"Weapons! Yes, of course!" the Deacon shouted, springing to his feet. Then, in a voice so low Maccabeus could barely hear it above the machines' idling generators: "The Huragok will be happy to affix whatever armaments you require!"

Had the Chieftain not again begun to focus on the quiet management of his pain, he might have more carefully considered the Deacon's sudden change of tone. But now the only thing he wanted was to get off his leg and let it mend. "Perhaps later. When the Yanme'e have withdrawn."

"If I might make a suggestion?" Dadab persisted.

"You can if you are quick."

"Let me take the Huragok to the orbital—keep it safe until we can discern the reason for the Yanme'e's unwarranted assault."

Maccabeus already knew the reason: the creatures were upset the Huragok had taken over their maintenance responsibilities and further addled by their unfamiliar combat role. After the Unggoy's poor showing in the gardens, the Chieftain had thought it wiser to enlist the single- minded insects. But now it seemed all they wanted was to return to their old routine, and the easiest way to do that was to eliminate Lighter Than Some.

"A wise suggestion. The Yanme'e can complete its work." Maccabeus took a final look at the Huragok's odd machines. "Properly armed, these will be fearsome steeds."

The Deacon bowed low and then trotted to the Huragok. Taking his comrade gently by one tentacle, he led it quickly to Calid's waiting Spirit. The Chieftain saw the Huragok attempt to speak with the Deacon as they settled inside the troop bay; no doubt it was curious what Dadab and the Chieftain had discussed. But the Deacon's fingers remained still—his eyes warily watching Maccabeus—as the troop bay door swung shut. Gritting his teeth for the inevitable shifting of bone, Maccabeus turned and hobbled to the hangar exit, Vorenus holding his arm tight and Tartarus stalking close behind.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

HARVEST, FEBRUARY 22, 2525

News of Gladsheim's destruction traveled fast—much more quickly than the few hours it took Avery's container to make its way across the Ida and up the Bifrost. By the time the container eased into Utgard, most of the planet knew what the aliens had done and would surely do again.

Captain Ponder had been in contact with Lt. Commander alCygni throughout their journey.

She had told them Utgard (already packed with close to two hundred thousand full-time residents) was quickly overflowing with refugees from small settlements in the Vigrond. Avery had expected to find a mass of humanity inside the depot, but the container shed adjacent to the anchor for the Tiara's middlemost strand was largely empty—at least as far as humans were concerned.

Every empty space inside the massive warehouse was packed with busy JOTUNs.

Jumping down from his container's yawning door, Avery was shocked by the number and variety of the machines. There were dozens of the familiar yellow and black loaders, carrying light green plastic bins labeled FOOD and WATER and BLANKETS. As they sped their emergency supplies to the waiting containers—swerved to avoid one another with precise, last- minute timing—the loaders' large wheels squealed loudly on the shed's smooth polycrete floor, leaving faint black rubber skids.

But there were also JOTUN models Avery had never seen before: triangle-treaded supervisory units and spider-like maintenance all-in-ones. The latter scurried all around the containers, checking for surface faults and repairing them with short, blinding blasts from their integrated welders—one of a collection of tools attached to flexible booms equipped with grasping claws. As the marines and their recruits headed for the shed's exit between two container rows, they kept their helmets on and shoulders hunched. The all-in-ones' breakneck labor was creating unavoidable cascades of sparks, and no one wanted to get burned.

Outside the depot, Avery loaded into a waiting flatbed Warthog with Dass, Jenkins, Forsell, and the rest of the 1/A recruits. As they pulled into what Avery thought was heavy traffic, he realized all the civilian sedans and haulers packing the boulevard were empty. Some still had their engines running, others sat with doors wide open. But the only other vehicles actually driving on the road were blue-and-white patrol sedans from Utgard's constabulary. These had their roof-lights flashing and PA speakers blaring: PLEASE REMAIN CALM. STAY INSIDE THE MALL UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. PLEASE REMAIN CALM….

As the Warthog weaved through the abandoned cars north along the mall, Avery saw the park was even more packed than it had been during the solstice celebration. But the tenor of this crowd was much different. There was none of the mixing and mingling that the celebration's music and alcohol-licensed food-stalls had encouraged—just a single, silent huddle. Even the color of the crowd had changed. Gone were the bright pastels of the picnickers' semiformal attire. Now the mall's lawns were choked with dirty denim and faded cotton.

The Lt. Commander hadn't mentioned any civilian unrest. But here and there, Avery saw constables on foot patrol. The officers wore helmets and riot plating over their light blue uniforms; some even carried humbler stun devices and clear plastic shields. As his Warthog approached the parliament, Avery noted that the charlie squads had reinforced the main gate with an S-curve of sandbag berms. The militiamen seemed jumpy. Their eyes were locked on the mall and their hands were wrapped tight around their MA5s.

"Keep an eye on him," Avery said to Forsell as their Warthog came to a stop at the top of the parliament's curved drive. He nodded toward Jenkins, who had already dismounted and was slinking away, head down toward a line of canvas tents the militia had erected in the parliament's gardens. "Don't let him do anything stupid."

Jenkins hadn't spoken to anyone since they left Gladsheim—since he'd yelled at Avery. He wasn't angry anymore, just deeply depressed. Avery doubted the recruit would really do something as crazy as take his own life. But Jenkins had just lost his entire family, and Avery wasn't willing to rule anything out. Forsell nodded, shouldered the padded, rectangular bag that held his scope and Jenkins' BR55, and followed quickly after his fellow marksman.

