Halo: Contact Harvest (23 page)

“Deacon!” Tartarus’ voice echoed into the bay. “The Chieftain needs you on the bridge!”

<
Promise! >
Dadab signed with shaking hands. <
You will take it apart!
>

Lighter Than Some
swung its snout to face the plow. It tapped a tentacle against one of the machine’s sharpened tines, as if considering the quality of its work. <
Well, I did rush the assembly. And one machine hardly makes up for the life I took. >

“Deacon! The Chieftain
insists
!”

<
Fix!
> Dadab signed as he backpedaled through the curtain and out the bay.

“When will the dropship be ready to fly?” Tartarus asked, heading back to the shaft.

“The Huragok has hit a
minor
snag.” Dadab was glad the Jiralhanae had taken the lead—had his back to him. Otherwise he would have known Dadab was lying just by looking at his darting eyes. “But I know it will make things right just as quickly as it can!”

Rapid Conversion
’s bridge was located halfway up the shaft, toward the prow, as far from the outer hull as possible—a placement that made it invulnerable to all but the most devastating attack. As Dadab scampered inside, close on Tartarus’ heels, he noted the bridge was (while not as roomy as the Jiralhanae’s feasting hall) large enough to accommodate the entire pack. All were present, most hunched over workstations protruding from the bridge’s reinforced walls. These were filled with holographic switches that flickered against the Jiralhanae’s blue armor. Like Tartarus, they were girded for a fight.

Maccabeus stood before the bridge’s central holo-tank, his paws knuckled against its smooth metal railing. The Chieftain’s armor was colored gold, but made of a much stronger alloy. Vorenus and another Jiralhanae named Licinus flanked him, and their jutting shoulder plates kept Dadab from seeing whatever the tank had on display.

Dadab bowed, touching his knuckles to the bridge’s grooved metal floor. It vibrated in time with the cruiser’s jump-drive, idling many bridge lengths to stern. Ever mindful of the Vice Minister of Tranquility’s desire for caution, Maccabeus had kept the drive hot in case they needed to beat a hasty retreat from the alien system.

“Come forward, Deacon,” Maccabeus said, catching a faint whiff of methane.

Dadab righted himself and followed Tartarus to the tank.

“Make room,” Tartarus growled. “Step
aside,
Vorenus!” Tartarus gave the taller, tan-haired Jiralhanae a cuff.

“Pardon me.” Dadab gulped. “Excuse me.” His conical tank made sidestepping impractical, and as he pushed past Vorenus toward the railing, his tank clanged against the Jiralhanae’s armored thigh. To Dadab’s relief, Vorenus was so transfixed he didn’t seem to notice.

“Incredible, isn’t it,” Maccabeus said.

“Yes. Incredible,” Dadab said, peering into the tank below its railing.

“Such
enthusiasm,
Deacon.”

“My apologies, Chieftain. It’s just that I’ve seen it before. Aboard the Kig-Yar ship.”

“Ah. Of course.” Maccabeus adopted an ironic tone. “After all, this is only—-what?” He nodded toward the glowing representation of the alien world—its surface covered with insistent, Reclamation glyphs. “A few hundred
thousand
Luminations?”

The truth was Dadab was still preoccupied with the Huragok’s disobedience. And to make matters worse, the bridge was thick with the Jiralhanae’s powerful scents. The excited odors had permeated his mask’s membranes, and Dadab was starting to feel a little sick.

“The numbers are impressive.” Dadab choked back a bitter surge.

“Impressive? Unprecedented!” Maccabeus boomed. Then, his voice a low growl: “Very well. Tell me what you think of
this.”
He jabbed a knuckle into a holo-switch imbedded in the railing, and the image of the alien planet faded—shrunk to a much smaller size as the holo-tank’s perspective shifted to a wider view of the system. Dadab saw an iconic image of the cruiser just outside the planet’s orbital path, and a safe distance from that, a flashing red triangle indicating a potentially hostile contact.

“It was waiting for us,” the Chieftain growled. “Near the remains of the Kig-Yar ship.” He pressed another switch, and the holo-tank zoomed in on the contact, bringing it into focus.

“The design matches the ships the Kig-Yar raided,” Dadab explained. “A cargo freighter. Nothing more.”

“Look closer,” Maccabeus rumbled.

Slowly, the vessel’s representation began to turn.
Rapid Conversion
’s sensors had made a detailed scan, and Dadab could see the freighter’s blackened hull had been deeply etched, creating patterns in the bright metal beneath.
No, not patterns,
he thought.
Pictures.

