Halo: Contact Harvest - Page 22/45

The Kig-Yar pod lacked a long-range beacon, which would have been fine in Covenant space where ships regularly scanned for castaways. But out here in the middle of nowhere, a rescuer would only know to look two places: Minor Transgression's point of contact with the first alien vessel, and the coordinates at which Dadab had re-enabled the Luminary—the last two places the Kig-Yar ship had made transmissions.

Given that the latter would probably soon be swarmed by more of the violent aliens, backtracking was the more prudent choice. But the pod had no record of Minor Transgression's travels; it would need information from the alien boxes. Before the Huragok passed this information on, it had wanted the boxes to "come to agreement" on the proper coordinates. The pod only had enough fuel for one more jump, and even Dadab had agreed that they needed to get it right.

His first methane tank dwindling, the Deacon had watched with terrified resignation as the Huragok gently probed the interiors of the boxes with its tentacles, coaxing their circuits together—gradually understanding more of their simple, binary language and passing relevant information to the pod.

Eventually Lighter Than Some's sinful efforts had paid off. The pod exited its jump smack in the middle of an expanding sphere of debris that a quick sensor-scan positively identified as the remains of the first alien vessel. For a moment, Dadab's heart soared. Despite his litany of transgressions—conspiracy to commit false witness, accessory to the destruction of Ministry property, mutiny—might not the Prophets show him mercy? In the end, he had done the right thing—exposed Chur'R-Yar's treachery and transmitted the location of the reliquary. He was hopeful that would count for something.

But then came the revelation that the pod's life-support system was fatally flawed. And after many cycles without any sign of rescue, Dadab had slunk into a deep depression. I will die, he moaned, adrift in a mess of crumpled food pouches and his own carefully bagged filth. Without even having had a chance to beg the Prophets for forgiveness!

The Deacon had allowed himself to wallow this way for quite some time, until the stress of Lighter Than Some's methane production became too difficult to ignore. And in that moment, Dadab's self-pity evolved into something less reprehensible: shame. For while he might face terrible punishments in the future, the Huragok was in torment now—and entirely for the Deacon's sake.

Dadab took a deep breath and held it—let the chill of his friend's selfless effort sink deep into his chest. He turned to the pod's control panel, brushed the alien boxes aside, and hit the holo-switch that would restore power to the pod's limited sensor gear. We will both survive this, he vowed, listening to the creak of the Huragok's exhausted sacs. And whatever happens after.

As tired of sleep as any of the pod's scarce distractions, Dadab kept his station before the panel—monitored the sensors, searching for any hint of an approaching ship. He tried to breathe as little as possible, and only broke his watch to help the Huragok feed. Many more cycles passed. All the while, the alien boxes hummed their petty blasphemies and Lighter Than Some's sacs swelled and shrunk until—without warning—the pod detected a jump signature close at hand and Dadab at last allowed himself the indulgence of relief.

"Castaway vessel, this is the cruiser Rapid Conversion." The hail boomed throughout the pod. Lighter Than Some released a pained whistle as Dadab fumbled for the switch that would reduce the transmission's volume. "Respond if you are able," the voice continued at a more reasonable level.

"We live, Rapid Conversion!" Dadab replied, voice cracking from lack of use. "But our situation is dire!"

In the last few cycles, the Huragok's appetite had fallen off. Its anaerobic sac was now producing at a fraction of its previous capacity, and many of Lighter Than Some's dorsal sacs had shut down entirely as their membranes dried out and folded in upon themselves.

"I beg you," Dadab gasped. He reached for his mask, and took a halting drag from his almost empty second tank. "Please hurry!"

"Remain calm," the voice growled. "You will soon be brought on board."

Dadab did his best to comply. He inhaled the pod's thinning methane in quick, shallow gulps, only resorting to his mask when the burning in his lungs became unbearable. But at some point he must have abstained too long because his world went black and he collapsed.

When he awoke, he was belly-down on the floor, and he could hear the hiss of fresh methane bleeding into the pod.

Dadab's nostrils flared. The gas had a bitter tang, but he thought he'd never tasted anything sweeter. With a happy grunt, he twisted his neck to look up at Lighter Than Some … and was shocked to see the creature crumpled on the floor beside him.

They were inside the cruiser, Dadab realized, and its artificial gravity had permeated the pod!

Suddenly, there was a furtive scratching at the pod's hatch. Something was trying to force its way inside.

"Stop!" Dadab screamed. He leapt to his feet only to have them collapse beneath him.

Floating in zero-gee, his muscles had atrophied, and the Deacon was forced to claw his way along the floor to the control panel. "Don't open the hatch!" he shouted, hitting the switch to enable the pod's stasis-field. Instantly, the air crackled and thickened. A moment too late he realized what else the switch would do.

The pod's thrusters lit with an ear-splitting roar, and the craft leapt forward with a metal-on- metal screech, then stopped with a monumental clang. The pod's nose crumpled down and in, crushing the three alien boxes against the control panel.

Restrained by the field, Dadab felt none of the acceleration or impact. But he did have a searing pain in his left arm. Pieces of the boxes had exploded outward, and while the field had quickly stopped the shrapnel, one razor-sharp fragment had sufficient velocity to slice past Dadab, cutting through his hardened skin just below the shoulder. Ignoring the pain, Dadab grasped the Huragok's tentacles and hoisted the creature from the floor. Its usually clammy flesh felt dry. The Deacon knew this wasn't a good sign.

As quickly as he thought safe, he puppeteered Lighter Than Some's tentacles until it was in a natural pose: snout high, anaerobic sac dangling low. Suspended in the field, the least damaged of the Huragok's sacs slowly began to inflate. But Dadab knew it would take time before his friend was ready to float unassisted. Quickly he reached for the control panel, and hit a switch to lock the hatch.

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 ge-odes. 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!"