Halo: Contact Harvest (Halo #5)

Halo: Contact Harvest (Halo #5) Page 11

The Deacon was shivering now, his whole blue-gray body quaking with terror. The Shipmistress knew the Unggoy was right: what she planned to do was heresy. Only the Prophets were allowed access to relics. And if tampering with a Luminary meant death, defying the Prophets meant damnation.

Then suddenly the Deacon calmed. Eyes darting between the glyphs in the holo-tank and the bright red tip of Zhar's laser cutter, his breathing slowed. Chur'R-Yar knew the Unggoy was smarter than most and guessed he had just realized the full extent his predicament: the Shipmistress had told him her secret plans, and yet he lived. Which could only mean one thing: She had a plan for him.

"What would my Shipmistress have me do?" Dadab asked. Chur'R-Yar's teeth glittered in the Luminary's weakened light. "I need you to lie."

The Deacon nodded. And the Shipmistress set course for the relic-laden ship.

Henry "Hank" Gibson loved his freighter—loved her big, ugly lines and the quiet rumble of her Shaw-Fujikawa drive. Most of all he loved to sail her, which most people thought was a little unusual when a NAV computer could do just as well. But that was fine by Hank because, even more than his ship, he loved not giving a damn what people thought of him, something to which either of his ex-wives would gladly attest.

Human ship captains weren't uncommon in the UNSC commercial fleet; they just mainly sailed cruise ships and other passenger vessels. Hank had worked for one of the big cruise companies—served on the luxury liner Two Drink Minimum nonstop from Earth to Arcadia for the better part of fifteen years, the last five as first mate.

But the liner had needed all kinds of computer assistance to get from A to B while keeping its hundreds of passengers well fed and rested. Hank was a self-avowed loner, and it didn't matter if the voices talking to him were human or simulated—he liked a quiet bridge. And Two Drink Minimum's certainly wasn't that. If the pay hadn't been so good, and the time away from his wives so therapeutic, Hank would have quit a whole lot sooner.

Other than astrogation (the coordination of Slipspace jumps that required a NAV computer), a freighter captain could handle as many of his ship's normal space operations as he liked. Hank loved having his hands on the controls—blasting away with his hydrazine rockets as he bullied thousands of tons of cargo in and out of a planet's gravity well. The fact that he owned his ship, This End Up, made sailing her even sweeter. It had taken all his savings, painful renegotiations of his alimonies, and a loan so large he didn't like to think about it, but now he was his own boss. He got to pick what he hauled and over time he built up a list of customers who were willing to pay a little extra for personalized service.

One of his most reliable customers was JOTUN Heavy Industries, a Mars-based firm specializing in the construction of semi-autonomous farm machinery. His freighter's hold was currently filled with a prototype of their next series of plows—massive machines designed to till wide swaths of earth. The things were incredibly expensive, and Hank assumed a prototype would be even more so. Which was why, staring at a console filled with flashing warning lights, he was more angry than afraid.

This End Up's unknown attacker had hit while the ship was hurtling toward Harvest on a high-speed intercept vector. Hank survived the attack unharmed. But the hostile fire had ruined his Shaw-Fujikawa drive, fried his maneuvering rockets and maser—caused more damage to This End Up than he could afford to repair. Piracy was unheard of on the routes Hank ran, and he had never even considered adding the optional, extremely expensive coverage to his policy.

Hank slapped his hand on the console, silencing a new alarm: hull breach, port side of the cargo container, close to the stern. He could feel the rubberized floor of the command cabin vibrate as something worked its way through the hull.

"God damn it!" Hank cursed, wrenching a fire extinguisher from a wall bracket. He hoped the pirates wouldn't damage the JOTUN prototype as they cut their way inside.

"Fine. These jerks wanna break my ship?" Hank snarled, hefting the extinguisher above his head. "Then they're gonna buy it."

The interior of Minor Transgression's umbilical glowed red as its penetrator tip burned into the alien vessel. Through the semi-transparant walls, Dadab could see laser scarring on the vessel's propulsion unit—black slash-marks from Chur'R-Yar's comprehensive crippling.

How can she be so calm?! Dadab groaned, looking down the umbilical at the Shipmistress.

She stood behind Zhar, one clawed hand resting on the grip of her holstered plasma-pistol— like a Kig-Yar pirate queen of old—poised for boarding action. The other two Kig-Yar crewmen standing just behind her were less composed. Both of them fiddled with their energy cutlasses: pink crystal shards used as melee weapons. Dadab wondered if the crewmen, like him, realized they were doomed.

