"Fine by me," Thune said, clapping Ponder on the shoulder. "Captain?"
Ponder stood firm under the force of Thune's blow. "After you, Governor." Before he followed Thune to the ballroom's bar, he asked Pedersen, "I gave my Staff Sergeant strict orders to find himself a dance partner. Know anyone who might fit the bill?"
Pedersen raised an eager finger. "I have just the one!"
"I certainly appreciate it," Ponder said. Then to Avery with a smile: "Good luck, marine."
Before Avery could respond, the Captain turned on his heels, and Avery felt Pedersen's light touch on his elbow. "Do you know about the driver incident?" the Attorney General asked, leading Avery away from the first shots of Mack's gunfight and the delighted squeals of the children.
"Incident, sir?"
"The thing between Mack and Sif?"
"No."
"Well …"
Pedersen proceeded to explain how, not long after the DCS installed Sif in the Tiara, there had been a critical failure in her data center's power supply. This forced her technicians to stop all activity on her strands or risk a load-imbalance that would have collapsed the entire system.
It had been a serious crisis, and Mack decided to solve it by using the driver to boost a new power supply into orbit.
Trying to be as helpful as possible, he shot the component right into the Tiara's number-four coupling station. It was an incredible accomplishment. But when Sif's technicians restored her power and she learned what Mack had done—how he could have easily obliterated her data- center—Sif had not been amused.
"That's why she isn't here tonight," Pedersen concluded as they stepped out of the ballroom and headed for the balcony's calm northeast corner. "Why she always comes up with a polite excuse not to attend any celebration that involves a driver shot. It's too bad really. I think she could use a bit of fun."
"That's quite an indictment, Your Honor." A woman's voice rang out from the railing, bringing Pedersen to a hasty stop. But Avery had already noticed the woman many paces back —seen how her diaphanous silver shawl covered only part of her bare back. He slowed his pace to give himself time to remove his dress-cap and smooth his burr of hair.
"My apologies, Ms. al-Cygni," the Attorney General replied. "But I was talking about Sif.
The incident with the driver."
"Of course." Jilan pushed away from the railing, and turned to face the Attorney General.
"If I remember correctly, my department mandated that you shut the driver down."
"As I recall, we rejected that mandate on the grounds that it was in breach of the CA charter —a serious infringement on our already limited sovereignty." The Attorney General winked.
"But off the record, how could we possibly have given up such spectacular entertainment?"
Jilan laughed. "I won't argue with that."
"I'm sorry," Pedersen said hastily. "Staff Sergeant Avery Johnson? Representative Jilan al- Cygni, DCS."
Jilan offered her hand. Avery hesitated.
If she had been wearing a bland DCS uniform, he would have known what to do: take her hand and shake it. But her floor-length silver gown tripped him up. With its empire waist and halter top, she was the very picture of core-world vogue. Her black hair was slicked back close to her scalp and tucked behind her ears, and stayed perfectly still even as a fresh breeze from the mall caught her shawl and rustled it from her soft brown shoulders.
"Kissing is for politicians," Jilan said, catching her shawl in her elbows. "And I'm certainly not that."
So Avery shook. Her grip wasn't as strong as the Governor's, but not as delicate as her slender arms suggested.
"If you'll excuse me," Pedersen coughed and patted his chest. "I need to rescue this marine's commanding officer from a riveting discussion on the trajectory of his immortal soul."
Jilan smiled. "Do give my best to the Governor."
Pedersen brought his heels together, and turned back to the ballroom. Jilan waited for him to disappear into the crowd—until she and Avery were alone—before she spoke.
"I'd tell you to relax. But you don't seem the type."
Avery didn't know how to respond to that. But he was given a moment's reprieve thanks to a dancing couple that bumped him in the back then spun away, giggling apologetically. The string quartet had begun a livelier second set. Those guests who hadn't gone indoors to freshen their drinks after the fireworks were now abandoning their idle conversations for the more alluring language of waltz.
Jilan retrieved a small, clamshell purse dangling from one of her wrists. It was covered with tiny mirrors shaped like fish scales that dazzled Avery's gaze. "48789-20114-AJ," she said, pulling a COM-pad from the purse, and reading from its screen. "That is your serial number, correct?"
