"Deacon!" Tartarus' voice echoed into the bay. "The Chieftain needs you on the bridge!"

< Promise! > Dadab signed with shaking hands. < You will take it apart! > Lighter Than Some swung its snout to face the plow. It tapped a tentacle against one of the machine's sharpened tines, as if considering the quality of its work. < Well, I did rush the assembly. And one machine hardly makes up for the life I took. > "Deacon! The Chieftain insists!"

< Fix! > Dadab signed as he backpedaled through the curtain and out the bay.

"When will the dropship be ready to fly?" Tartarus asked, heading back to the shaft.

"The Huragok has hit a minor snag." Dadab was glad the Jiralhanae had taken the lead— had his back to him. Otherwise he would have known Dadab was lying just by looking at his darting eyes. "But I know it will make things right just as quickly as it can!"

Rapid Conversion's bridge was located halfway up the shaft, toward the prow, as far from the outer hull as possible—a placement that made it invulnerable to all but the most devastating attack. As Dadab scampered inside, close on Tartarus' heels, he noted the bridge was (while not as roomy as the Jiralhanae's feasting hall) large enough to accommodate the entire pack. All were present, most hunched over workstations protruding from the bridge's reinforced walls.

These were filled with holographic switches that flickered against the Jiralhanae's blue armor.

Like Tartarus, they were girded for a fight.

Maccabeus stood before the bridge's central holo-tank, his paws knuckled against its smooth metal railing. The Chieftain's armor was colored gold, but made of a much stronger alloy. Vorenus and another Jiralhanae named Licinus flanked him, and their jutting shoulder plates kept Dadab from seeing whatever the tank had on display.

Dadab bowed, touching his knuckles to the bridge's grooved metal floor. It vibrated in time with the cruiser's jump-drive, idling many bridge lengths to stern. Ever mindful of the Vice Minister of Tranquility's desire for caution, Maccabeus had kept the drive hot in case they needed to beat a hasty retreat from the alien system.

"Come forward, Deacon," Maccabeus said, catching a faint whiff of methane.

Dadab righted himself and followed Tartarus to the tank. "Make room," Tartarus growled.

"Step aside, Vorenus!" Tartarus gave the taller, tan-haired Jiralhanae a cuff.

"Pardon me." Dadab gulped. "Excuse me." His conical tank made sidestepping impractical, and as he pushed past Vorenus toward the railing, his tank clanged against the Jiralhanae's armored thigh. To Dadab's relief, Vorenus was so transfixed he didn't seem to notice.

"Incredible, isn't it," Maccabeus said.

"Yes. Incredible," Dadab said, peering into the tank below its railing.

"Such enthusiasm, Deacon."

"My apologies, Chieftain. It's just that I've seen it before. Aboard the Kig-Yar ship."

"Ah. Of course." Maccabeus adopted an ironic tone. "After all, this is only—what?" He nodded toward the glowing representation of the alien world—its surface covered with insistent, Reclamation glyphs. "A few hundred thousand Luminations?"

The truth was Dadab was still preoccupied with the Huragok's disobedience. And to make matters worse, the bridge was thick with the Jiralhanae's powerful scents. The excited odors had permeated his mask's membranes, and Dadab was starting to feel a little sick.

"The numbers are impressive." Dadab choked back a bitter surge.

"Impressive? Unprecedented!" Maccabeus boomed. Then, his voice a low growl: "Very well. Tell me what you think of this." He jabbed a knuckle into a holo-switch imbedded in the railing, and the image of the alien planet faded—shrunk to a much smaller size as the holo- tank's perspective shifted to a wider view of the system. Dadab saw an iconic image of the cruiser just outside the planet's orbital path, and a safe distance from that, a flashing red triangle indicating a potentially hostile contact.

"It was waiting for us," the Chieftain growled. "Near the remains of the Kig-Yar ship." He pressed another switch, and the holo-tank zoomed in on the contact, bringing it into focus.

"The design matches the ships the Kig-Yar raided," Dadab explained. "A cargo freighter.

Nothing more."

"Look closer," Maccabeus rumbled.

Slowly, the vessel's representation began to turn. Rapid Conversion's sensors had made a detailed scan, and Dadab could see the freighter's blackened hull had been deeply etched, creating patterns in the bright metal beneath. No, not patterns, he thought. Pictures.

