Halo: Contact Harvest (19 page)

Heavy footfalls announced the arrival of something massive outside the pod. “By the Prophets,” a voice thundered. “Are you mad?!”

“I had no choice!” Dadab retorted.

The hatch rattled, shaking the entire pod. “Come out this instant!” the voice thundered. Dadab recognized it as the same one that had delivered the initial hail. He knew it wasn’t Kig-Yar or Unggoy or Sangheili—and certainly not San’Shyuum. That left only one possibility…

“I will not.” Dadab’s voice quavered as he thought of whose pride he might be offending. “My Huragok has lost its balance. I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to wait.”

If Maccabeus had been on the cruiser’s bridge, he would have immediately learned of the accident in the hangar. But here, inside
Rapid Conversion
’s feasting hall, the Jiralhanae Chieftain had forbidden all communication. Maccabeus’ pack was about to feed, and that could bear no interruption.

Given that the Jiralhanae chose their leaders first and foremost for their physical prowess, it was no surprise that Maccabeus was master of the cruiser. Standing on his two trunk-like legs, the Chieftain was an absolute giant—a head taller than any Sangheili, and much more massive. Thick cords of muscle rippled beneath his elephantine skin. Tufts of silver hair sprang from the arm and head-holes of his leather tabard. He was bald, but his wide jaw bristled with a terrific set of mutton chops.

For all his ferocious brawn, the Chieftain showed uncanny poise. Feet planted in a deep lunge, he stood in the center of the feasting hall with both arms stretched out behind him—a pose that suggested he was about to perform an imminent and powerful leap. But a single line of sweat dripping from the tip of his broad nose made it clear Maccabeus had held this precarious position for quite some time. And yet, he barely moved a muscle.

The eight other males that made up the Chieftain’s pack weren’t nearly so relaxed. Arranged in a semicircle behind Maccabeus, they all held the same pose. But their tan and brown pelts were
drenched
in sweat. They had all begun to shake, and a few were in such obvious discomfort they had begun to shift their feet on the hall’s slate floor.

To be fair, the pack was desperately tired and hungry. Maccabeus had them at their stations well ahead of the
Rapid Conversion
’s return to normal space. And although a battery of scans had found nothing but the Kig-Yar escape pod, the Chieftain had kept them on high alert until he was confident the cruiser was otherwise alone.

Such caution was unusual for a Jiralhanae. But the Chieftain’s authority over his pack relied on rigid rules of dominance. And likewise he was sworn to follow orders from his own alpha male, the Vice Minister of Tranquility, who had insisted Maccabeus proceed with all possible restraint.

When the Jiralhanae were discovered by the Covenant, they had recently concluded a mechanized war of attrition in which the various master-packs had pummeled each other back to a pre-industrial state. The Jiralhanae were only just recovering—re-discovering radio and rocketry and these technologies’ war-fighting potential—when the first San’Shyuum missionaries alighted on their hardscrabble planet.

Heavy double doors swung open across the hall from Maccabeus. Like the interlocking beams that supported the room’s ceiling, the doors were forged steel, streaked with imperfections from rushed annealing. The metal was an unusual material for a Covenant vessel, even one as old as
Rapid Conversion.
But of all the modifications Maccabeus had made to his ship, he had taken the most pains with the feasting hall. He’d wanted it to feel authentic, right down to the oil-burning lamps in their claw-foot floor stands. Their crackling wicks lit the room a variable amber hue.

Six Unggoy stewards staggered through the door, carrying a large wooden platter. The platter was twice as wide as any of the stewards was tall, and its slight concavity offered just enough support for its slippery load: the glistening carcass of a roasted Thorn Beast. The docile herd animal was served back up and legs splayed, and even though the cruiser’s Unggoy cooks had dutifully removed its head and neck (both of which had high concentrations of neurotoxins), there was still barely room on the platter for a selection of dipping sauces; fatty reductions of the creature’s savory entrails.

