Halo: Contact Harvest (22 page)

Avery heard a grenade go off. The noise was much more muffled than the claymores he and Byrne had affixed to the sedan’s doors before letting Mack bring the vehicle to the complex gate. The AI had been more than happy to help them with their exercise—had actually been the one to suggest using the JOTUN combine as an additional distraction. Avery wasn’t quite sure why except that, like the marines and Lt. Commander al-Cygni, Mack must have known Harvest’s reactor would be a juicy target for any hostile force and was eager to let the militia practice its defense.

Avery didn’t fire through the fence. He knew the chain-link would shred his battle rifle’s TTR before they hit their targets. But the same would be true for the recruits’ shots as well, so it was with reasonable confidence of not getting shot that Avery sprinted over the hard-clay border between the wheat and the fence and leapt onto the chain-link.

Almost immediately, one of the 1/C recruits, Wick, heard the rattling metal and turned. His already frightened eyes widened to saucer-size as he saw what must have looked like Avery’s ghost jump down inside the compound, billowing white fungicide. Before Wick could recover, Avery unslung his battle rifle and pumped two rounds into the center of his chest.

The recruit’s scream carried above the din, causing three of his squad mates to turn. Avery dropped each one—left to right—before switching his rifle to burst fire and strafing the confused remains of 1/C. As the last recruit fell, the illuminated ammunition counter below the battle rifle’s scope displayed three rounds remaining. But just as Avery pulled a fresh magazine from his assault vest, he started taking fire from the east.

Squad 2/C had swung around the back of the reactor tower. If the recruits had run a little faster or remembered to settle into more stable stances before opening fire, they would have caught Avery in a very bad spot. But their opening shots were wild, and all they did was give Avery time to roll left, putting the curve of the tower in between him and unexpected fire. By the time the first of the 2/C recruits came charging around the bend, Avery had reloaded. He dropped two and forced the rest of the squad to pull back and bunker down—waste valuable seconds debating when and how they should attempt to flank Avery’s position.

“Charlie one is gone,” Avery growled into his throat mic. “I’m getting heat from bravo two.”

“I just blew your alpha boys to hell,” Byrne replied. He paused to snap off a few rounds. “But I’m still taking fire from up top.”

“Must be my marksmen.”

“How’s that?”

“Yours are dead.”

“Well, quiet ’em down, will you?”

“On it.”

Keeping his battle rifle pointing north in case 2/C got organized quicker than he thought, Avery walked backward to a service ladder that would take him to the first-story roof. He slung his weapon for the climb and worked the rungs as quickly as he could. As his head cleared the roofline, Avery saw movement to his right. He jerked his head down just in time to avoid a burst from Forsell’s MA5.

Without hesitating, Avery unholstered his M6 sidearm, and sprang up one-handed just as Forsell pulled his finger off the trigger. As Avery rose, so did his shots; one TTR blossomed in the middle of Forsell’s gut, two more traveled up his sternum. As Forsell staggered back, Avery stepped onto the roof. Supporting his M6 with both hands, Avery kept the heavy pistol’s iron sights trained on Forsell’s helmet as he crumpled. The recruit was big, and Avery wanted to make sure the pistol’s smaller caliber rounds were sufficient to knock him out.

Satisfied that Forsell was down for the count, Avery moved toward the ladder that would take him to the top of the second story. But he’d only taken a few steps when he felt three sharp pains in the back of his right thigh. Fueled by adrenaline, Avery spun around his rapidly deadening leg and returned fire on a target he only recognized as Jenkins after his rounds were on their way.

As Jenkins jerked back around the curve of the second-story wall, Avery guessed correctly that the recruits had jumped down on opposite sides of the tower and waited for him to ascend.
Not a bad plan.
Avery grimaced as he hobbled against the wall. Rather than stay locked in a failing defensive position, the marksmen had staged their own ambush. Whether or not they succeeded, Avery admired their initiative. He jerked his M6 up and down, disengaging its half-spent magazine. Then he reloaded and thrust the pistol straight out from his body along the wall.

But just as Jenkins stepped into view and Avery’s finger tensed on the trigger, Captain Ponder’s voice boomed over the COM: “Cease fire! Cease fire!” For a moment the Staff Sergeant and his recruit remained frozen, each holding the other dead to rights.

“I got him?” Osmo sounded shocked. Then, warming to his unexpected success: “I
got
him!”