Each of the vessel's four lateral sides displayed a different, stylized image of the aliens and the Kig-Yar. In the first picture, one of each creature aimed weapons at each other (the alien held some sort of rifle, the Kig-Yar a plasma pistol). In the second, the alien had dropped his rifle and held out a handful of round objects that looked like fruit. In the third image, the Kig- Yar had cast aside its weapon to accept the alien's offering. And in the fourth, both creatures sat in what appeared to be an orchard. The alien held a basket of fruit, and the Kig-Yar was calmly making its selection.

"A peace offering!" Dadab said excitedly. "They do not wish to fight!" As the hologram of the vessel continued to spin, the Deacon pointed a finger at an outline of the alien planet etched into the lower-right corner of each side of the hull. Two crossed lines marked a point in the middle of the world's singular land-mass, a little below the equator. "And I believe this is where they would like to meet!"

"Apparently at dawn," Maccabeus said, increasing the tank's magnification.

Now Dadab could see that the etchings of the planet were shaded with a terminator line—a shadow that marked the world's passage in and out of night. Cutting perpendicularly across the equator, the line moved around the planet with each successive picture until it intersected the suggested meeting point on the side of the freighter that displayed the presentation of the fruit basket.

The Chieftain refocused the tank on the actual planet. "But there's more."

Now Dadab noticed new details. There was some sort of structure in high orbit above the world. Two delicate, silver arcs tethered to the surface by seven almost invisible golden strands.

Around the structure were hundreds of additional red contact symbols. The Deacon hoped the aliens' message was sincere. If these contacts were warships, Rapid Conversion was in serious trouble.

"Not to worry, Deacon," Maccabeus said, sensing the Unggoy's concern. "They haven't moved since we arrived. And they look to be the same as the other vessel. Simple cargo tugs with no obvious weapons." He gestured with a hairy finger. "But look here—where those cables meet the surface."

Dadab followed the Chieftain's finger. There was a mass of Reclamation glyphs clustered at the bottom of the cables. But close to these was another set of Forerunner symbols—a diamond of bright green glyphs hovering above the site of the aliens' suggested rendezvous.

"We intercepted a signal," Maccabeus continued. "And assumed it was a beacon—a marker for the parley." He scowled at the green diamond. "But our Luminary made its own assessment.

I'd like you to explain it."

"It's … hard to say, Chieftain."

But Dadab was lying. He knew all too well that one of the symbols meant "intelligence,"

another "association," and a third "verboten." And as for the fourth glyph, the one flashing from yellow to blue at the diamond's tip … Dadab nervously cleared his throat. "If you had a library I might—"

"We do not." Maccabeus' eyes bored into Dadab's. "One of many essentials the Sangheili saw fit to deny us. I'm afraid I must rely on your expert opinion."

"Well then. Let me see …" Dadab calmly scrutinized the glyphs. But inside he shook with fear. He knows! Knows all that I have done! And this is all just a trap to get my confession!

But then some small, still rational part of the Deacon's brain suggested it was possible the Chieftain really didn't have any idea what the glyphs meant, especially the one that was flashing so insistently. It was an arcane symbol only certain San'Shyuum priests and overachieving Unggoy seminarians would bother to remember. And if Dadab hadn't been so frightened, he would have been awed as he announced: "Of course! How could I be so stupid? These Luminations suggest an Oracle!"

Maccabeus drew back from the railing. Tartarus' and Vorenus' pheromones flared. The other Jiralhanae took their eyes off their workstations and stole furtive glances at the holo-tank. But no one spoke, and for a long time the bridge was filled with reverent silence.

"Can it be so?" Maccabeus said at last, his voice a throaty whisper. "A reliquary and an Oracle?"

"Who else would the Gods leave to safeguard such a splendid trove?" Dadab replied.

"A wise observation, Deacon." Maccabeus lifted a silver-haired paw and placed it on Dadab's head.

With a flinch of his fingers the Jiralhanae could have crushed the Unggoy's skull. But Dadab hoped the gesture was simply a sign of the Chieftain's growing appreciation for his assistance as minister to the cruiser's Unggoy and translator for its invaluable Huragok. In that moment all Dadab's fears began to fade.

"Brothers!" Maccabeus shouted, turning to face his pack. "We are well and truly blessed!"