The heady aroma of the Thorn Beast’s perfectly roasted meat set the Jiralhanae’s stomachs growling. But all continued to hold their poses as the stewards muscled the platter onto two grease-stained wooden sawhorses in the middle of the floor’s stone mosaic. The Unggoy bowed to Maccabeus and backed through the doors, shutting them as quietly as their poorly oiled hinges allowed.

“This is how we keep our faith,” Maccabeus’ voice rumbled in his chest. “How we honor Those Who Walked the Path.”

In a fleet dominated by Sangheili, it was rare for a Jiralhanae to have his own ship. For that reason alone, Maccabeus had his pack’s respect. But they
honored
their Chieftain for a different reason: his unshakable faith in the promise of the Forerunners and their Great Journey.

At last, Maccabeus swung his arms and shifted his weight forward. He stepped slowly toward the mosaic: a circular mandala, the boundary of which was dominated by seven multicolored rings, each comprised of a different mineral. At the center of each ring was a simplified version of a Forerunner glyph, the sort of basic designs one might expect to see in a primer on more advanced religious concepts.

The Chieftain stepped into a ring of obsidian shards. “Abandonment,” he boomed.

“The First Age!” the pack snapped, their teeth wet with saliva. “Ignorance and fear!”

Maccabeus moved clockwise to a second ring of iron. “Conflict,” he said sternly.

“The Second Age! Rivalry and bloodshed!”

Maccabeus had picked his pack—assessed each member as it grew from whelp to adult—based on the strength of their convictions. For him it was belief that made the warrior, not strength or speed or cunning (though his pack had all this and more), and at times like these he was most satisfied with his selections.

“Reconciliation,” Maccabeus growled, inside a ring of polished jade.

“The Third! Humility and brotherhood!”

Despite their growing hunger, the pack would not think of interrupting their Chieftain as he performed the Progression of the Ages, blessed their meat, and gave thanks for the safe conclusion of their jump. Less disciplined Jiralhanae would have quickly lost patience and torn willy-nilly into the delectable beast.

“Discovery,” the Chieftain rumbled, stopping in a ring of geodes. The halved stones stuck to his feet like tiny, open mouths.

“Fourth!” replied the pack. “Wonder and understanding!”

“Conversion.”

“Fifth! Obedience and freedom!”

“Doubt.”

“Sixth! Faith and patience!”

At last, Maccabeus reached the final ring—bright flakes of Forerunner alloy generously donated by the San’Shyuum. For those of faith, the sparkling wafers from some unknown godly structure were
Rapid Conversion
’s most precious tonnage. Maccabeus took care not to touch them as he stepped into the ring.

“Reclamation,” he concluded, his voice full of reverence.

“Seventh! Journey and salvation!” The pack thundered, louder than they had before.

Seven rings for seven ages,
the Chieftain mused.
To help us remember Halo and its divine light.
Like all devout Covenant, Maccabeus believed the Prophets would someday discover the sacred rings and use them to begin the Great Journey—escape this doomed existence as the Forerunners had before.

But in the meantime, his pack would eat.

“Praise be to the Holy Prophets,” he intoned. “May we help keep them safe as they work to find The Path!”

His pack dropped their arms and settled back upon their heels. By now their tabards were soaked with bitter-smelling sweat. One Jiralhanae rolled his shoulders; another scratched a demanding itch—but all waited without complaint for their Chieftain to take his pick of meat. The Thorn Beast’s ample thighs, hulking ribs, or even its stunted forelegs were all popular first choices. But Maccabeus had an unusual, favorite morsel: the smallest of the five thorns that ridged the creature’s high-arched back.

Properly cooked (and as the Chieftain worked the thorn back and forth in its socket, he could tell it was), the appendage would pop away from the base of the beast’s neck, bringing its muscle-bed with it; a tender ball of meat on a crisp and oily cone—an appetizer and dessert. But as the Chieftain brought the meatball eagerly to his lips, he felt a rattle on his belt. Transferring the thorn to his off hand, Maccabeus activated his signal unit.

