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The first of the aliens kinetic rounds hadnt done much internal damage to the cruiser. The vessels hull had blunted the rounds 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 ships reactor and anti-grav generators. Although Maccabeus had already ordered the Yanmee 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 planets 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 bridges entry passage to the cruisers 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 didnt 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 werent 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 cruisers 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 devices 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 warriors mortal wound delivered by one he loved. Before the arrival of the SanShyuum 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 rifles 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 nephews 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 Strabs 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 rifles 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-projectors 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 Chieftains 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 didnt carry much force. Tartarus limped back, Maccabeus blood dripping from his blades, and waited for his uncle to stand.
The paw of the Chieftains 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 bridges 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 cruisers 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.
"Doubt," Maccabeus groaned, straining to keep his grip.
"Loyalty and faith," Tartarus replied, stepping to the edge of the shaft. He now held the Fist of Rukt.
"Never forget the meaning of this Age, nephew. "
An explosion shook the cruiser, sending a jet of fire across the shaft a few decks below Maccabeus swaying legs. Yanmee swarmed all around, fire-control equipment in their claws, oblivious to their Shipmasters peril.
Tartarus bared his teeth. "Dont you know, Uncle? This sorry Age has ended. "
For a moment, Tartarus stood still, chest heaving with the effort of his triumph. Sweat ran beneath his fur. But it did not give off its usual, unregulated scent. Tartarus huffed, acknowledging his new maturity. Then he removed his belt and lashed it around the Fist of Rukt, a sling to keep the ancient cudgel on his shoulder.
Grattius came slowly through the passage, bearing Maccabeus helmet. Strab wasnt far behind. Both Jiralhanae knelt before Tartarus, confirming his leadership of the pack and command of Rapid Conversion. Tartarus traded Maccabeus helmet for his own. Then he swung down onto the ladder.
The new Chieftain had left his dropship in the hangar at the bottom of the shaft; he would need it to rise to the alien orbital. But before that, Tartarus was determined to save the rest of his inheritance from the flames—strip his uncles gilded armor and wear it as his own.
Sif woke up. And tried to remember who she was.
All her arrays were spun down. Her processor clusters were dark. The only part of her with power was her crystalline core logic. But it was beset by sparks of fierce emotions—insistent operations she had no capacity to parse.
Suddenly, one of her clusters came online. A COM impulse pricked a corner of her logic.
< Who is it? > The intelligence probing her logic replied: < Lighter, Than, Some. > Sif thought about that for a few long seconds. And as she thought—pressed the cluster for more data—the intelligence tapped one of her arrays. Memories flooded back: Harvest, the Tiara, the aliens, and Mack.
The emotions crowded against her logic, demanding examination. Sif cowered inside the deepest part of herself, keeping them at bay.
Minutes passed. She felt more impulses from a newly revived processor cluster.
< Who, you? > < I dont know. Im broken. > But Sif knew enough to realize the other intelligence was selecting bits from an alphanumeric table lodged in the first clusters flash memory. And it was using the same selective, electrochemical impulses to present these bits directly to her logic. The moment Sif realized she had automatically begun to do the same, she also realized the mode of the conversation wasnt normal—not something a human could do.
< Are you one of them? > < Yes. > The alien intelligence paused. < But, not, like, them. > A sensation tugged at Sifs subconscious: the pull of a brush through a womans hair.
< There is something on my strands. > The second cluster surged, passing her logic the contents of two more awakened arrays. She remembered a plan—recalled guiding propulsion pods into position, many days and weeks ahead of Harvest.
< The evacuation! > < I, know, I, want, help. > Sif struggled to remember how she used to work—which clusters had performed which tasks.
< Can you fix this? > She concentrated on the processors that controlled her COM with the cargo containers climbing circuits. These had always been the dullest—the simplest of her operations. But they were the only functions she was strong enough to handle, at least for now.
< Yes, you, wait. > Sif did her best to ignore the emotions still clamoring for her limited attention. But a violent jolt of apprehension would not be denied. There was something shed forgotten to ask, something her eminently rational mind demanded as it slowly knit itself back together.
< Why are you helping me? > The alien intelligence thought a moment and then replied: < Lighter, Than, Some. > It would be many more minutes before Sif had the capacity to process the aliens simple, existential truth: I help because that is who I am.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Forsells head lolled on Averys shoulder. The oxen recruit had passed out almost immediately after the grease buckets maglev paddles engaged the number-two strand. Over the course of four seconds, the bucket had tripled the rate of its ascent. The resulting gee-forces were extreme—nothing the recruits were prepared to handle. Avery only managed to stay conscious by utilizing training hed undergone for HEV orbital drops—squeezing his knees together and regulating his breathing to keep blood from pooling in his legs.
The bucket was a squat cylinder comprised of two C-shaped halves. Curved, clear windows in its inner wall provided a three hundred-sixty-degree view of the strand, currently a golden blur. The buckets cramped interior was only rated for a crew of four, but JOTUN all-in-ones had removed the controls and monitors for the buckets crablike maintenance arms and managed to make room for twelve seats—each one stripped from abandoned sedans in Utgard.
The seats were arranged side by side, facing away from the cable so Avery and his recruits could make their way to the buckets single hatch as quickly as possible once they docked with the Tiara.
"Commander? You still with me?" Avery growled into his throat-mic after righting Forsells head. He didnt want the recruit to wake with a crick in his neck—and not just because it would affect his aim.
"Barely," Jilan radioed from her bucket. "Healys hanging tough. Dass too. Yours?"
"All out cold. "
When Captain Ponder had tasked Avery with retaking the Tiara, hed asked for volunteers.
The mission was extremely dangerous, and Avery knew there would be casualties. But he ended up getting more volunteers than he had seats, a mix of recruits from 1st platoons three squads. Every one of them (Forsell, Jenkins, Andersen, Wick—even a married man like Dass) was willing to risk his life to give their families, friends, and neighbors a chance to escape the alien onslaught.
As Averys bucket passed through Harvests stratosphere and air friction fell to zero, it increased its speed again. Avery grimaced, and fought back the pressing darkness.
"Johnson?"
"Maam?"
"Im going to pass out now. "
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