Each of the vessel’s four lateral sides displayed a different, stylized image of the aliens and the Kig-Yar. In the first picture, one of each creature aimed weapons at each other (the alien held some sort of rifle, the Kig-Yar a plasma pistol). In the second, the alien had dropped his rifle and held out a handful of round objects that looked like fruit. In the third image, the Kig-Yar had cast aside its weapon to accept the alien’s offering. And in the fourth, both creatures sat in what appeared to be an orchard. The alien held a basket of fruit, and the Kig-Yar was calmly making its selection.

“A peace offering!” Dadab said excitedly. “They do not wish to fight!” As the hologram of the vessel continued to spin, the Deacon pointed a finger at an outline of the alien planet etched into the lower-right corner of each side of the hull. Two crossed lines marked a point in the middle of the world’s singular land-mass, a little below the equator. “And I believe this is where they would like to meet!”

“Apparently at dawn,” Maccabeus said, increasing the tank’s magnification.

Now Dadab could see that the etchings of the planet were shaded with a terminator line—a shadow that marked the world’s passage in and out of night. Cutting perpendicularly across the equator, the line moved around the planet with each successive picture until it intersected the suggested meeting point on the side of the freighter that displayed the presentation of the fruit basket.

The Chieftain refocused the tank on the actual planet. “But there’s more.”

Now Dadab noticed new details. There was some sort of structure in high orbit above the world. Two delicate, silver arcs tethered to the surface by seven almost invisible golden strands. Around the structure were hundreds of additional red contact symbols. The Deacon hoped the aliens’ message was sincere. If these contacts were warships,
Rapid Conversion
was in serious trouble.

“Not to worry, Deacon,” Maccabeus said, sensing the Unggoy’s concern. “They haven’t moved since we arrived. And they look to be the same as the other vessel. Simple cargo tugs with no obvious weapons.” He gestured with a hairy finger. “But look here—where those cables meet the surface.”

Dadab followed the Chieftain’s finger. There was a mass of Reclamation glyphs clustered at the bottom of the cables. But close to these was another set of Forerunner symbols—a diamond of bright green glyphs hovering above the site of the aliens’ suggested rendezvous.

“We intercepted a signal,” Maccabeus continued. “And assumed it was a beacon—a marker for the parley.” He scowled at the green diamond. “But our Luminary made its own assessment. I’d like you to explain it.”

“It’s… hard to say, Chieftain.”

But Dadab was lying. He knew all too well that one of the symbols meant “intelligence,” another “association,” and a third “verboten.” And as for the fourth glyph, the one flashing from yellow to blue at the diamond’s tip… Dadab nervously cleared his throat. “If you had a library I might—”

“We do not.” Maccabeus’ eyes bored into Dadab’s. “One of many essentials the Sangheili saw fit to deny us. I’m afraid I must rely on
your
expert opinion.”

“Well then. Let me see…” Dadab calmly scrutinized the glyphs. But inside he shook with fear.
He knows! Knows all that I have done! And this is all just a trap to get my confession!

But then some small, still rational part of the Deacon’s brain suggested it was possible the Chieftain really didn’t have any idea what the glyphs meant, especially the one that was flashing so insistently. It was an arcane symbol only certain San’Shyuum priests and overachieving Unggoy seminarians would bother to remember. And if Dadab hadn’t been so frightened, he would have been awed as he announced:

“Of course! How could I be so stupid? These Luminations suggest an
Oracle
!”

Maccabeus drew back from the railing. Tartarus’ and Vorenus’ pheromones flared. The other Jiralhanae took their eyes off their workstations and stole furtive glances at the holo-tank. But no one spoke, and for a long time the bridge was filled with reverent silence.

“Can it be so?” Maccabeus said at last, his voice a throaty whisper. “A reliquary
and
an Oracle?”

“Who else would the Gods leave to safeguard such a splendid trove?” Dadab replied.

“A wise observation, Deacon.” Maccabeus lifted a silver-haired paw and placed it on Dadab’s head.

With a flinch of his fingers the Jiralhanae could have crushed the Unggoy’s skull. But Dadab hoped the gesture was simply a sign of the Chieftain’s growing appreciation for his assistance as minister to the cruiser’s Unggoy and translator for its invaluable Huragok. In that moment all Dadab’s fears began to fade.

“Brothers!” Maccabeus shouted, turning to face his pack. “We are well and truly blessed!”