“Staff Sergeant Byrne, you have been hit.” Ponder confirmed. “Final score: thirty-four to one. Congratulations, recruits!”

A chorus of weary cheers flooded the COM.

“Spatter off the tire,” Byrne growled over the Staff Sergeant’s private channel. “Bloody TTR…” Then, over the open COM: “Healy? Bring me that damn baton!”

Avery lowered his pistol and relaxed against the wall. Epsilon Indi was dropping toward the gentle curve of the horizon. The tower’s lackluster tan polycrete took on a warm, yellow glow even as it shed its accumulated heat.

Jenkins grinned. “Almost had us, Staff Sergeant.”

“Almost.” Avery smiled—and not just to be polite. Other than basic maneuvers around the garrison, this had been the recruits’ first live-fire exercise. They’d had no idea what the Staff Sergeants were going to throw at them, and Jenkins’ and Forsell’s performance gave Avery hope that, with enough time, his recruits just might make decent soldiers.

“Staff Sergeant?” Ponder’s voice crackled in Avery’s earpiece. His congratulatory tone was gone. “Just got word from our local DCS representative.” Avery read between the lines:
Lt. Commander al-Cygni.
His spine stiffened to match his leg. “The delegates we were expecting?” Ponder continued. “They’re here. And they brought a
much
bigger ship.”

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

RAPID CONVERSION,

RELIQUARY SYSTEM

Dadab raised his knobby arms above his head and grunted enthusiastically. “The Age of Reclamation!” Out of the corner of his eye he could see
Rapid Conversion
’s security officer, Tartarus, keeping watch near one of the feasting hall’s sputtering oil lamps. Not wanting to risk offense, Dadab made sure his feet stayed clear of the shards of Forerunner alloy that formed the final ring in the hall’s mosaic.

“Salvation
and
…” he prompted.

The roughly twenty Unggoy gathered around the mosaic stared at Dadab with dull eyes.

Tartarus crossed his arms and loosed an impatient huff.

“…the Journey!” Dadab said, flourishing his stubby fingers. Despite his mask, his voice still echoed grandly around the hall. “These are the Ages of our Covenant—the cycle we must complete again and again as we strive to follow Those Who Walked the Path!”

A broad-shouldered Unggoy, Bapap, stepped forward. “This path. Where does it go?”

“To salvation,” Dadab replied.

“And where is that?”

The Unggoy swung their heads from Bapap to Dadab. The Deacon shifted in his harness as he struggled for an answer. “Well…” he began, then trailed off. It took him a moment to recall what he needed—a word he had heard in seminary, used by one of his San’Shyuum teachers in response to a similarly thorny question. During the pause, an Unggoy named Yull idly scratched his hindquarters with a finger and offered it to another Unggoy to smell.

“I’m afraid,” Dadab said with as much gravitas as he could muster, “the answer is
ontological
.” He had only a vague idea what the word meant. But he liked the way it sounded, and evidently so did the other Unggoy because they all grumbled happily into their masks as if it was exactly the answer they’d expected.

Bapap seemed especially pleased. “On-to-logi-cal,” he muttered to himself.

Tartarus’ signal unit emitted a short, sharp tone. “Our jump is almost complete,” the security officer said. “To your posts!”

“Remember,” Dadab called after the Unggoy as they trotted for the exit, “The Path is long but wide. There’s room for all of you, so long as you believe!”

Tartarus snorted. The Jiralhanae was dressed in bright red armor that covered his thighs and chest and shoulders. Maccabeus had wanted his pack ready for a fight, just in case the aliens were waiting for them near the wreckage of the Kig-Yar ship.

“You think I waste my time.” Dadab nodded toward the last of his retreating study group.

“All creatures deserve instruction.” The Jiralhanae’s black hair bristled. “But the Sangheili did not provide us with the most
competent
of crews.”

Dadab didn’t like to think ill of others of his kind, but he knew that this was true.
Rapid Conversion
’s sixty Unggoy were exceptionally dim—uneducated and shiftless. With a few exceptions (Bapap, for one), they were bottom-of-the barrel types you would expect to find performing menial labor on crowded habitats, not crewing a Ministry vessel on a vital mission.

