Fortitude chuckled into his tea. There was something oddly endearing about the young San'Shyuum's impudence. But he presumed too much, Fortitude decided, extending a finger toward the switch on his throne that would bring the Helios hurtling up the shaft….
"The High Council grows restless!" the Vice Minister blurted, then continued at a breathless pace: "The Hierarchs are impotent—the dilemmas on which they made their ascent well settled. This is no longer an Age of Doubt, Minister, and those with any sense know this is your doing above all others!"
Fortitude stayed his hand. The youth had made a valid point. Ages of Doubt such as the present were about dealing with the fallout of previous chaotic periods, in this case the thirty- ninth Age of Conflict—that which had encompassed the Unggoy rebellion and seen Fortitude's promotion to Minister. His efforts to properly redistribute technology in the wake of that crisis had indeed done much to defuse new grievances. And while Fortitude was largely immune to flattery, he was again impressed by the Vice Minister's nerve.
Tranquility had just ranked Fortitude's achievements above the Hierarchs'—the three San'Shyuum elected to lead the High Council. These were the most powerful creatures in the Covenant, and calling them weak and worthless was a dangerous proclamation. Fortitude pulled back his finger, suddenly fascinated by what the Vice Minister might next propose.
Though, in retrospect, he should have known.
"We find ourselves at the dawning of a new Age of Reclamation." The Vice Minister coaxed his chair around the glyph. "You are the one to lead us through it, and I—by merit of my current discretion and pledge of steadfast devotion hence forth—humbly request to sit by your side." Tranquility stopped his chair directly before the Minister's, bowed deeply at the waist, and spread wide his arms. "To assume with you the mantle of Hierarch."
And there it was, Fortitude thought, absolutely stunned. Ambition laid bare.
It would not be easy to unseat the Hierarchs. To keep their exalted thrones, they would resist the declaration of a new age with all the influence at their disposal. Fortitude would need to spend tremendous political capital—call in all favors owed for them to have a chance, and even then….
Fortitude caught himself. Was he seriously considering the Vice Minister's proposal? Had he gone mad?
"Before we do anything," he cautioned, his tongue moving of its own accord, "we must be sure the Luminations are valid."
"I have a warship standing by, awaiting your approval to—"
Fortitude pulled back as if stung. "You have brought the Sangheili into this?!" His head began to throb, beating with panicked pain. If the Sangheili took possession of the reliquary, who knew how that might upset the status quo! Again his finger shot toward his throne's alarm.
But the Vice Minister jerked forward in his seat and countered in a firm tone. "No. I have enlisted other witnesses. Creatures that have proven themselves both loyal and discreet."
Fortitude scowled into the Vice Minister's eyes. He sought a glimmer of trustworthiness, something that might help him step more confidently down a new and treacherous path. But the Vice Minister's stare was all eagerness and cunning; honesty of a different sort.
The Minister brought his hovering finger down on a different switch. His tea's stasis-field collapsed in a silver flash, vaporizing the liquid inside. "What of the ship that registered the Lumination?"
"Lost. It had a mixed crew. Kig-Yar and Unggoy." Tranquility pursed his lips in an indifferent pout. "I suspect mutiny."
"Tell those you have enlisted that if there are survivors—and if they have stolen from the reliquary—they are to be executed on the spot." Fortitude pulled thoughtfully at his waddle.
"Otherwise, they shall remain in protective custody. The reliquary was their find. They deserve some small reward."
Tranquility spread a hand on his chest and bowed his head. "It shall be done."
At that moment, the cleric's prescription finally took hold of Fortitude's headache. The Minister closed his eyes, enjoying the rapid subjugation of his pain. He smiled with relief—an expression he knew the younger San'Shyuum would misinterpret as an indication of some great and budding camaraderie.
"A reliquary such as this has not been seen in our lifetimes," Tranquility said. "Each of its holy objects is a blessing for true believers!"
Fortitude sank deep into the crimson cushions of his chair. A blessing? He wasn't so sure.
As Minister, he looked with dread on the nightmarish negotiations required to distribute thousands of new relics. But as Hierarch, he could distribute the relics however he thought would best benefit the Covenant. Fortitude licked a minty sheen from his lips, still tingling from the field. And none would have the power to alter his decisions.
