Suddenly, one of the alien dropships emerged from a glowing portal in the warship's stern.
It swooped past the Tiara's seven brilliant strands, like a tuning fork testing the pitch of an oversized piano's wires.
As Ponder climbed the bandstand's wood-plank steps, he noticed the dropship held four objects in a wavering blue suspension field between its bays. When it slowed and the objects fell free, the Captain realized they were vehicles of some sort. The instant they touched the ground, their toothed wheels began to spin. Then, spewing clods of dirt and grass behind them, they began a rapid clockwise reconnoiter of the oaks around the knoll.
Each vehicle was driven by one of the armored aliens. Ponder recognized the tallest from the botanical gardens, its tan fur bristling from gaps in its blue armor. But the leader was a red- armored beast with shiny black fur who angled its vehicle up the knoll and came to a rumbling stop between the bandstand and the fountain.
Ponder noted two things as the alien dismounted: first, the vehicle's seat remained elevated off the ground—evidence of some limited, anti-gravity capability; second, the vehicle was armed with a pair of the aliens' spike-flinging rifles. These were crudely welded to the top of what the Captain assumed was the vehicle's engine. Cables snaked from the rifles to the vehicle's elevated steering handles—an arrangement that would allow the driver to fire and maneuver at the same time.
The red-armored alien leapt onto the bandstand and paced to Ponder, another spike rifle swinging from its belt. It stopped out of Ponder's reach but well inside its own, yellow eyes gleaming from its angular helmet. The Captain smiled, held out the holo-pad and thumbed its activation switch. The circular symbol Loki had received from his alien informant flickered to life above its lens.
For a moment the towering beast leered down at Ponder—a predator assessing its weaker prey. Then it reached out its mighty paws, engulfed the projector, and brought it close. Its nostrils flared as it sniffed the crackling air around the symbol. It gave the projector a shake, like a suspicious child with a large but very light birthday present.
"What you see is what you get," Ponder said, reaching inside his olive-drab fatigue shirt's breast pocket. The alien pulled its weapon and barked at the Captain. "Sorry, only have the one," Ponder said, extracting a Sweet William cigar. He put the cigar between his teeth and retrieved his silver lighter. "Adjust six hundred meters vertical. Fire for effect."
Loki's voice crackled in Ponder's earpiece. "I can give you ten seconds."
"Think I'll stay put and watch the show."
The alien snarled something that might have been a question. The Captain couldn't tell. But he decided to answer anyway. "Someday we will win," he said, lighting his cigar. "No matter what it takes."
The alien warship shuddered as the first supersonic slug from Harvest's mass driver smashed into its bulbous prow, crumpling the iridescent plating with a tremendous, metallic clang. At the same time, all the windows in all the towers around the mall shattered.
Even before the muzzle crack of the first shot rolled in from the east, a second slug arrived, penetrated the weakened hull, and gutted the warship, stem to stern. Purple running lights on the vessel's belly flickered and died. It listed to port and began to sink—and would have crashed down onto the mall if not for its perpendicular orientation. The vessel came down between two pairs of towers on either side of the park and became wedged in the tapered gap between their upper floors. The warship screeched to a shuddering stop, creating avalanches of polycrete dust that followed the sparkling window glass to the boulevards below.
In direct contrast, the Captain suddenly found himself rising. He looked down and was surprised to see the alien's bladed weapon jammed into his gut, straight through his cast.
Ponder felt nothing as his boots began to twitch, and he knew his spine was severed. As he began to twist sideways on the blades, the alien grabbed him around the neck and pulled its weapon back.
Unfortunately, the blades hurt a lot more going out than they did going in. Ponder opened his mouth in silent torment and his cigar fell from his lips, its tip bouncing off one of the alien's paws. Snarling, the creature released Ponder's neck, and the Captain crashed to the bandstand into a widening pool of his own blood.
Ponder thought the alien would finish him off quickly—drive a spike through his chest or crush his skull with a swift stomp of his wide, flat feet. But just like him, the alien had become distracted by a new noise rising above the groan of the warship's rough landing.
