Halo: Contact Harvest

Jilan followed the Governor outside. Pedersen pulled the door shut behind them with an odd duck of his head—almost a bow. Avery raised his glass, tossed a few cubes of melting ice past his lips, and began to crunch. The movement of his jaw worsened an ache at the back of his skull. He reached around and felt a bumpy line—a cauterized incision through which the doctors had injected bone-knitting polymer.

Avery could hear Thune's voice rumbling outside the door, but he couldn't make out what he was saying. At first, Jilan's responses were similarly muffled, but the exchange quickly increased in volume—crescendoed with a sharp growl from Thune and conciliatory muttering from Pedersen. Avery heard departing footfalls, and a few moments later Jilan slid back into the room alone.

"He didn't know," Avery said. "That you were running an op. Using the militia as cover."

Jilan crossed her arms behind her back and leaned against the wall beside the door. "No."

The decision to keep the Governor out of the loop had certainly happened way above the Lt. Commander's pay grade. But if Jilan was upset that she'd been left holding the bag, she didn't show it. Her expression was perfectly calm.

Avery reached out and placed his empty glass on the cart. "How many ships is he requesting?"

Jilan waited for him to settle back into bed. "None."

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the low clicking of one of the monitors as it registered a spike in Avery's pulse. "But didn't we just—"

"Make first contact with aliens?"

"With respect, ma'am. The contact wasn't all that friendly. Their weapons were way more sophisticated than ours. And like you said, that was probably just the small stuff."

Jilan nodded. "We threw a sucker punch, and won a fistfight."

"They'll be back for another round."

"I know."

"Then why the hell isn't Thune asking for any ships?"

Jilan pushed away from the wall. "Organizing a militia took years of negotiations— required the unanimous approval of Harvest's Parliament. A significant percentage of its citizens were against having even a handful of marines on their planet." Jilan stepped to the foot of Avery's bed. "Thune isn't eager to see how they react to UNSC warships in orbit."

Avery remembered the looks on the faces of some of the guests at the solstice celebration; their obvious disdain for him and his uniform. "The Insurrection. Thune's worried it's going to spread."

"We're all worried it's going to spread," Jilan said.

"So … what? We're just gonna ignore these alien assholes banging on our door?"

"The Governor's upset. He doesn't want to listen. Not now. Not to me."

"Then who?"

Jilan wrapped her hands around the stainless steel bar that bracketed the bottom of Avery's mattress. She squeezed, as if doubtful of the metal's strength. "Someone with knowledge of authorized response plans for first contact scenarios. Someone who can either convince the Governor that bringing in the fleet is the right thing to do, or has the rank to overrule him." She looked up. "Not me."

Avery heard frustration in her voice: a flaw in her emotionless facade. He had an opportunity to say the right thing—to explain that he shared her frustration, and to ask her what they could do, together, to prepare Harvest for an attack. Instead, he let his anger get the better of him.

"The Governor's playing politics," he snarled. "And you're not gonna do a damn thing about it?"

Avery had been testing the boundaries of insubordination since Thune had left the room, but this was a clear step over the line. Jilan pulled her hands from the bar.

"My ship is already on its way to Reach, carrying a report in which I recommend—in no uncertain terms—that FLEETCOM ignore the Governor's objections and immediately dispatch a battle group." Any weakness in her voice was gone. She locked Avery's brazen stare. "What else, Staff Sergeant, do you suggest I do?"

Walk of Shame was an ONI sloop—a very fast ship. But Avery knew it would still take more than a month for it to get back to Epsilon Eridanus. The battle group would take time to muster, and would be slower to transit. Best case scenario: it would be at least three months before help arrived at Harvest. And Avery knew, deep in his gut, this would be too late.

With a silent curse, he yanked his out IV, threw back his bed-sheets, and swung a foot onto the floor. His hospital gown was surprisingly short, and Jilan was at a particularly awkward angle. But her eyes remained fixed on his as he removed his freshly washed uniform from the middle shelf of the hospital cart, stepped into his fatigue pants, and fastened them beneath his gown.

"What are you doing?"

"Returning to duty."

Avery tore off his gown, and tossed it on the bed. Now Jilan's eyes did flick up and down, registering the ugly contusions the recent fight had left on Avery's broad chest and shoulders.