CHAPTER TEN
HARVEST, JANUARY 19, 2525
Avery found himself alone, pacing the rows of one of Harvest's vast orchards. Branches brushed past him on either side, heavy with a fantastic mix of fruit: apricots, cherries, plums— and many more, all beaded with condensation from a cold, morning mist. He pulled an apple free and brushed away the dew. The green skin beneath was so lustrous that it glowed like a thing on fire. Sunday, he thought. Sunday … But he wasn't sure exactly why.
He discarded the apple and reached deeper into the branches. Closer to the trunk, the air was colder. Avery felt the frost-covered curves of a pear, and twisted it from its stem. He brought it to his lips and took a bite. But his teeth had barely punctured before he got a raw- nerve jolt. The pear was frozen solid. Avery dragged his sleeve across his lips and was surprised to find he was wearing civilian clothes: a freshly starched white oxford shirt many sizes too small; a little paisley tie that barely reached his navel; scuffed, wing-tip shoes.
"A boy isn't a boy that doesn't ruin his clothes…." Avery heard his aunt Marcille's voice, a breeze through the icy leaves.
Suddenly, the branches shook in a whoosh of passing thrusters. Looking up, Avery just caught sight of a Hornet aircraft passing low above the orchard. Wings flashing in the bright sunlight, the aircraft banked and disappeared behind the trees on the opposite side of the row.
Avery dropped the pear and ran off in pursuit.
But now the farther he pushed through the branches, the warmer they became. Water ran in rivulets down waxy leaves—dropped from the fruit like rain. A rapid, artificial thaw was underway. Avery felt a humid gust of air that became unbearably hot the farther he pressed forward. He closed his eyes, lids burning, and felt the branches give way to something solid: a wooden double door leading into a roadside restaurant.
Pushing through, Avery saw the door was one of the few things left standing. The restaurant's roof was blown clean off. Its walls were splintered and its windows shattered. All the tables and chairs were burned and smelled of smoke. Toward the back sat a family of four, their cheerful clothes the only things not covered in a layer of ash. One of the children—the same boy Avery had hoped to save—looked up from a plate of pancakes and waved. As Avery waved back, the boy took a bite and pointed to the food counter. Avery turned and saw a woman on a stool, wearing a stunning silver dress.
"It's a formal affair," Jilan said, twisting on the stool.
"I know," Avery replied, reaching to straighten his tie. But he no longer wore his hand-me- down church clothes. Instead he found himself burdened by matte-black impact plating.
Jilan frowned. "Maybe I should have invited someone else." She pulled a purse from her lap—not the mirrored clutch she'd had at the solstice celebration, but the burgundy bag of the Innie bomber. She casually reached inside, as if rummaging for a lipstick.
"Careful, ma'am!" Avery shouted. "It's not safe!" He tried to leap forward and grab the bag.
But his legs were leaden—rooted to the floor. Avery heard the roar of Hornet thrusters, saw its shadow ripple across the counter. The young boy at the table started to choke.
"Relax," Jilan said to Avery. "You'll be alright."
Avery groaned and dropped to a knee. His armor had become unbearably heavy. He planted his gloved hands on the ash-covered floor to keep himself from collapsing. Through narrowed eyes he saw boot prints: the frantic footwork of marines working to surround a target.
Jilan repeated herself. But this time her voice seemed to come from somewhere else—an echo from beyond the restaurant, but somehow very close to Avery's ear.
"Relax. You'll be alright…."
Avery did, and he was. The powerful pharmaceuticals that had kept him unconscious since his fight aboard the freighter drained from his veins like water from a bath. He felt the tug of an imagined drain, and let himself settle to the bottom. When his eyes finally opened they seemed to do so at quarter-speed.
"There you are," Jilan said, standing close beside his bed. "Welcome back."
Avery knew he had been dreaming, but he was still surprised to see her out without her dress. The Lt. Commander now wore light gray service coveralls, high-necked and fitted at the waist—the everyday uniform of a female ONI officer. She stood on the left side of his bed. On the right was Governor Thune.
