Halo: Contact Harvest (34 page)

Flim didn’t protest. He had temporarily lifted his mask and was testing the hardness of the case with his closely packed and pointed teeth.

“I will soon return,” Dadab added in a casual tone, walking out of the room toward the walkway. Of course, he had plenty of methane. But the Deacon had spent almost a whole cycle with the other Unggoy, and he desperately wanted some time alone with
Lighter Than Some.
The Huragok had made some very cryptic comments about the Jiralhanae. Dadab had seen the Chieftain in the hangar and remembered his injured leg. Something was happening on the alien planet, and the Deacon wanted to know exactly what.

As he doglegged around a junction, he felt the orbital tremble. Curious despite his haste, he looked out one of the thick windows that faced the junction’s interior. It was hard to tell for sure, but Dadab thought he saw the cable vibrate.
That’s odd,
he thought, pulling away from the window. But then he saw a red light begin to flash above a nearby airlock—one connected to a retractable gantry inside the junction—and he froze with fear. It took a chiming alarm to get him moving again around the junction to the control room, pounding his stubby legs as fast as they would go.

Inside, Dadab found
Lighter Than Some,
its tentacles once more thrust inside the central tower. He snorted loudly to get the creature’s attention.

<
What have you done?
> the Deacon signed.

<
Repaired these circuits.
>

<
You have made this orbital active?!
>

<
No.
> The Huragok trembled with delight. <
I have put our wrongs to right.
>

Dadab was both puzzled and terrified by
Lighter Than Some
’s pronouncement. But just as he was about to ask for clarification, Maccabeus’ voice roared from his signal unit.

“Deacon! Deacon, do you hear me?”

“Y-yes, Chieftain!” Dadab stammered. The timing of the signal made it seem as though the Chieftain was keeping watch inside the control center—as if he was fully aware of Dadab’s complicity in the Huragok’s sinful reassociation of the alien circuits.

“The aliens have attacked us! Disabled the cruiser!”

Dadab’s knees wobbled with amplified terror.
How could that be?

“They are ascending to the orbital!” the Chieftain continued. “You must hold them back until I can send aid!”

Dadab pointed toward the towers. <
Destroy those circuits!
>

<
I will not.
>

<
The Chieftain commands it!
>

Usually, the Huragok expressed disagreement with an impolite emission. But this time it kept its valves closed, emphasizing its own resolve. <
I no longer serve the Jiralhanae.
>

<
What?! Why?
>

<
They throw hunting rocks.
>

<
I don’t understand….
>

<
The Chieftain will burn this world. He will kill them all.
>

<
The aliens will take this facility! They will kill
us! > Dadab countered.

Lighter Than Some
relaxed its limbs. It had said all it cared to say.

The Deacon unclipped his plasma pistol from his harness, and took aim at the towers. The Huragok drifted into his line of fire. <
Move
> Dadab signed with his free hand. But the Huragok did not. The Deacon did his best to keep his friend firmly in his sights, but his hand was shaking, compromising his grammar as well as his aim. <
Move, or, I, you, shoot.
>

<
All creatures will take the Great Journey, so long as they believe.
> The Huragok’s limbs unfurled with slow grace. <
Why would the Prophets deny these aliens a chance to walk The Path?
>

Dadab cocked his head. It was a valid question.

“We must let none escape!” Maccabeus thundered. “Tell me you understand, Deacon!”

Dadab lowered his pistol. “No, Chieftain, I do not.” Then he switched his signal unit off.

Maccabeus cursed under his breath. It was hard enough to understand an Unggoy under normal circumstances—their masks muffled their words. But with the bridge’s wailing klaxon and frequent explosions shuddering
Rapid Conversion’s
lower decks, it had been impossible to hear the Deacon’s side of their brief conversation.

“Deacon!” Maccabeus roared. “Repeat your last transmission!”

But the Unggoy’s signal had cut to static.