Avery's eyes refocused. "Yes, ma'am." Suddenly her smile didn't seem so sweet.
"Team-leader, ORION detachment, NavSpecWar division?"
"With respect, ma'am. That's classified."
"I know."
Avery felt moisture start to pool under his arms. "How can I help you, ma'am?"
"Innies are attacking freighters. Destroying cargo, killing crew. I need you to stop them."
"I'm a drill instructor. Colonial Militia. Find someone else."
Jilan drew her shawl back onto her shoulders. "You were AWOL in Chicago," she said matter-of-factly. "And under investigation for possible gross misconduct."
Avery clenched his jaw. "I was cleared of—"
"Given your status, didn't you think it was odd that FLEET-COM would approve your request for transfer?"
Avery narrowed his eyes in an intimidating stare. "I'll tell you what's odd. Someone from DCS with access to my file—you talking to me like you're my CO."
Jilan raised her COM-pad and turned it so Avery could see her ID picture glowing on its screen.
In her official UNSC uniform, Avery thought she looked as beautiful as she did in her gown. But only in the way he considered a well-maintained weapon beautiful—clean, locked tight, and ready to inflict deadly force. A text stamp below her picture clarified her true rank and departmental affiliation: Lieutenant Commander, ONI Section Three.
"As of now, I am your commanding officer," Jilan shut off her pad. "You can check your attitude, Staff Sergeant, and start following orders. Or I will arrange for your immediate transfer back to TREBUCHET." There was no anger in her voice, just calm determination. "Do I make myself clear?"
Avery choked on a slowly building rage. At last, he knew exactly why he had come to Harvest, as well as who had brought him here. "Yes, ma'am."
Al-Cygni dropped her COM into her purse and snapped it shut. "Wait for me downstairs.
As soon I can collect Staff Sergeant Byrne, we'll be shipping out." Dress rippling behind her, she stepped quickly into the waltzing crowd.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MINOR TRANSGRESSION, RELIQUARY ORBITAL
PATH
There would be no surprises this time. Chur'R-Yar had made sure of that. Through the walls of the umbilical, she could see the boxy freighter's atmosphere venting out the careful holes she'd made with her own ship's lasers. If any of the aliens were hiding on board, the Shipmistress had done all she could to kill them without harming whatever relic lay inside.
After the surprise encounter on the last freighter, Chur'R-Yar and the other Kig-Yar had scoured the alien ship. But they found no relics. Even Minor Transgression's Luminary had given up and dimmed its glyph. In her frustration, the Shipmistress decided to destroy the vessel—obliterate all evidence of her fruitless transgression.
She had considered ordering the Huragok to conduct a more meticulous search. But as fast as the creature worked, she didn't want to remain in the same place for very long in case the alien it had killed had somehow managed to call for help without triggering her ship's sensors.
And besides, the Deacon (her only means of communicating with the Huragok) was an emotional wreck—totally useless after his close call. As infuriating as his cowardice was, Chur'R-Yar had let him malinger in the methane suite. She needed her crew focused on the task at hand, not distracted by new and interesting ways to torment the Deacon.
"Ready yourselves!" the Shipmistress clattered as the umbilical finished its burn through the vessel's hull. Zhar and the two other male Kig-Yar were bunched together before her, as close as their pressure suits allowed. Built for external maintenance rather than combat, the suits were bulky and unwieldy—a necessary inconvenience given the lack of breathable air inside the freighter. Chur'R-Yar knew her crewmen were uncomfortable, Zhar especially. The suits' helmets didn't allow the male's spiny combs much room to flex, and her chosen mate was fully flushed—eager to prove his worth.
The umbilical ceased its fractional forward movement, and Zhar's head twitched sideways as he checked to make sure the seal was secure. "After me!" he clacked. Gloved claws wrapped tight around his crystal cutlass, he sprang through the wavering energy barrier that served as the umbilical's airlock. The Ship-mistress gripped her plasma-pistol tight and followed the other males through.