Stepping away from the tank, the Chieftain threw back his hairless head and howled. Instantly, the other Jiralhanae joined their voices to his cry, creating a booming chorus of joyous yelps that shook the bridge and reverberated down
Rapid Conversion
’s central shaft. But there was one member of the pack who did not take part.

“Are you sure,” Tartarus asked, squinting at the tethered arcs above the planet, “this isn’t a weapons platform? Kinetics won’t register on our scans. And it’s large enough for missiles.” The pack’s howl petered out. But Tartarus persisted, oblivious to the uncomfortable silence: “We should destroy it and all proximate contacts. Our point-lasers should be sufficient. No need to show them we have cannon.”

Failing to participate in the howl was a direct challenge to Maccabeus’ dominance. In his lifetime, the Chieftain had spilled blood for lesser offenses. But he was absolutely calm as he turned to face his nephew.

“Your suspicion well befits your post. But we now bear witness to
tangible
divinity.” Maccabeus gave Tartarus a moment to pull himself from the tank, look his Chieftain in the eye, and realize the extent of his insubordination—his perilous position. “If there is an Oracle on this world, nephew, shall we meet its call for peace with violence?”

“No, Uncle,” Tartarus replied. “No,
Chieftain.”

Maccabeus flared his nostrils. The younger Jiralhanae’s angry scent was fading, and his willful glands were now producing the unmistakable scent of submission. “Then let us keep our weapons stowed.” The Chieftain placed both paws on Tartarus’ shoulders and gave him a loving shake. “We shall give these aliens no reason to fear us. No cause to secret what we seek.”

With that, the Chieftain began another howl. This time Tartarus was quick to join in, and before Dadab knew it, he was whooping along with them, his thin lips puckered inside his mask.

The Deacon wasn’t so foolish to think he had somehow become a member of their pack. He would always be an outsider. But he was the cruiser’s Deacon, and this was cause for celebration. In spite of all his missteps, and in opposition to his fears, Dadab had finally found his calling—his ministry, and his flock.

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

HARVEST,
FEBRUARY 11, 2525

Avery had always preferred to operate before first light. Something about the inevitability of sunrise heightened his senses-made him more alert. Breathing in the cool air of a soon-to-be-hot-and-humid day, Avery wondered if the aliens shared his preference. Exhaling, he hoped they didn’t. Today was supposed to be a peaceful parley. But in case things went bad, Avery wanted every advantage he could get.

“You tired, Osmo?”

“No, Staff Sergeant.”

“You keep yawning like that, I’m gonna pull you off the line.”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

The militia was gathered in Harvest’s botanical gardens, the planet’s largest park after Utgard’s mall. Located about one hundred and fifty kilometers southeast of the capital city, the gardens were the most remote and yet still stately location Lt. Commander al-Cygni could find. If it were up to Avery, he’d have moved the meeting further away—not just from Utgard but from any population center. But Governor Thune had been willing to trade the small risk of civilian observation for the scenic grandeur he deemed necessary for humanity’s first formal meeting with alien beings.

And Avery had to admit: The gardens were plenty grand.

The park stepped down to the Bifrost in three landscaped tiers, the lowest of which was a broad lawn of close-cropped grass that grew right up to the precipice. Here the Bifrost bulged in an unusual promontory—a spur of windswept limestone that provided panoramic views of the plain of Ida. To the north of the promontory was a spectacular waterfall—the abrupt end of the Mimir River that started in the Vigrond highlands and cut just to the south of Utgard. The Mimir’s clear water tumbled down the escarpment to the murky, slow-moving Slidr: a river that followed the contours of the Bifrost and drained into Harvest’s southern sea.

Standing in the middle of the lowest tier, Avery couldn’t see the falls past a border of magnolia trees, but he could hear them: water crashing against rock, like an endless peal of thunder—reveille for a world not yet awakened to its peril.

Avery scanned the faces of 1st platoon’s alpha squad. The twelve recruits stood in two lines on opposite sides of a large “X” of landing lights. The bright bulbs were meant to serve as visual confirmation of the directions Mack’s JOTUN all-in-ones had etched into the freighter’s hull.

The recruits’ olive drab fatigues were freshly pressed and their boots were polished—not the sort of thing to do if they’d wanted to blend into the surrounding greenery. But Avery knew that was all part of al-Cygni’s plan: make the aliens feel welcome, but also let them see
exactly
what they were dealing with.

Osmo’s hand shot to his mouth, stifling another yawn. He and the other recruits had been up most of the night, helping Avery and Byrne hide surveillance gear in the trees: dozens of small cameras and even a few compact ARGUS units.

