Avery grunted. "Must have been before my time."
"Things were different in the beginning. There was still time to talk—a chance for peace."
Ponder shook his head. "Anyhow this guy—my target—had married the daughter of one of the local officials. I thought the father-in-law would be pretty ticked when a whole armored column showed up on his doorstep. But the next thing I knew, I was in his living room, sipping tea."
Ponder tapped the ash from his cigar. "We talked about nothing for a few minutes—just got comfortable. Then when his wife was pouring me a second cup, I got down to it: 'We're looking for so-and-so, do you know where we can find him, we don't mean your daughter any harm, etcetera, etcetera.' And he looks me right in the eye …" Ponder paused and stared out the Warthog's sloped windshield. "He looks me in the eye and says: 'Someday we will win. No matter what it takes.'" The Captain flexed his prosthetic, pantomiming his memories. "Then he put his arm around the target's wife—his own daughter—and raised it up like this … took me a second to realize he had a grenade."
Avery didn't know what to say, except that, having inherited the Insurrection from men like Ponder, he'd seen things at least as surprising, at least as tragic.
"I knew it was a bluff. This guy was dedicated to the cause, no doubt. But kill his whole family? Wasn't gonna happen." Ponder pulled the half-smoked cigar from his teeth and ground it into the dash. "One of my snipers thought different. Put a hasty round through the wall of his house, tore the guy in half. But he pulled the pin on reflex." The Captain shrugged. "I dove to cover the blast. Things got worse from there."
Tight space, jumpy soldiers; Avery knew worse had meant a lot of civilian casualties, some very angry top brass and—adding insult to injury—Ponder taking a two-step drop in rank.
"I think they wanted me to take an early retirement. But I stuck with it," the Captain said.
"Took a bunch of lousy billets and worked my way up to CMT. Thought I'd left the Insurrection behind me." He shot Avery a look that was more inquisitive than accusatory. "Then along came the two of you."
Again, Avery was at a loss for words. But Ponder was soon lost in more memories from that terrible day long ago, and for a while both men resumed their silence.
Out in the apple orchards, Avery saw JOTUNs—a pair of monstrous pickers large enough to engulf whole trees with their agitating arms. He had overheard Healy arguing with one of his recruits about the exact number of JOTUNs on Harvest. The Corpsman refused to believe there were three JOTUNs for every person—almost a million machines—until the recruit had explained he was counting all the different versions: the smallest aerial crop dusters to the six- wheeled beasts like the ones in the orchard.
"It's funny," Ponder said in a way that made clear he didn't think it was the least bit so. "But at first I missed it: my men, the combat, all of it. Took me years to realize how crazy that was— that I'd been damn lucky to get out when I did. Before things got really bad, and I made a mistake that got a lot more people killed."
Avery nodded his head, although he might as well have said: I know exactly what you mean.
By now the Bifrost had begun to rise before them. They were still an hour away from the limestone escarpment, but squinting his eyes, Avery could just see dark switchbacks carving back and forth across its face that would take them up to Utgard.
On either side of the switchbacks, separated by hundreds of kilometers, were two maglev train lines—thick monorails that angled down from the top of the Bifrost to meet the Ida, far out in the orchards. Avery saw a long train of cargo containers glide down the southern line.
The train seemed to move too quickly for the containers' size, and Avery realized they must be empty—on their way to a depot where hundreds of JOTUNs waited with fresh-picked loads.
"Maybe FLEETCOM decided you needed a break?" Ponder offered.
"Maybe," Avery said. It was as good an explanation as any.
"Well, why not start tonight? Have a drink, dance with a girl."
Avery smiled despite himself. "That an order, sir?"
Ponder laughed and slapped his artificial arm on his thigh.
"Yes, Staff Sergeant. Yes, it is."
By the time Avery pulled the Warthog into the curved drive of Harvest's Parliament building, he knew a lot more about Captain Ponder. How fighting the Insurrection had forced him to miss his eldest son's wedding and the birth of his first grandchild—precious occasions he missed much more than his arm. As they dismounted, buttoned their coats' brass buttons, and pulled on their black-billed dress caps, Avery realized he not only trusted but had a great deal more respect for the man who wore his CO's uniform.