Dadab didn’t understand all the political dimensions of the Sangheili-Jiralhanae relationship, but he knew Maccabeus’

position was unusual—that he was one of a handful of Jiralhanae Shipmasters in the vast Covenant fleet. Even so, all one had to do was glance at
Rapid Conversion
to know the Sangheili hadn’t exactly set Maccabeus up for success. The cruiser was in a sorry state, just like its Unggoy crew.

With the Chieftain’s permission, Dadab had begun to try to help. His plan? Instill motivation and discipline through spiritual enrichment. And although this had only been the study group’s second meeting, the Deacon had already begun to see improvement in the demeanor of the Unggoy who had chosen to take part.

“To the hangar,” Tartarus commanded, putting on his helmet. “I owe the Chieftain a report on the Huragok’s progress.”

For Dadab, climbing the cruiser’s central shaft had at first been a terrifying proposition. His strength had waned during his zero-gee captivity in the escape-pod. And he had been terrified he would lose his grip and plummet to his death. But now that his muscles were stronger—and he had become just as agile as the other Unggoy—the Deacon could climb while cheerfully observing the hustle and bustle of
Rapid Conversion
’s main thoroughfare.

Since he had arrived, the shaft had been given a thorough cleaning. Its metal walls were still scratched and grooved, but the layers of tarnish were gone and the vertical passage now shone with a deep purple luster. Halfway down, Dadab saw that a doorway leading to the forward weapon bays had been unbarred and its warning symbols disabled. Repairs in that part of the cruiser had been Maccabeus’ top priority for his newly acquired Huragok.

Dadab had been present as translator during the Chieftain’s explanation of what needed to be done. But before Maccabeus had a chance to explain what ailed the cruiser’s heavy plasma cannon,
Lighter Than Some
had simply gone to work—torn the protective cowling off the weapon’s control circuits and started its repairs.

Dadab had seen the Huragok perform all sorts of mechanical miracles aboard the Kig-Yar ship, but the Jiralhanae were dumbfounded as the creature’s tentacles fluttered, and the cannon’s circuits sparked and hummed. Seemingly without thought, the Huragok was performing repairs that had been impossible for the cruiser’s former custodians: the insect Yanme’e.

After seeing what
Lighter Than Some
could do, Maccabeus relieved the winged creatures of all but their most menial responsibilities. The Chieftain was concerned they might interrupt the Huragok’s vital work. And indeed, the Yanme’e buzzing up and down the shaft now only carried basic sanitation and maintenance tools—none of which came close to matching the utility of the Huragok’s deft tentacles and their cilia.

As Dadab shrunk to one side of his ladder to let a blue-armored Jiralhanae pass, a pair of Yanme’e collided in midair below him. Rattling their copper-colored armored plates, the bugs untangled their chitinous limbs and continued down the shaft. Dadab (while no expert on the species) knew this sort of clumsiness was unusual for creatures with compound eyes and highly sensitive antenna—and was a good indication their recent demotion had left the Yanme’e flustered.

Yes, they were much more intelligent than small arthropods such as Scrub Grubs. But the Yanme’e were also hive-minded and notoriously dogmatic. Once you gave them a task, they stuck to it, and Dadab worried the creatures’ confusion might cause them to interfere with
Lighter Than Some
’s work, maybe even do the creature harm.

So far, nothing had happened to warrant Dadab’s concern. But he was relieved when the Huragok had completed its repairs to the plasma cannon and retired to the hangar to begin work on the damaged Spirit dropship. The Yanme’e had avoided the hangar ever since the accidental immolation of their hive mates, which meant the Huragok was safely isolated.

With the armored Jiralhanae up and on his way, Dadab resumed his descent and soon reached the bottom of the shaft. Trotting quickly to keep up with Tartarus’ long strides, he hurried to the far end of the hangar where
Lighter Than Some
had built a temporary workshop inside the damaged Spirit’s two battered bays. The escape pod had been discarded out the energy barrier before the cruiser made its jump. But the Spirit’s detached cockpit still sat against the wall where the pod had smashed it. At first glance it seemed little progress had been made.

The thin-skinned troop bays, each large enough to accommodate dozens of warriors, were pushed together on their longest sides. Their doors, half-open and resting against the hangar floor, kept the bays from toppling.

“Wait here,” Dadab said, ducking between the bays. “I’ll see what it has done.”