Seven small boxes were now streaking up the Tiara's elevators, their maglev paddles crackling as they glided against the strands. Though the Captain lost sight of the boxes as they passed behind the cruiser, he knew exactly what they were: "grease buckets" used to perform regular maintenance on the strands' superconducting film. But today they had a different job and carried a different load. As Ponder reached out a trembling hand to retrieve his cigar, he prayed the buckets made it swiftly to the top.
The red-armored alien roared and leapt down from the bandstand. The Captain watched as it rallied its companions and ordered them to the northeast—toward Harvest's reactor complex and the mass driver. The three aliens in blue armor tore off on their bladed machines, engines coughing fiery exhaust. Then the red-armored alien raced back to its dropship and rose quickly to the warship.
By then the first cargo containers had begun their climbs. Each was packed with roughly one thousand evacuees. If everything continued to go as planned, in less than ninety minutes Harvest's remaining citizens would be safely off their planet. But Ponder knew he had much less time than that.
"Loki," Ponder grimaced. "Tell Byrne he's gonna have company."
The Captain thought of his marines and their recruits—of all the men and women he'd ever led. He thought of his demotion and was happy to realize he wasn't one of those people who wasted their last precious moments debating how he would have done it different if he only had the chance. He blinked to clear his eyes of some of the polycrete dust now wafting across the mall, and at that moment, Epsilon Indi's first bright yellow rays stretched over the eastern horizon. Enjoying the warmth, Ponder kept his eyelids closed. They remained forever shut.
"Watch fingers while I open," Guff said as he inserted the handle of his wrench into the flimsy, mechanical lock of a tall metal cabinet.
Tukduk stopped scooping items from an adjacent cabinet long enough to say: "Next one mine." He removed a clear bottle filled with a fragrant, viscous liquid, studied it with his one good eye, and then discarded it onto a pile of towels and cloth uniforms in the center of the white-walled room. "This one no good."
"They all no good," Guff grumbled, levering the wrench and snapping the lock.
"No complain!" Flim barked, picking through the pile. "Search!"
Dadab shook his head and sat down on a bench beside the pile. Even though he had insisted that Rapid Conversion's Luminary hadn't found any relics on the orbital, Flim was convinced the Deacon was lying—attempting to keep the orbital's hidden treasures for himself. And as obvious as it was that they were rooting through a room where the aliens did nothing but wash and dress, Flim refused to give up until he got results.
"Watch step!" he growled as Guff accidentally stepped on one of the many flexible tubes littering the floor. The tube popped its top, spraying Flim's shins with a sticky, ivory-colored cream. Flim cuffed Guff's head as the bowlegged Unggoy kneeled and dabbed at the mess with one of the towels. Tukduk tried to take advantage of the distraction and slyly pulled a flat metal case from the top of the newly opened cabinet. But Flim caught him in the act. "Bring that to me!" he snapped.
Dadab guessed the case was just a signal unit or some basic thinking machine that belonged to one of orbital's absent crew. Compared to the circuits in the control room the case was worthless. But as much as it pained Dadab to perpetuate the charade of their holy investigation, he effected a passably curious tone.
"May I see that when you're finished?"
"Why?" Flim replied, snatching the case from Tukduk.
"I found one like it a few cycles ago. I believe they're part of a set," the Deacon lied. "If we could find all of them …"
Flim narrowed his eyes. "Yes?"
"Well, they would be a lot more valuable. The Ministry would reward us handsomely."
"How reward?"
"Oh, anything you might desire." Dadab shrugged. "Within reason, of course."
Flim blinked his wide-set eyes and prioritized his desires—some more reasonable than others. Then he growled at Guff. "No clean! Search!" Guff gladly tossed the gummy towel aside, retrieved his wrench, and made ready to break open another cabinet.
Dadab drew a short breath and feigned a cough. "Running low," he said, reaching around to rap his knuckles on his methane tank. "Need a refill."
Flim didn't protest. He had temporarily lifted his mask and was testing the hardness of the case with his closely packed and pointed teeth.
"I will soon return," Dadab added in a casual tone, walking out of the room toward the walkway. Of course, he had plenty of methane. But the Deacon had spent almost a whole cycle with the other Unggoy, and he desperately wanted some time alone with Lighter Than Some.