The first thing Chur'R-Yar noticed inside the hold was the lack of gravity. Floating half her height above the floor, she realized her laser fire must have hit an essential part. She rattled her teeth with annoyance as she watched Zhar and the others work to find purchase on the floor's grooved metal panels. The crewmen had been overeager. Now they were scrambling about like fools in the mocking glare of the hold's red emergency lights.
"Calm yourselves!" the Shipmistress hissed into her helmet's signal unit. Then, as she secured herself on the umbilical's protruding tip, "Move toward the boxes!"
The hold was filled with the same plastic containers as the first freighter, though it wasn't nearly as tightly packed. The boxes were stacked in low piles, spaced evenly apart. It would take time to search each one, especially in zero gravity. Chur'R-Yar hissed angrily to herself; the best way to speed the process was to get the Deacon to instruct the Huragok to find and fix the anti-grav unit she had unintentionally destroyed.
But just as she twisted around to head back through the energy barrier, she felt something sharp and hot tear through the neck of her pressure suit, slicing her scaly skin—felt the vibration of more projectiles ricochet off the hold's wall. Her suit automatically closed around the two small punctures, venting some of her violet blood in a globular spray. "Retreat!" she shouted to her crew, "Back to the ship!" The Ship-mistress didn't know her attacker's location, but she knew it had her firmly in its sights. Without looking to see if Zhar and the others were in any position to follow, she thrust herself back inside the umbilical.
Avery had to hand it to Lt. Commander al-Cygni. The woman could plan an op. Her carefully disguised sloop, Walk of Shame, had been filled with a small arsenal of weapons, some of which Avery had never seen before. He and Byrne had both selected what al-Cygni referred to as a battle rifle, a prototype long-barreled weapon with an optical scope. The two Staff Sergeants had thought the rifle's combination of range and accuracy would be a good fit for the long sight lines between the stacks of boxes in the cargo container.
But that was before they knew they were going to end up floating high above the container's floor.
When the freighter had been shot through with lasers and lost its gravity, Avery and Byrne had been shocked to say the least. Fortunately, the Lt. Commander had outfitted them with bulky black vacuum-suits and helmets with clear visors. When the bright tip of some sort of boring device punched through the hull, the two Staff Sergeants had pushed off from their hiding places behind the boxes for the marginally better cover of the metal supports girding the freighter's upper hull.
Avery firmed his grip on his battle rifle's trigger. The cross hairs in the weapon's scope were locked on the fourth alien, just now emerging from the shimmering field. Yes, the Lt.
Commander could plan an op, he thought. But she hadn't planned for this.
In their premission briefing in an empty Welcome Wagon from Utgard up to the Tiara, al- Cygni had told Avery and Byrne about a recent Insurrectionist victory in Epsilon Eridanus— one they hadn't been informed of, even with their top-level clearances.
About the same time as the two Staff Sergeants were struggling to take down the bomber in the restaurant on Tribute, the Innies had hit the luxury liner National Holiday as it waited above the planet Reach. The ship was just completing its load-in of more than fifteen hundred civilian passengers on charter-tour to Arcadia—a colony famous for its recreational amenities—when the pair of unmanned orbital taxis struck.
The liner's captain had assumed the taxis were simply carrying late-arriving passengers.
When they failed to comply with his docking commands, the captain had initiated evasive maneuvers—tried to deflect what he thought would be minor impacts. But the amount of explosives the Innies had packed into the taxis not only tore National Holiday in two, but also burned away the hull paint of every other ship in a two-kilometer radius.
The two Staff Sergeants had listened soberly to a recording on Jilan's COM-pad of the captain's final words—heard how the former naval fighter pilot had calmly directed other ships out of his crippled liner's path, even as it dropped into Reach's atmosphere, bodies billowing from its breached staterooms, and began to burn.
So far, Jilan had explained, ONI had managed to keep things under wraps, successfully spinning the Innie's hit as a tragic accident. Partly this was because the attack was so audacious.
This was the first time the Insurrectionists had hit a non-terrestrial target—and not only that, but they'd done it above Reach, the epicenter of UNSC power in Epsilon Eridanus. Even though the Innies claimed responsibility for the horrible loss of life, most people were too fearful to believe the rebels' claim. If they could lash out in plain view of the UNSC fleet, what was stopping them from hitting targets in other systems? Sol, for example, or Harvest?