"How long have I been out?" Avery croaked, taking in his surroundings: a small room with cream-colored walls, monitoring equipment, and an IV stand—its tubing running to a needle in the top of his right hand. Avery smelled antiseptic and aggressively bleached linens. A hospital, he thought, a suspicion quickly confirmed as Jilan lifted a pitcher of ice water from a wheeled cart and filled a glass etched with the words UTGARD MEMORIAL.
"Almost two days," she said, handing Avery the glass. "You have a fractured skull."
Avery rose onto an elbow, took the glass, and drained it with a long, slow sip. Sunday … That was when he and Byrne had ridden a Welcome Wagon back up to the Tiara and transitioned to al-Cygni's sloop, Walk of Shame. The two Staff Sergeants had been briefed, armed, and underway by 0900, hidden in the decoy freighter.
"What about Byrne?"
"He's fine. Had his wound all sewed up by the time we got back. Your Corpsman even complimented him on his stitching." Jilan put the pitcher back on the tray. "He saved you.
Pulled you onto the freighter before the other ship blew up."
Avery frowned. "I don't remember that."
"What do you remember?" The Governor asked. Thune seemed penned in by the room's narrow walls; his formerly jolly bulk now a looming threat. "Take me through your mission.
Step by step."
Avery furrowed his brow.
"The room's secure. And you're the only patient in this wing," Jilan explained. Then, nodding toward the Governor: "I've already told him everything I know."
Avery reached for a row of buttons embedded in his bed's side-rail. Motors whirred, and the bed lifted him to a sitting position. Placing his glass in a nest of sheets that filled his lap, Avery settled into a familiar mode: the cut-and-dried delivery of an after-action report to a superior.
But he only got a minute or so in—was just starting to describe the combat with the aliens— when Thune became impatient.
"How did they communicate?" he asked, wrapping his large arms across his chest.
"Sir?"
Thune had begun to sweat. Deep blue splotches were growing around the collar and under the arms of his chambray shirt. "Did you see any COM-gear—notice how they spoke to each other or to their ship?"
"No sir. But they were suited up. It was hard to—"
"We're wondering if they sent a message, Staff Sergeant," Jilan clarified. "A distress signal.
Something we might have missed on your helmet cam."
"The leader was out of sight," Avery said. He remembered the alien's ruby eyes and sharpened teeth, the ball of plasma building on its pistol like a shiny apple. "One, two minutes, tops. But it definitely had time to squawk. And then there was the other alien—"
"What other alien?" Jilan asked eagerly.
"Didn't get a good look at it." Avery recalled something airborne, pink and swollen. "And it didn't engage."
"Was it armed?" Thune asked.
"Not that I could tell, sir."
"So let me get this straight." Thune scratched his neck below his thick red beard. "Four aliens, maybe five. Armed with knives and pistols."
"Their ship had lasers, Governor. Hydrogen fluoride. Very accurate." Jilan spread her hands a short distance apart. "And it was a small ship. Who knows what they put on their larger vessels."
"The ones you killed," Thune dragged out his words; his tone was arched, provocative.
"They seem any …tougher than the average Insurrectionist?"
"Sir?" Avery felt a familiar knot tighten in his stomach. What did the Innies have to do with this?
"Four of them, two of you." The Governor shrugged his massive shoulders. "And you won."
"We had the element of surprise. But they were disciplined. Demonstrated good tactical thinking." Avery was about to give a detailed description of how well the aliens had maneuvered in zero-gee, when the door to his room slid open and Attorney General Pedersen slipped inside.
"I couldn't find an orderly anywhere." He smiled apologetically at Avery. "Not that you're missing anything. Hospital food is the same wherever you go, I'm afraid." Then, to Governor Thune: "Anything … unexpected?"
Thune shot Jilan a dismissive look. "No," he said firmly.
A tense silence filled the room. Avery shifted in his bed. Clearly, his debrief had been an important part of a larger discussion—his answers critical to an argument between alCygni and Thune.
"Governor," Jilan said. "If we might have a word."
"You've been very helpful, Staff Sergeant." Thune patted Avery's leg through his sheets then headed for the door. "Enjoy your rest."
Avery sat up as straight as he could, straining his IV. "Thank you, sir."