He imagined Chur'R-Yar would succeed in removing the relic (though some had proven to be quite dangerous, even in the Prophets' deft hands). Then she would probably jump right into the thick of Covenant space—where her relic would show as one of countless others—and quickly find a buyer before raising any Ministry suspicions. It was a plausible plan. But Dadab knew he and any other unnecessary witnesses would be dead long before it was completed. In his case, immediately after he transmitted a false accounting of the number of Luminations in the alien system.

The umbilical dimmed as its penetrator tip finished its burn through the hull. The end of the passage irised open to reveal a shimmering energy field.

"Have the Huragok check the pressure," Chur'R-Yar said, glancing back at Dadab.

The Deacon turned and signed to Lighter Than Some behind him: < Check, air, equal. > Before they boarded the alien vessel, they needed to be sure there was a balance between the umblilical's atmosphere and that of the ship's hold. If there wasn't, they might be torn apart as they passed through the field.

The Huragok floated nonchalantly past Dadab. For Lighter Than Some, this was just another opportunity to be helpful. It checked the sensors governing the field and loosed a satisfied bleat. Zhar wasted no time jumping through.

"It is safe!" the Kig-Yar male announced via his signal unit. Chur'R-Yar motioned the other male crewmen forward, then slipped through the field followed closely by Lighter Than Some.

Dadab took a deep breath and offered a silent prayer for the Prophets' forgiveness. Then he too passed into the alien vessel.

Its hold wasn't nearly as packed as the first one they'd encountered. Instead of floor-to- ceiling containers of fruit, the space was dominated by a single piece of cargo: a towering machine with six massive wheels. On the front of the machine was a beam—wider than the machine itself—fitted with toothlike spikes, each twice as tall as Dadab. Most of the machine's internal parts were shrouded by yellow and blue painted metal, but here and there Dadab saw exposed circuits and pneumatics. Above the toothed beam were a series of raised, bright metal symbols: J-O-T-U-N.

Dadab cocked his head. If the symbols were Forerunner, he hadn't ever seen them. But he wasn't too surprised; he was just a lowly Deacon, and there were countless holy mysteries he had yet to understand.

"Tell the Huragok to investigate," Chur'R-Yar snapped, pointing at the machine.

Dadab clapped his paws together to get Lighter Than Some's attention: < Find, relic! > The Huragok ballooned the largest of its sacs, increasing its buoyancy. As it rose above one of the machine's large wheels, it vented a smaller chamber, propelling itself through a curtain of multicolored wires.

The Shipmistress directed Zhar and the two other crewmen to a pile of plastic crates strapped to the floor near the back of the vehicle. Eagerly clattering their bony jaws, the Kig- Yar leapt to their task, prying open the topmost boxes with quick jabs and swift pulls of their claws. Soon they disappeared in a flurry of soft, white packing material.

"Make yourself useful, Deacon," Chur'R-Yar snapped. "Collect the vessel's signal unit."

Dadab bowed and scampered around the machine to the rear of the hold. The elevator platform worked the same as before, and soon he was rising up to the passage that led to the command cabin. Halfway down the passage, the Deacon suddenly remembered the disgusting filth that had awaited him last time. As he stepped through the cabin door, he involuntarily held his breath and shut his eyes.

Clang! Something heavy slammed into Dadab's tank. He yelped with alarm and staggered forward. Another blow knocked him to his stomach. Methane hissed from a fracture in his tank.

"Have mercy!" Dadab shrieked, curling into a ball and covering his face with his spiny forearms. He heard a series of guttural exclamations, and felt something kick the back of one of his legs. Dadab parted his arms ever so slightly, and peeked through the crack.

The alien was tall and muscular. Most of its pale flesh was covered by a fitted cloth jumpsuit. Teeth bared, and holding a red metal cylinder above its mostly hairless head, the thing looked savage—not at all like something that might possess a holy relic.

The alien lashed out with one of its heavy boots, striking Dadab's leg a second time. It shouted more angry and unintelligible words.

"Please!" Dadab whimpered, "I don't understand!" But his pleas only seemed to anger the alien. It stepped forward, cudgel raised for a killing blow. Dadab shrieked and covered his eyes….

But the blow never came. Dadab heard the cylinder bounce off the rubbery floor, and roll to a stop against the side of the cabin. Slowly, the Deacon uncrossed his arms.