The Chieftain rose angrily from his command chair and immediately regretted his decision. He no longer needed his splint, but his leg wasn’t fully mended. Before he had completed a full cycle in the surgery suite, the Luminary had found the planet’s Oracle, hidden in its largest city. The aliens had activated a beacon in the middle of the city’s park, signaling their desire for another early morning parley. Maccabeus had no desire to talk—and only brought
Rapid Conversion
down to better facilitate a rapid, double-cross burning of the city after he had retrieved the Oracle. But it was the aliens who had sprung the trap.

The Chieftain braced against his chair as an especially large explosion rocked the bridge. “Report!” he bellowed at his engineering officer, Grattius.

The older Tiralhanae frowned at his control console, his faded brown fur given passing luster by dozens of flashing holographic alerts. “Plasma cannon disabled! There is a fire inside the weapons bay!”

“Rally the Yanme’e!” Maccabeus growled. “Tell them to extinguish the blaze!”

The first of the aliens’ kinetic rounds hadn’t done much internal damage to the cruiser. The vessel’s hull had blunted the round’s impact, and it had come to a tumbling stop well forward of the bridge. But the second round punched clean through, severing vital connections between the ship’s reactor and anti-grav generators. Although Maccabeus had already ordered the Yanme’e to repair the connections, he was much more eager to preserve his cannon.

If something were to happen to the Huragok on the orbital, there would be no way to repair the guns. The Chieftain knew the aliens now escaping up the. cables would warn whatever other worlds this planet’s farms so obviously supplied. Undoubtedly, alien warships would come. And unless the Ministry immediately sent additional forces, Maccabeus would have to fight them on his own.

Grattius barked at one of two other Jiralhanae on the bridge, a sparsely haired youth named Druss:
Go and supervise the insects’ work!
As Druss left his post and loped down the bridge’s entry passage to the cruiser’s central shaft, Maccabeus leaned heavily on the
Fist of Rukt
and hobbled to the holo-tank. There another of his pack, Strab, peered angrily at a representation of the alien orbital and its cables.

“The smaller boxes will soon reach the top!” Strab pointed at seven staggered icons gliding quickly upward. “And the larger ones are not far behind!”

Maccabeus adjusted the
Fist of Rukt
so its heavy stone head nestled deep under his right arm, taking most of his weight. As incensed as he was about the damage to his beloved ship, he had to compliment the aliens on the audacity of their plan. After they had failed to defend their far-flung settlements and their city on the plain, Maccabeus didn’t expect them to put up much of a fight elsewhere. And while he knew what the orbital was for, he never thought they would use it to accomplish an evacuation—at least not while
Rapid Conversion
had ruled the skies.

The Chieftain knew he needed to do all he could to stop the aliens lest he completely fail the Prophets. The Unggoy weren’t trained for combat, so he would need to rally his pack for a boarding mission—destroy the orbital as Tartarus had suggested when they first approached the planet.

“Nephew!” the Chieftain bellowed, trying to locate Tartarus’ status icon on the surface of the planet. The tank was ablaze with many thousands of Luminations. Some were moving up the cables—undoubtedly the fleeing aliens were bringing their relics with them. “What is your location?”

“Here, Uncle,” Tartarus answered.

Maccabeus looked up and was shocked to see his nephew striding onto the bridge. Fires in the cruiser’s shaft had sooted Tartarus’ red armor and singed some of his black hair white as he climbed up from the hangar. Tartarus’ paws were red and swollen, burned by the ladders’ scorching rungs. In one paw he held a thick brass disk.

“What is that?” Maccabeus asked.

Tartarus raised the alien holo-projector above his head. “Your Oracle…” He dashed the projector to the floor. It blew apart with an off-key clang, delicate internal parts skittering across the deck. “Is a fake!”

Maccabeus watched the brass casing circle in upon itself and come to a rattling stop. “You said it showed the glyph. How could they have known?”

Tartarus took a step toward the holo-tank and snarled. “There is a traitor in our midst.”

Grattius and Strab showed their teeth and growled.