Tartarus didn’t protest. Maccabeus had told every member of his pack to give the fragile Huragok plenty of room. For while
Lighter Than Some
had survived its ordeal inside the pod, it had not emerged unscathed.

Dadab felt a pang of guilt when he saw his friend, floating in front of a sheet of ablative foil it had hung as a curtain halfway down the bay. The sac that had produced all the life-saving methane was horribly distended. It dragged along the floor as the Huragok turned to greet Dadab—a mute reminder of its sacrifice.

<
How are you?
> Dadab signed.

<
Well. Though I wish you had come alone.
> The Huragok wrinkled its snout, crimping its olfactory nodes. <
I’m not terribly fond of our new hosts’ smell.
>

<
It’s their hair.
> Dadab explained. <
I’m not sure they wash.
> It felt good to speak with his fingers. During their confinement, Dadab’s signing had improved immensely. Before
Lighter Than Some
had become too weak to carry on long conversations, the Deacon had felt on the verge of fluency—at least as far as simple subjects were concerned. <
How go repairs?
>

The Huragok flicked one of its tentacles in a pitching motion, as if it were throwing Dadab an imaginary ball. <
Hunting rock. Do you remember?
>

<
Of course. Do you want to play?
>

<
Do you remember when we played
before? > Dadab paused. <
The alien.
>

<
The one I
killed. >

Dadab splayed his fingers: <
Killed to save
me
!
> But his heart sank. He’d hoped
Lighter Than Some
’s new responsibilities would take its mind off the terrifying encounter aboard the alien ship.

<
Even so, I regret it. > Lighter Than Some
motioned for Dadab to follow it deeper into the bay. <
But I know how to make amends!
> Its tentacles quivered as it drew back the foil curtain, indicating excitement—or joy.

<
What is it?
> Dadab asked, cocking his head at the object on the other side of the curtain. It looked familiar, but the Deacon couldn’t immediately place why.

<
A peace offering! Proof of our good intentions!
>

<
You made… one of their machines.
>

One of the Huragok’s dorsal sacs bleated with delight. <
Yes! A plow, I believe.
>

As
Lighter Than Some
continued extolling the virtues of its creation (flashing technical terms that far exceeded Dadab’s vocabulary), the Deacon studied the plow. It was, of course, much smaller than the machine they’d discovered in the second alien ship, but was still obviously designed for prepping soil for seed.

The plow’s dominant feature was a metal wheel mounted with earth-tilling tines that doubled as its propulsion system.
Where did the Huragok get
that? Dadab wondered, an instant before he noticed that two of the troop bay’s trapezoidal support ribs had been removed.
Lighter Than Some
had bent the ribs round and fused them together. And it must have done so recently because the bay still carried the sharp, sweet smell of the flux the Yanme’e used in their portable welders—one of which the Huragok must have “borrowed” for its project.

Extending back from the wheel was the beginnings of a chassis. Loops of wire and circuit boards pilfered from the bay hung from the neatly welded frame, awaiting placement of the engine, whatever
that
was going to be….

Dadab’s natural curiosity died in a quick intake of breath. His fingers trembled with fright, and his grammar faltered. <
Does, Chieftain, know?
>

<
Should he?
>

<
His order. Repair dropship. Not make gift.
>

<
Not a gift. An
offering. > The Huragok fluttered, as if the distinction would lessen the Chieftain’s rage.

How could it be so foolish?
Dadab wailed into his mask. He felt dizzy and placed a paw on the plow to steady himself. But this wasn’t just because of his rapidly fraying nerves; he could feel the bay vibrate as the cruiser exited his jump. Dadab took a few long drags from his tank. <
You must take apart!
>

The Huragok’s tentacles sputtered. <
But why?
> It seemed honestly confused.

Dadab worked his fingers slowly. <
You disobey. Chieftain very angry.
> He knew Maccabeus would never hurt the Huragok. The creature was far too valuable. But as for Dadab…

Maccabeus hadn’t said anything specific, but the Deacon knew he was a prisoner on the Jiralhanae ship—still under suspicion for the crimes he had committed. In a flash of desperate optimism, the Deacon tried to convince himself that his efforts to educate
Rapid Conversion
’s Unggoy would be enough to prove his worth—to keep the Chieftain from transferring his certain anger about the plow. But the Deacon knew he had sinned. He would be punished, if not by Maccabeus then by the Ministry Prophets when the Jiralhanae’s mission was complete.