The alien's mouth was open but it didn't speak. It teetered back and forth, grasping for its head. Then all at once, its arms slacked. Dadab scooted backward as the alien careened face- first onto the floor right between his legs. He heard a nervous bleat and looked up.

Lighter Than Some floated in the cabin's doorway. Three of its tentacles were tucked defensively close to its sacs. The fourth stuck straight out, quivering in what Dadab initially took for fear. But then he realized Lighter Than Some was trying to speak—struggling to form the simplest Huragok sign: < One.> A clamor of clawed feet in the passage heralded the Ship-mistress' approach. She shoved past the Huragok brandishing her plasma-pistol and cocked one of her ruby eyes at the alien's corpse. "How did it die?" she asked.

Dadab looked down. The back of the alien's skull was caved in—punctured with a ragged hole. Gingerly Dadab slipped two fingers inside the mortal wound. He pinched something hard in the center of the thing's brains, and pulled it out for all to see: Lighter Than Some's hunting rock.

Sif didn't like to upset her NAV computer charges. Somewhere deep in her core logic was a memory of her maker as a harried mother with little patience for her infant child. But communicating with ships while they were in Slipspace was impossible. So there was no way for Sif to give them forewarning of the additional security measures Jilan al-Cygni had imposed after the audit.

<\\> HARVEST.SO.AI.SIF >> DCS.CUP#-00040370 <\ ADHERE TO YOUR NEW TRAJECTORY.

<\ MAINTAIN REQUIRED SPEED.

<\ ALL IS WELL. \> To connect with Harvest, or any other planet, as it hurtled through the void, freighters needed to exit Slipspace on the right trajectory, traveling at match speed. Harvest orbited Epsilon Indi at a little more than one hundred fifty thousand kilometers per hour, faster than most UNSC worlds. Depending on the angle of its intercept vector, a NAV computer might have to push its ship even faster than that to make the rendezvous.

So the NAV computers were understandably rattled when, immediately after exiting their jumps, Sif demanded they prepare to meet Harvest further along its orbit.

Sif severed her connection to the freighter, Contents Under Pressure, and answered another hail. Various parts of her mind were communicating with hundreds of freighters at once, assuring their simple circuits that the holds she was imposing were perfectly safe and legal. The same message, over and over again.

The algorithms that guided Sif's emotions advised her not to correlate repetition with annoyance. But her core couldn't help feeling a little vexed. The woman from DCS had insisted on double-checking the ARGUS and other data she collected from all freighters entering the system. Sif knew this was all part of her probation—that she needed to endure a little bureaucratic humiliation before the DCS would forgive her oversight.

Fortunately, al-Cygni was both polite and efficient, and turned around her sign-offs on Sif's surveys very quickly. But she was human, and needed to sleep at least a few hours every day.

That meant some freighters had to stick in holding patterns for quite some time. And this made their NAV computers even more anxious….

<\\> HARVEST.SO.AI.SIF >> DCS.TEU#-00481361 <\ ATTENTION, THIS END UP. <\ YOU MUST MAINTAIN REQUIRED SPEED.

Sif could tell This End Up was still on the right trajectory, but it had begun to slow. The decrease was minor (less than five-hundred meters per minute) but any deceleration was unacceptable when the goal was keeping pace with a planet.

<\ THIS END UP, CAN YOU HEAR ME?

<\ CONTACT HARVEST ON ANY CHANNEL. \> But there was no response, and Sif knew the freighter would surely miss its rendezvous.

She had just begun to contemplate the myriad of problems that could have caused This End Up to lose its speed when, without warning, the freighter disappeared from her scan. Or more specifically, the single contact that was This End Up suddenly turned into many hundreds of millions of smaller contacts.

Or more succinctly, Sif decided, the ship blew up.

She checked the time. It was well past midnight. As she initiated a COM with al-Cygni's hotel in Utgard, she wondered if the woman was still awake.

"Good morning, Sif. How can I help you?" Jilan al-Cygni sat at her suite's desk. From the hotel's full-color feed, Sif could see the woman wore the same brown pantsuit from their previous meeting. But it looked perfectly pressed and al-Cygni's long black hair was tightly wound. Peering into the background, Sif noted that her bed hadn't been disturbed.

"Anything wrong?" al-Cygni asked in a tone that confirmed her alertness.

"We've lost another ship," Sif said, beaming all the relevant data down her maser.