Stepping away from the tank, the Chieftain threw back his hairless head and howled.

Instantly, the other Jiralhanae joined their voices to his cry, creating a booming chorus of joyous yelps that shook the bridge and reverberated down Rapid Conversion's central shaft. But there was one member of the pack who did not take part.

"Are you sure," Tartarus asked, squinting at the tethered arcs above the planet, "this isn't a weapons platform? Kinetics won't register on our scans. And it's large enough for missiles."

The pack's howl petered out. But Tartarus persisted, oblivious to the uncomfortable silence: "We should destroy it and all proximate contacts. Our point-lasers should be sufficient. No need to show them we have cannon."

Failing to participate in the howl was a direct challenge to Maccabeus' dominance. In his lifetime, the Chieftain had spilled blood for lesser offenses. But he was absolutely calm as he turned to face his nephew.

"Your suspicion well befits your post. But we now bear witness to tangible divinity."

Maccabeus gave Tartarus a moment to pull himself from the tank, look his Chieftain in the eye, and realize the extent of his insubordination—his perilous position. "If there is an Oracle on this world, nephew, shall we meet its call for peace with violence?"

"No, Uncle," Tartarus replied. "No, Chieftain."

Maccabeus flared his nostrils. The younger Jiralhanae's angry scent was fading, and his willful glands were now producing the unmistakable scent of submission. "Then let us keep our weapons stowed." The Chieftain placed both paws on Tartarus' shoulders and gave him a loving shake. "We shall give these aliens no reason to fear us. No cause to secret what we seek."

With that, the Chieftain began another howl. This time Tartarus was quick to join in, and before Dadab knew it, he was whooping along with them, his thin lips puckered inside his mask.

The Deacon wasn't so foolish to think he had somehow become a member of their pack. He would always be an outsider. But he was the cruiser's Deacon, and this was cause for celebration. In spite of all his missteps, and in opposition to his fears, Dadab had finally found his calling—his ministry, and his flock.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

HARVEST, FEBRUARY 11, 2525

Avery had always preferred to operate before first light. Something about the inevitability of sunrise heightened his senses—made him more alert. Breathing in the cool air of a soon-to-be- hot-and-humid day, Avery wondered if the aliens shared his preference. Exhaling, he hoped they didn't. Today was supposed to be a peaceful parley. But in case things went bad, Avery wanted every advantage he could get.

"You tired, Osmo?"

"No, Staff Sergeant."

"You keep yawning like that, I'm gonna pull you off the line."

"Yes, Staff Sergeant."

The militia was gathered in Harvest's botanical gardens, the planet's largest park after Utgard's mall. Located about one hundred and fifty kilometers southeast of the capital city, the gardens were the most remote and yet still stately location Lt. Commander al-Cygni could find.

If it were up to Avery, he'd have moved the meeting further away—not just from Utgard but from any population center. But Governor Thune had been willing to trade the small risk of civilian observation for the scenic grandeur he deemed necessary for humanity's first formal meeting with alien beings.

And Avery had to admit: The gardens were plenty grand.

The park stepped down to the Bifrost in three landscaped tiers, the lowest of which was a broad lawn of close-cropped grass that grew right up to the precipice. Here the Bifrost bulged in an unusual promontory—a spur of windswept limestone that provided panoramic views of the plain of Ida. To the north of the promontory was a spectacular waterfall—the abrupt end of the Mimir River that started in the Vigrond highlands and cut just to the south of Utgard. The Mimir's clear water tumbled down the escarpment to the murky, slow-moving Slidr: a river that followed the contours of the Bifrost and drained into Harvest's southern sea.

Standing in the middle of the lowest tier, Avery couldn't see the falls past a border of magnolia trees, but he could hear them: water crashing against rock, like an endless peal of thunder—reveille for a world not yet awakened to its peril.

Avery scanned the faces of 1st platoon's alpha squad. The twelve recruits stood in two lines on opposite sides of a large "X" of landing lights. The bright bulbs were meant to serve as visual confirmation of the directions Mack's JOTUN all-in-ones had etched into the freighter's hull.

The recruits' olive drab fatigues were freshly pressed and their boots were polished—not the sort of thing to do if they'd wanted to blend into the surrounding greenery. But Avery knew that was all part of al-Cygni's plan: make the aliens feel welcome, but also let them see exactly what they were dealing with.