"I don't remember giving you permission to do that."

Avery muscled into his olive-drab T-shirt, dropped to a knee, and did up his boots. "I have my orders: train a company of militia. And I intend to do it, because right now, ma'am? Their sorry asses are all this planet's got."

Avery pulled on his duty-cap and marched toward the door. Jilan sidestepped and barred his path. He was a head taller, much heavier, and stronger. But looking down at her stoic face, Avery honestly wondered who'd come out on top if he tried to push past and she tried to stop him. In the end, all she needed was her voice.

"Everything you've seen and done in the last forty-eight hours is classified. Top secret. You will train your recruits the best way you know how. But you will not tell them what you know."

She paused, eyes flashing. "Do I make myself clear?"

Avery had thought Jilan's eyes were brown. But now he realized they shone deep hazel.

Fathomless green.

"Yes, ma'am."

Jilan stepped aside, and Avery slid open the door. Stepping into the hall, he was surprised to see Captain Ponder, sitting on a cushioned bench a few doors down, fingers busy on his COM pad's screen. Ponder looked up as Avery approached.

"I was expecting worse." He smiled. "You look pretty good."

"Captain," Jilan said as she strode quickly past.

Ponder stood and snapped a hasty salute with his prosthetic arm. "Ma'am."

The two marines watched Jilan head toward an elevator at the end of hall. Her black boots' low heels clacked loudly on the polished white tile floor. Avery waited until she was inside the elevator and the door was closed before he asked: "Did you know she was a spook?"

"No, I did not." Ponder dropped his COM pad into the chest pocket of his fatigue shirt.

"But as far as they go, she isn't too bad."

Avery narrowed his eyes. "She's hanging us out to dry."

"What she's doing is following orders." Ponder put his prosthetic hand on Avery's shoulder.

"Bringing in the fleet? That's Thune's call." The Captain could tell Avery still wasn't convinced.

"Listen, all the gear you didn't leave floating out in space, she gave to me. She wants us to take it back to the garrison, put it to good use."

Avery knew there were weapons and equipment in Jilan's arsenal he could use to train his recruits to fight—not just march and shoot at targets on the range. If that was all the Lt.

Commander had to give, Avery agreed: it was better than nothing.

"Come on," Ponder said, steering Avery away toward the elevator. "On our way back to the garrison, you can tell me how Staff Sergeant Byrne managed to get himself stuck by a lizard in a space suit."

All the 2nd platoon recruits cheered when Jenkins fell. The blow from his opponent's pugil- stick had caught him on the back of his helmet—swept him right off the beam. Jenkins hit the ground hard enough to come up with cheekfuls of sand, despite the mouth guard FCPO Healy had insisted they all wear.

"Spit and grin," Healy commanded, crouching beside Jenkins. He waited for the recruit to remove his mouth guard—show that he still had all his teeth. Then he checked for a concussion. "You know the date?"

"Nineteenth of January, doc."

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"None."

"Alright then, enjoy the rest of your day."

As the Corpsman rose, Jenkins wiped his mouth, leaving a slug's trail of grit on his bare forearm. The recruit that had sent him sprawling (an older man named Stisen, one of a handful of officers from the Utgard Constabulary—the city's police force) was still standing on the beam, shaking his pugil-stick in triumph.

The beam was no more than half a meter off the ground, and there was plenty of sand in the pit the recruits had dug beside the garrison motor pool. But Jenkins still felt a little wobbly as he trudged back to 1st platoon's side of the pit. He'd done well—managed to knock off a few of the other 2nd platoon recruits. But then he'd run into Stisen, and the constable was just too strong.

"Watch yourself," Jenkins said, handing Forsell the pugil-stick. "He's good."

Forsell nodded, his jaws already stuffed with his own mouth guard. The tall, quiet recruit looked even more imposing in his protective shoulder pads, and it was 1st platoon's turn to cheer as Forsell stepped onto the beam.

"Listen up!" Staff Sergeant Byrne barked, his legs wide and his boots half-buried in the sand. "This is the title bout in our little tournament. Loser earns his platoon a week of KP."