“Speak,” he barked, keeping his anger in check.

“The castaways are aboard,” growled
Rapid Conversion
’s security officer, Maccabeus’ second-in-command.

“Do they have relics in their possession?”

“I cannot tell.”

Maccabeus dipped the thorn into a bowl of sauce at the edge of the platter. “Did you search them?”

“They refuse to leave their pod.”

Standing so close to the Thorn Beast, Maccabeus’ nostrils were permeated with its scent. His appetite was piqued, but he wanted to savor his first bite without distraction. “Then perhaps you should
remove
them.”

“The situation is complex.” The security officer’s tone was both apologetic and excited. “I think, Chieftain, you may wish to assess it for yourself.”

If it were any other Jiralhanae, Maccabeus would have given him a roaring reprimand and begun his feast. But the officer was the Chieftain’s nephew, and while blood ties offered no immunity from discipline (the Chieftain held all his pack to the same high standards of obedience), Maccabeus knew that if his nephew said the situation in the hangar needed his attention, it did. He pulled his thorn from the dipping bowl, and took as big a bite as he could manage. A third of the meat disappeared into his mouth. The Chieftain didn’t bother to chew, just let the marbled flesh slide slowly down his gullet, then wedged the thorn back onto the platter.

“Begin,” he barked, striding through his ravenous pack. “But take care you leave my share.”

Maccabeus tore off his tabard and tossed it to an Unggoy steward standing beside a second set of steel doors opposite the kitchen. The passage beyond shared none of the feasting hall’s traditional craftsmanship. Like those in most every other Covenant vessel, it was all smooth surfaces bathed in soft artificial light. The only difference was there were more obvious imperfections: some of the light-emitting ceiling strips were burned out; holographic door locks flickered; near the end of the passage, coolant dripped from an overhead duct that had gone untended for so long that the greenish liquid had run down the wall and slicked across the floor.

Then Maccabeus reached the gravity lift. It was out of service, but more to the point, it had
never
been in service—not since he had taken possession of the ship. The lift’s circular shaft ran vertically through all of
Rapid Conversion
’s decks, but the circuits that controlled its anti-gravity generators had been removed by the Sangheili, as had circuits for the cruiser’s plasma cannon and a host of other advanced systems.

The reason for this wholesale stripping of technology was simple: the Sangheili did not trust the Jiralhanae.

As part of the species’ confirmation process, some of the Sangheili Commanders had declared their strong suspicion before the High Council that the Jiralhanae’s pack mentality would invariably bring the two species into conflict. Dominant Jiralhanae always fought their way to the top, the Commanders argued, and they didn’t believe even the Covenant’s rigid hierarchy would be sufficient to moderate their natural urges. Until they proved themselves subservient, whatever peaceful urges they had should be “aggressively encouraged.” It was a reasonable argument, and the High Council imposed clear restrictions on the kinds of technology the Jiralhanae could use.

And so,
Maccabeus thought,
did we set aside out of pride for a higher purpose.
Instead of pressing a holo-switch to call an elevator (one of the allowable replacements for the grav-lift), the Chieftain simply turned around and slipped down onto a ladder—one of four evenly spaced around the shaft.

Like the feasting hall’s doors and beams, the ladders’ construction was relatively crude. Although the ladders’ rungs were worn smooth from frequent use, there were burrs along the rails that indicated a hasty fabrication. There were gaps in the ladders at every deck, but crossing these involved a simple drop or leap, depending on the direction of travel. For the muscular Jiralhanae this wasn’t so much an inconvenience as exercise.

Maccabeus knew the tank-encumbered Unggoy currently huffing and puffing up the ladders might disagree on this last point. But the shorter creatures were also extremely agile, and as the Chieftain began his descent to the hangar, an Unggoy leapt to another ladder and let him pass. This sort of flexibility made the ladders more practical than an elevator, which would have limited travel to everyone up or everyone down. But Maccabeus knew the ladders had one more advantage: they tended to keep you humble.