The Parliament's lobby was thick with partygoers: men in pastel, seersucker suits; women in ruffled, scoop neck gowns—fashions that were already out of style in core-world salons, but had only just taken hold of Harvest's provincial high society. Some of the guests gawked and whispered as Avery and Ponder passed. And it struck the Staff Sergeant that they were the first marines—the first soldiers—some of the guests had ever seen.
But as they threaded their way up a crowded granite staircase to the ballroom, some of the curious gazes turned cold. We might be a new sight, Avery grimaced, but not necessarily a welcome one. It seemed the UNSC's handling of the Insurrection wasn't any more popular on Harvest than it was anywhere else.
"Nils Thune," someone bellowed from the landing at the top of the staircase. A thick hand shot out from a great swath of red- and white-striped fabric. "You must be Captain Ponder."
"Governor," Ponder paused on the top step and saluted. Then he extended his hand. "It's an honor to meet you."
"Likewise, of course!" Thune's grip was so strong he practically pulled Ponder up onto the landing.
"May I introduce you to one of my men? Staff Sergeant Avery Johnson."
Thune released Ponder's hand and offered it to Avery. "Well, Johnson?" Thune's red beard parted in a broad, toothsome grin. "What do you think of our planet?"
Avery had a strong grip, but Thune's was immobilizing. His hand possessed the kind of strength one got from years of farming the old-fashioned way—without assistance from a fleet of hulking automatons. Avery guessed correctly that despite his vigor, the Governor was well into his sixties—that he'd been one of the first colonists to land on Harvest. "Reminds me of home, sir." Avery grimaced. "I grew up on Earth, Chicago Industrial Zone."
Thune released Avery's hand and stabbed his thumb happily to his chest. "Minnesota! My mother's and father's side both, far back as I can remember." Widening his smile he ushered the marines toward the doorway of a brightly lit ballroom. "You're in good company, Staff Sergeant. Most everyone around here's from the Midwest—pulled up stakes when the soil went bad. Of course none of us knew just how much better things would be once we got to Harvest!"
The Governor snatched a champagne flute from a passing waiter and downed it in one gulp.
"This way!" He shuffled sideways through the ballroom doorway, his girth doing at least as much to part the crowd as any deference to his office. "And stay close! The show's about to start, and I want you two front and center!"
Avery shot Ponder a confused look. But the Captain simply plunged into Thune's gap.
Avery followed just as the crowd drew back upon itself, practically sucking him into the ballroom. Doing their best not to step on any toes, the marines followed Thune to one of the many glass-paned doors in the ballroom's eastern wall that led to a broad balcony overlooking the Parliament's gardens—and beyond that, Utgard's mall.
Stepping up beside Thune against the balcony's waist-high granite railing, Avery saw that the park was full of revelers. Light-globes tugging at their tethers in the twilight breeze illuminated knots of families sitting on brightly colored picnic blankets. Hardly any of the mall was left uncovered, and Avery was certain the vast majority of the planet's three hundred thousand residents were in attendance. But for what, he still wasn't quite sure.
"Rol!" Thune's shout rang painfully loud in Avery's ears. "Over here!" The Governor waved a hand above his head, but this wasn't necessary. Thune was taller than anyone on the balcony, Avery included, and the mop of thick, red and gray hair that covered his head was impossible to miss. Avery craned his neck toward the ballroom in time to see the Governor's somato-typical opposite slide out from the jostling crowd; a short, balding man whose elderly frame barely filled his light gray linen suit.
"Rol Pedersen," Thune announced. "My Attorney General."
"Just a fancy way to say lawyer." Pedersen smiled modestly through his thin, pursed lips.
He didn't offer Avery or Ponder his hand, but not for any lack of courtesy; the jubilant crowd had begun to flow from the ballroom to the railing, crushing the Attorney General's arms firmly to his sides.
"Rol's about as formal as we get out here," Thune explained. "Stickler for details. He's the one who handled all the negotiations with the CA about us raising a militia."
"Technically." Pedersen's eyes twinkled as he raised one of his white eyebrows. "I formally accepted their demand that we have one."