The Huragok had made some very cryptic comments about the Jiralhanae. Dadab had seen the Chieftain in the hangar and remembered his injured leg. Something was happening on the alien planet, and the Deacon wanted to know exactly what.
As he doglegged around a junction, he felt the orbital tremble. Curious despite his haste, he looked out one of the thick windows that faced the junction's interior. It was hard to tell for sure, but Dadab thought he saw the cable vibrate. That's odd, he thought, pulling away from the window. But then he saw a red light begin to flash above a nearby airlock—one connected to a retractable gantry inside the junction—and he froze with fear. It took a chiming alarm to get him moving again around the junction to the control room, pounding his stubby legs as fast as they would go.
Inside, Dadab found Lighter Than Some, its tentacles once more thrust inside the central tower. He snorted loudly to get the creature's attention.
< What have you done? > the Deacon signed.
< Repaired these circuits. > < You have made this orbital active?! > < No. > The Huragok trembled with delight. < I have put our wrongs to right. > Dadab was both puzzled and terrified by Lighter Than Some's pronouncement. But just as he was about to ask for clarification, Maccabeus' voice roared from his signal unit.
"Deacon! Deacon, do you hear me?"
"Y-yes, Chieftain!" Dadab stammered. The timing of the signal made it seem as though the Chieftain was keeping watch inside the control center—as if he was fully aware of Dadab's complicity in the Huragok's sinful reassociation of the alien circuits.
"The aliens have attacked us! Disabled the cruiser!"
Dadab's knees wobbled with amplified terror. How could that be?
"They are ascending to the orbital!" the Chieftain continued. "You must hold them back until I can send aid!"
Dadab pointed toward the towers. < Destroy those circuits! > < I will not. > < The Chieftain commands it! > Usually, the Huragok expressed disagreement with an impolite emission. But this time it kept its valves closed, emphasizing its own resolve. < I no longer serve the Jiralhanae. > < What?! Why? > < They throw hunting rocks. > < I don't understand…. > < The Chieftain will burn this world. He will kill them all. > < The aliens will take this facility! They will kill us! > Dadab countered.
Lighter Than Some relaxed its limbs. It had said all it cared to say.
The Deacon unclipped his plasma pistol from his harnass, and took aim at the towers. The Huragok drifted into his line of fire. < Move > Dadab signed with his free hand. But the Huragok did not. The Deacon did his best to keep his friend firmly in his sights, but his hand was shaking, compromising his grammar as well as his aim. < Move, or, I, you, shoot. > < All creatures will take the Great Journey, so long as they believe. > The Huragok's limbs unfurled with slow grace. < Why would the Prophets deny these aliens a chance to walk The Path? > Dadab cocked his head. It was a valid question.
"We must let none escape!" Maccabeus thundered. "Tell me you understand, Deacon!"
Dadab lowered his pistol. "No, Chieftain, I do not." Then he switched his signal unit off.
Maccabeus cursed under his breath. It was hard enough to understand an Unggoy under normal circumstances—their masks muffled their words. But with the bridge's wailing klaxon and frequent explosions shuddering Rapid Conversion's lower decks, it had been impossible to hear the Deacon's side of their brief conversation.
"Deacon!" Maccabeus roared. "Repeat your last transmission!"
But the Unggoy's signal had cut to static.
The Chieftain rose angrily from his command chair and immediately regretted his decision.
He no longer needed his splint, but his leg wasn't fully mended. Before he had completed a full cycle in the surgery suite, the Luminary had found the planet's Oracle, hidden in its largest city.
The aliens had activated a beacon in the middle of the city's park, signaling their desire for another early morning parley. Maccabeus had no desire to talk—and only brought Rapid Conversion down to better facilitate a rapid, double-cross burning of the city after he had retrieved the Oracle. But it was the aliens who had sprung the trap.
The Chieftain braced against his chair as an especially large explosion rocked the bridge.
"Report!" he bellowed at his engineering officer, Grattius.
The older Jiralhanae frowned at his control console, his faded brown fur given passing luster by dozens of flashing holographic alerts. "Plasma cannon disabled! There is a fire inside the weapons bay!"
"Rally the Yanme'e!" Maccabeus growled. "Tell them to extinguish the blaze!"