Byrne grinned as the recruits' cheers turned to groans. The mess hall had automated food dispensers, but the machines were purposefully built to be cleaned and stocked at the end of every meal. Some training tools were just too good to fall victim to technological advance, Byrne smiled. "So let's see some bloody fighting spirit!"

Forsell and Stisen grunted—smacked the padded ends of their pugil-sticks together. The beam creaked as they delivered an opening flurry of blows. Both men were over ninety kilos, but winning at pugil-sticks had as much to do with speed and agility as striking power. The leaner Stisen had a slight edge. After staggering Forsell with a jab to the chin, he simply stepped back as the heavier recruit reacted with a wild swipe, lost his balance and stepped into the pit.

Stisen's platoon mates guffawed at the success of his ploy. Byrne wasn't impressed. "Only thing you get backing up is a boot in your ass." He grabbed the facemask of Stisen's helmet and gave it a series of emphatic tugs. "So stop. Messing. Around!"

"Yes, Staff Sergeant!" Stisen roared between clenched teeth.

"All right, you bastards. Kill, kill, kill!"

Again the two men clashed. This time they struck hard, locked sticks and tried to shove one another from the beam. There was a momentary stalemate—two pairs of boots slid backward, struggling for purchase. Suddenly, Stisen pulled away. Forsell lost his balance and staggered forward. Stisen took a mighty swing at Forsell's head. But the big recruit tucked his chin against his shoulder, absorbed Stisen's strike and countered with a thrust to the constable's ribs that knocked him sideways into the sand.

Stisen rolled to his feet and shrugged his shoulders as if to say: lucky shot—a reaction that elicited a chorus of boos from 1st platoon that persisted even as Byrne demanded calm, and a Warthog roared into the motor pool.

"You all want to slaver on," Byrne shouted, glancing at the Warthog as Avery and Captain Ponder dismounted. "Let's hear you count to fifty!"

The recruits dropped and started their punishment pushups, counting loudly and in unison.

But Jenkins kept his head up, and watched as the two Staff Sergeants came together under Captain Ponder's watchful gaze.

It didn't take a genius to realize there was bad blood between Avery and Byrne. Ever since Jenkins had arrived at the garrison, he noticed they'd gone out of their way to avoid each other.

And Staff Sergeant Byrne seemed to regard their recruits' training as a personal rivalry—had encouraged a strong, competitive relationship between the two platoons, today's pugil competition being a good example.

But as the Staff Sergeants talked to one another they seemed at ease. Avery pointed at an assortment of rugged plastic cases in the Warthog's open cargo bed. Ponder said something Jenkins couldn't hear over the shouts of his platoon mates. But it must have been something good because Byrne nodded approvingly. Then Staff Sergeant Johnson held out his hand.

Byrne paused—long enough for Jenkins to count from thirty-eight to forty-five—then he reached out and gave Avery a single, earnest shake.

"Second platoon, on your feet!" Byrne bellowed, turning back to the sandpit. "We are running to the range!"

Stisen stood, and tore off his helmet with obvious annoyance. "But who won?"

Without hesitation, Forsell swept Stisen behind the knees and sent him feet-high into the sand. The two platoons erupted in opposing cheers and jeers.

"Not you, gobshite," Byrne grunted, yanking the stunned constable to his feet. "Platoon!

Move out! Double-time!"

Jenkins and the rest of 1st platoon rushed the sandpit. They pounced on Forsell, and would have lifted him into the air if Avery hadn't broken the mood. "Atten-shun!" he shouted, and the recruits snapped to. Forsell struggled to suppress a smile.

Avery strode to Jenkins, carrying one of the Warthog's plastic cases. "What did you qualify?"

"S-Staff Sergeant?" Jenkins stuttered.

"Before I left, I told you: learn how to shoot." Avery leaned in close. "What did you qualify?"

"Sharpshooter."

"You lying to me, recruit?"

"No, Staff Sergeant!"

"And you?" Avery eyeballed Forsell.

The recruit still had his protective helmet on. It made his already sizeable head seem comically large. "Sharpshooter, Staff Sergeant!" Forsell replied through his mouth guard.

Avery turned back to Jenkins. "You like this big son of a bitch?"

"Yes, Staff Sergeant!"