remained standing in his doorway. A tantilizing smell drifted out.

The Arbiter’s gaze darted behind ‘Vadumee to the bowl on his desk. It was piled high with shredded meat.

Of course. The Arbiter was surprised he hadn’t thought of it sooner.

Elites ate by using their upper pair of mandibles to grip their prey (these days, aboard ship, usually a large hunk of meat) while their lower mandibles flayed the flesh from the bone. When they inhaled, the rush of air sucked the shredded meat down into their gullets.

But ‘Vadumee had only two mandibles now. He could not grip his meat. Instead he had to have it pre-shredded so that he could eat.

The Arbiter no longer blamed him for avoiding the mess hall. Having battle scars was one thing, but being an invalid in a warrior society was not something one would want to advertise while he still held high rank and a battle commission.

The Arbiter forced his attention back to ‘Vadumee. “I…wanted to tell you how much I appreciated the use of it.”

‘Vadumee managed a partial smile—partial in that even the intact side of his mouth only made it partway. “You’re a credit to that armour, Arbiter. I would have you alive as long as possible.”

“I am in your debt,” he said quietly. “Rest assured that I will make my gratitude clear.”

‘Vadumee’s expression lapsed right back into suspicion. The Arbiter could see his defensiveness clearly now. Storamee was right—’Vadumee was hurting, hurting badly, and he didn’t want anyone to know—not the Brutes, who would mock him for it, not his warriors, who would be confused and upset by it, not his superiors who would punish him for showing weakness. “I know your reputation well,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Do not for one moment consider me the next on your list of conquests.”

This time, though, the Arbiter was not dejected. He had not become Supreme Commander by being easily deterred. “I am aware of other ways to say thank you,” he said coolly, and watched ‘Vadumee look discomfited.

Victory.

“Until tomorrow,” he said, and before ‘Vadumee had any chance to argue, he took his leave.

*

Upon returning to his quarters, the Arbiter found a small parcel hanging from his door handle and a sticker on it indicating it had been sent up from Stores.

Fil Storamee, at it again. He took the item into his room, closed and locked the door, then opened the parcel. He wondered if she was pissed off at him. If she was, the box would probably explode when he opened the lid.

Then the Arbiter threw back his head and laughed.

It was a meat shredder.

The Chief Quartermaster, with that uncanny foresight of hers, had read him perfectly.