“That’s it, recruit. Step out.” Avery thrust a thumb toward the magnolias bordering the northern edge of the lawn. Hidden in the mossy rocks and ferns between the trees and the river was 1/A’s backup: Stisen and the rest of the 2/A recruits.

“But Staff Ser—”

“But
what
?”

Osmo’s thick cheeks flushed. “This recruit wants to stay with his squad.” Osmo tightened his grip on his MA5's shoulder strap, tugging the rifle against his back. “Wants to do his duty!”

Avery frowned. It had been less than forty-eight hours since the exercise at the reactor complex—since Captain Ponder had broken the news of the aliens’ arrival. He’d laid things out, plain and simple, right in the middle of the recruits’ victory dinner: Hostile aliens had found Harvest, and it was up to the militia to deal with the situation until help arrived. The garrison mess had gotten so quiet so quick, Avery thought the recruits were about to bolt—go AWOL right then and there.

But in the stunned silence that followed Ponder’s announcement, no one moved. Eventually, the Captain asked if the recruits had any questions. Stisen had been the first to raise his hand.

“We the only ones who know, sir?”

“Just about.”

“Can we tell our families?”

“Afraid not.”

“You want us to lie.” Stisen had glanced around the mess. “Like you’ve been lying to us.”

Ponder held out an arm to keep Byrne in his seat. “If we’d told you the truth—that we were expecting aliens not Innies, would it have made a difference?” The Captain caught as many suspicious eyes as he could. “Would you have refused to serve? Your families and your neighbors aren’t in any less danger. You’re the only protection they’ve got.” Then, nodding at his Staff Sergeants: “We’ve trained you. You’re ready.”

Dass was next to stand. “For what, sir? Exactly.”

Ponder motioned for Healy to kill the fluorescents and power on a wall-mounted video display. “I’ll tell you everything we know.”

The Lt. Commander had put together a good briefing, and the recruits were a rapt audience—especially during the footage from Avery’s helmet cam of his fight aboard the freighter. Byrne remained stoic as he rewatched one of the vacuum-suited aliens stab its pink blade deep into his thigh. So did Avery as he saw himself raise his M6 pistol to another alien’s chin, and blow its brains all over the inside of its helmet. As the footage showed him push toward the umbilical in hot pursuit of the retreating alien leader, Avery noticed the recruits glance in his direction and nod approvingly to one another.

Avery hadn’t ascribed any particular bravery to his actions. And in retrospect, he knew charging the alien ship had been extremely dangerous. Part of him wished al-Cygni had included all the footage—shown the methane explosion and Avery’s mad scramble away from the fireball—if only to prove to the recruits that sometimes caution was the better part of valor. But instead, the final frozen frame was that of the alien ship blowing to pieces as the Lt. Commander’s sloop moved away from the freighter—a victorious finish that set the recruits to excited muttering as Healy flipped on the lights.

It was only later, when the mess cleared and the Staff Sergeants and the Captain got down to planning how best to secure the gardens, that Avery realized why the recruits had been so upbeat: The presentation proved the aliens could be killed—showed that Harvest might be kept safe with a few well-placed bullets. And if the recruits had confidence in any of their training, they knew they could at least aim a rifle and shoot.

Unfortunately, some recruits were less confident than others. And as Osmo now broke out in a nervous shudder, Avery put a hand on the recruit’s shoulder and steered him toward the trees. “We need to make a good impression, understood?”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

Avery slapped Osmo on the backside, accelerating his retreat. “Alright then. Go on.”

As the disappointed recruit jogged north, Jenkins’ voice crackled in Avery’s earpiece. “Forsell’s got contacts on thermal. Ten o’clock high.”

Avery scanned the western sky. But he couldn’t see anything with naked eyes. “How many?”

“Two,” Jenkins replied. “Want us to mark them?”

On Avery’s orders, 1st platoon’s marksmen had taken up position in an ornate greenhouse on the gardens’ eastern edge—a white curvilinear building that would have been right at home in a nineteenth century European park. Granted, what would have been a cast-iron frame was now a titanium lattice and thousands of panes of glass, shatterproof plastic. But straddling the gardens’ uppermost tier, the greenhouse looked just as stately as those that inspired it.

“Negative,” Avery replied. “They’ll be here soon enough.”

The marksmen were hunkered on a balcony that ran around the greenhouse’s central elliptical dome and continued out along the roofs of its two wings, giving them an excellent view of the gardens and the sky above. Forsell’s spotting scope was equipped with a targeting laser that could paint the two contacts and generate range-finding data. But again, Lt. Commander al-Cygni had been very clear: As much as possible, the marines and their recruits should minimize behavior the aliens might regard as hostile. Tugging at his own rifle’s sling, Avery again wondered how much he and the aliens had in common—if they would show similar restraint.