Just then the sky erupted with fireworks, filling the gaps between the Tiara's seven elevators with multicolored blossoms. Jutting up from Utgard's skyline, the strands shone bronze in Epsilon Indi's failing light. As the showering sparks rippled the air around them, they appeared to vibrate, like plucked strings in a giant's harp.
"Alright, everyone!" Thune roared as the last of the fireworks erupted in a smoky, blue- green cloud. "Get set!" The Governor put his hands to his ears, as did everyone else on the balcony except Avery and Ponder.
"Mass driver," Pedersen explained. "We fire it every solstice."
All at once, the towers around the mall went dark as the city's electrical grid lost power.
There was a bright flash beyond the Tiara's central number-four strand, and a moment later a shockwave hammered the mall, flattening the light globes and sending the picnickers squealing after flying napkins and bowled-over children. On the balcony, women shrieked in gleeful fright as they clutched their billowing dresses; men made a gallant show of uncapping their ears as a sonic boom pealed past the Parliament.
"Hurrah!" Thune shouted, starting a round of applause that echoed a similar outburst from the picnickers on the mall. "Well done, Mack!"
"That's mighty kind, Governor." The AI replied from Thune's COM pad, hidden somewhere in his vast jacket. "I aim to please."
"Speaking of which," Thune said, heading away from the railing. "How close did you come?"
Pedersen freed a hand and pointed after Thune, letting the two marines know they were expected to follow. This time the Governor led them to the far end of the ballroom where a group of children—girls with satin bows on their dresses and boys in shiny vests and shoes— packed tight around a circular table topped with a cornucopia of fruits and vegetables. A silver holo-projector was centered in a wreath of leafy vines and deep purple grape clusters. On top of that stood Mack.
"Missed by a mile," the AI said, rubbing the back of its neck with a grimy handkerchief.
"Actually, more like fifty kilometers. But I'm sure she'll say something."
"No doubt. No doubt," Thune chuckled. "Listen, I'd like you to meet Captain Ponder and Staff Sergeant Johnson. UNSC Marines. Here to raise a militia."
"Mack. Agricultural operations." Mack touched the brim of his cowboy hat. Then, nodding toward the balcony and the mass driver somewhere beyond, "Same as the navy's big guns. Just a little less kick."
"You know," Ponder deadpanned, "there's a reason we only fire those in space."
Mass drivers were a relatively simple, cheap solution for boosting objects from a planet's surface into orbit. Typically built on large, flexible gimbles, their linked, magnetic loops could be charged, aimed, and fired with very little automation—with a simple computer rather than an AI. But drivers had one major disadvantage: limited throw-weight. Which meant that while Harvest's driver worked well during the first decade after the colony's founding (when its primary role was to send carefully packaged nuclear waste on a collision course with Epsilon Indi), for the planet to meet its full export potential, it needed to be replaced with a high- capacity lift system such as the Tiara.
Driver technology was alive and well in the navy, however, in the form of Mass Accelerator Cannon. So-called MAC frigates and cruisers were basically moveable mass drivers—ships designed around the weapons' long, electromagnetic coils. The technology was similar to that of the M99 Stanchion rifle. But whereas the M99's light, semi-ferrous rounds were only a few millimeters long, a MAC slug was more than ten meters end-to-end, weighed one-hundred- sixty metric tons, and packed enough punch to penetrate the navy's thickest Titanium-A armor plate.
"Space?" Thune grumbled dismissively. "Those things even make noise in zero-gee?"
"If you're inside a MAC ship when the cannon fires?" Ponder raised his hands wide around his head, simulating a deafening boom. "I don't know if you're a religious man, Governor. But it's a little like a church bell—"
"Am I?" The Governor beamed. "Lutheran! Born and raised!"
Pedersen sighed in mock protest. "If had known you were going to bring up religion, Captain—as Attorney General—I would have counseled a less contentious topic."
"And I was about to tell a story …" Mack added, loud enough for all the children to hear.
The young crowd cheered as a holographic representation of a bustling, Wild West main street appeared behind Mack. A group of masked outlaws rushed from a bank, firing their six- shooters and spooking the horses of a passing stagecoach. The children oohed and ahhed. Mack pulled a sheriff's star out of his hip pocket and pinned it to his chest. "Might want to take the sermon to the saloon."