“Or the Luminary is a liar!” Tartarus snapped. Then, locking Maccabeus’ stare: “Either way, you are a fool.”

The Chieftain ignored the insult. “The Luminary,” he said calmly, “is the Forerunners’ own creation.”

“The Holy Prophets labeled
ours
broken and misguided!” Tartarus now spoke to Grattius and Strab. “But still he did not heed!”

Indeed it was the Vice Minister of Tranquility himself who told the Chieftain to ignore the Luminations—that the device’s survey had been incorrect.
There were no relics,
the Prophet had said in his priority, one-way signal.
There was no Oracle.
Just a planet full of thieves whose murder he demanded.

“His hubris has destroyed our ship!” Tartarus continued. “Threatened the lives of all our pack!”

Maccabeus’ blood started to boil. It made it easier to ignore the pain in his leg. “I am Chieftain. My decision
rules
this pack.”

“No, Uncle.” Tartarus removed his spike rifle from his belt. “Not anymore.”

Maccabeus’ remembered the day he had challenged the dominance of his own Chieftain, his father. As it had always been, the contest was fought to the death. In the end, Maccabeus’ elderly father had happily taken Maccabeus’ knife across his throat—a warrior’s mortal wound delivered by one he loved. Before the arrival of the San’Shyuum missionaries and their promises of transcendence, an aged Jiralhanae could not have hoped for a better end.

But Maccabeus was not so old. And he was certainly not ready to submit. “Once made, a challenge cannot be taken back.”

“I know the tradition,” Tartarus said. He ejected his rifle’s ammunition canister and tossed it to Grattius. Then he pointed at Maccabeus’ leg. “You are at a disadvantage. I will let you keep your hammer.”

“I am glad you have learned honor,” Maccabeus said, ignoring his nephew’s haughty tone. He motioned for Strab to retrieve his crested helmet from his command chair. “I only wish I had taught you faith.”

“You call
me
unfaithful?” Tartarus snapped.

“You are obedient, nephew.” Maccabeus took his helmet from Strab’s shaking paws and settled it on top of his bald head. “Someday I hope you learn the difference.”

Tartarus roared and charged, beginning a vicious melee that took the two combatants around the holo-tank—Tartarus slashing with his spike rifle’s crescent blades and Maccabeus parrying with his hammer. The younger Jiralhanae knew all it would take was a single crushing blow and he was doomed; the
Fist of Rukt
bore the marks of countless victims not wise enough to steer clear of its massive stone.

As they came back around the tank to their starting positions, Maccabeus slipped on the holo-projector’s casing. His eyes had been locked on Tartarus’ blades and he had forgotten it was there. His injured leg faltered as he tried to keep his balance, and, in this moment of weakness, Tartarus was upon him. He tore off the Chieftain’s helmet and began slicing at his face and neck. Maccabeus raised an arm to deflect the attack and the spike rifle cut deep into the unarmored underside of his forearm. The Chieftain howled as the blade severed muscle and bit into bone.

Swinging his hammer with his uninjured arm, Maccabeus caught Tartarus in the side of his knee. But the one-handed, lateral blow didn’t carry much force. Tartarus limped back, Maccabeus’ blood dripping from his blades, and waited for his uncle to stand.

The paw of the Chieftain’s injured arm would not close, but Maccabeus was able to hook his hammer in its thumb and hold the cudgel high. With a mighty roar, he charged his nephew with all the strength he had left. Tartarus hunched as if preparing to meet the impact, but sprung backwards as his uncle drew close. Maccabeus faltered—took a few heavy steps he had not expected—and brought his hammer down against the thick lintel of the bridge’s entry door.

As the Chieftain staggered backwards, stunned by the reverberation, Tartarus threw away his spike rifle and bounded forward. He grabbed Maccabeus by the collar and waist of his chest plate, spun him around on his injured leg, and sent him sprawling down the passage toward the cruiser’s shaft without his hammer. Grasping desperately with his good hand, Maccabeus managed to catch the uppermost rung of a downward ladder as his weight carried him over the edge.