“Company’s on the way, Captain,” Avery growled into his throat mic. “How’s our perimeter?”

“Charlie squads report all clear,” Ponder replied.

1/C and 2/C were deployed at the gardens’ main gate and its exit from the Utgard highway, respectively. The marines didn’t expect any traffic (it was a Tuesday, and the gardens were mainly a weekend destination), but all it would take was a single sedan of early-rising plant-lovers to ruin the meeting’s secrecy. Or worse, spread premature panic.

“And our welcome party?” the Captain asked.

Avery scanned the remaining 1/A recruits. “Good to go, sir.”

“Keep them calm, Johnson. Weapons safed and shouldered.”

“Roger that.”

For a few long seconds there was no chatter on the COM as all gathered in the gardens took a deep breath. Avery listened to the Mimir rush toward its plummet. The noise of the falls muted all but the most enthusiastic birds, just now beginning their morning calls deep inside the magnolias. Like the greenhouse’s exotic flora, the birds were imports—starlings and other hardy species brought to Harvest to help contain the planet’s essential insect population. Slowly, the birds’ cries were overwhelmed by a pulsing whine that grew in intensity until it bested even the Mimir’s mighty roar.

Avery squinted at the sky from beneath the brim of his duty cap. In the brightening, deep blue haze he saw two dark shadows following one behind the other, like sharks prowling the shallows of a storm-churned sea.

“Staff Sergeant…” Jenkins began.

“I see them.” Avery squared his cap on his forehead. “Squad! Stand to!”

As 1/A came to attention, a pair of alien ships emerged from the haze. Purple hullplate flashing, they dropped toward the Bifrost and then began a wide circle around the gardens.

The ships’ bifurcated designs made Avery think of two hauler trailers linked to a common cab, but traveling in reverse. Unlike most human aircraft, the dropships’ cabins were located in the ships’
sterns.
Avery could see a single, obvious weapon on each ship: a ball-turret with a single barrel suspended beneath the cabin. The ships had no engines or thrusters. But as the drop-ships completed their first circle and one of them decelerated above the promontory, Avery noticed the ship’s outline ripple and guessed they must rely on some sort of anti-gravity field for lift and propulsion.

“Step back!” Avery shouted as the ship dove toward the lawn. “She’s gonna need more room!”

The recruits backpedaled with more speed than decorum, and the dropship glided to a stop directly above the lighted X. The bulbs flickered and died and the grass flattened under the press of the invisible field. Skin tingling, Avery watched as water condensed against the field, defining its ovoid shape, only to fall in a single sheet of rain as the field collapsed. The ship’s curvaceous cabin settled onto the turf, but its two compartments remained hovering parallel to the ground.

“Form up!” Avery growled, and the 1/A recruits moved back into position: two lines on either side of the dropship. Presently, one of the compartments swung open along its bottom edge. The interior of the ship was dim, and it took Avery a moment to distinguish the three aliens from their surroundings.

Partly this was because the creatures’ armor shone with the same dull glow as the metal bands that held them secure and upright. But also because these aliens were nothing like the ones Avery had fought aboard the freighter. The latter reminded Avery of upright reptiles; the ones now shaking free of their harnesses looked like the improbable offspring of a gorilla and a grizzly bear; hirsute giants with shoulders as wide as an average human was tall and fists that could easily encompass Avery’s head.

“Sir?” Despite the moisture in the air, Avery felt his mouth go dry. “This isn’t what we expected.”

“Explain,” Ponder replied.

“They’re bigger. Armored.”

“Weapons?”

Avery noted sharp spurs jutting from metal plates girding the aliens’ chests, shoulders, and thighs. These would be deadly in a close-up fight. But each alien also had a stout, short-barreled weapon clipped to its belt. At first Avery thought they carried knives as well, but then he realized the half-moon blades were affixed to the weapons like bayonets; pointed for stabbing and curved for slashing. The alien Avery decided was the leader—the one with golden armor and helmet with a V-shaped crest that swept back from its head like two jagged saw-blades—carried an additional item: a long-handled hammer with a stone head that must have weighed at least as much as Byrne.

“Heavy pistols,” Avery replied. “And a hammer.”

“Say again?”

“A giant hammer, sir. On their leader.”

Ponder let that sink in a moment, then: “Anything else?”