"Round up your squad leaders," Captain Ponder said, approaching with Byrne and Healy from a second flatbed Warthog. "We'll debrief soon as I'm done with Thune." As the Captain mounted the parliament steps, he paused, leaned against the granite railing, and clutched his chest. Healy stepped quickly to his side, but Ponder waved him off.

The Corpsman had strongly suggested that the Captain not take part in Gladsheim's evacuation, knowing any exertion would only worsen his injuries. Ponder had, of course, told Healy exactly where he could stick his suggestions. But now, watching the Captain pretend not to struggle up the steps, Avery knew he was paying for his devotion to his mission and his men.

"Habel? You read me?" Avery growled into his throat-mic.

"Yes, Staff Sergeant," the 1/C squad leader replied from the ballroom balcony.

"We all clear?"

"Hard to tell. Crowd on the mall's pretty thick."

After years of fighting the Insurrection, Avery had become pretty good at assessing a crowd's intentions—whether it would remain peaceful or erupt. He could tell that right now the people on the mall were too stunned to storm the parliament and take their anger out on a government that had left them so poorly protected and now had the gall to keep them herded like animals. But it was exactly this fear that had prompted Governor Thune to order the two charlie squads to guard the parliament while the rest of the militia went to Gladsheim. Avery, on the other hand, knew the real threat was still hanging in low orbit.

"Put Wick in charge and come on down," he ordered Habel. "And tell him to look up."

Byrne had a similar COM exchange with Andersen, 2/C's squad leader. And a short while later, the two Staff Sergeants and their six second-in-commands were all gathered inside the parliament's limestone-pillared lobby. While they waited for Ponder to return, Avery recapped how they'd wounded the gold-armored alien. Then Byrne (who'd had the better view) described how Mack's dusters had hammered into the alien dropship, crashing it into the vineyard. These victories hardly made up for the day's thousands of civilian casualties, but Byrne's colorful, curse-laden account of the dropship's fiery tumble gave everyone an excuse to share some laughter at their enemy's expense.

Avery's COM-pad rattled inside his assault vest. He extracted the device and read a text message from Ponder: YOU AND BYRNE. THUNE'S OFFICE. NOW. Avery showed the COM to Byrne. Then, with the squad leaders' laughter petering out behind them, they bounded up the staircase to the parliament's second floor.

The Governor's office was located at the back of the building, the middle office in a long hallway of suites reserved for Harvest's twenty-four parliamentarians. But other than a few anxious staffers, the high-ceilinged hall was quiet. The marines' boots echoed loudly on its marble floor.

Inside the foyer of Thune's office were two constables, posted on either side of a frosted- glass interior door. Both wore riot armor but no helmets, and cradled M7 submachine guns in their arms. One of the constables glared at the Staff Sergeants. "Weapons on the table," he said, jerking his jutting chin at the empty desk of Thune's personal secretary. "Governor's orders."

Byrne shot Avery an irritated glance, but Avery shook his head: Not worth it.

"Just so you know," Byrne said with a thickening brogue, "I count my bullets." He unshouldered his battle rifle, yanked his M6 pistol from its holster, and set both weapons on the table next to Avery's. He flashed a defiant smile. "They'd all better be here when I get back."

The constables stepped back nervously, letting Byrne and Avery push through the door.

Thune's office was fan shaped, becoming wider the deeper it went. The curved, western wall was covered with a large holo-still of Utgard in the early days of the colony. In the picture, a young man stood beside the foundation of one of the towers now lining the mall which, according to the still, was then just a muddy strip used to park JOTUNs. The tall but still overweight boy was grinning ear-to-ear, and while he lacked the Governor's mature red beard, it was obvious he was Thune—probably no more than ten years old.

"I'm not sure what you expect us to do, Governor," Lt. Commander alCygni said, standing before Thune's polished red oak desk. She wore light gray, high-neck service coveralls—the same fitted uniform she worn when she'd met with Avery in the hospital. Today her long black hair was coiled and pinned at the back of her neck, revealing darker gray epaulets that flashed with her rank's three gold bars and oak leaf cluster.

"Consult me!" Thune bellowed. "Before you put some crazy scheme in motion!" The Governor loomed behind his desk. His large hands had the back of his brown leather swivel chair in a viselike grip. He wore corduroy pants and a thin flannel shirt—both wrinkled, suggesting he'd been living in the same pair of clothes for days.

"The plan," Jilan said calmly, "is the same one you agreed to a week ago. If you had concerns, you've had ample opportunity to raise them."

"You told me you turned Sif off!" Thune pointed an angry finger at Mack, who glowed from a brass-plated holo-projector mounted on the Governor's desk.

"I did," the AI replied.

"Then how the hell did they make contact?"

"I left an operable cluster. In case I needed to access the Tiara's systems." Mack looked at Jilan. "Apparently I made the right decision."

"You aren't supposed to make any decision without my approval!"

The AI shrugged. "I see no reason why we shouldn't keep the channel open."

"No reason?" Thune pushed his chair aside and slammed his palms onto his desk. "Those bastards are burning Gladsheim to the ground!"

"Technically," Mack countered, "the ones on the Tiara aren't even the same species."

Avery's brain raced, trying to get a handle on the discussion. Aliens on the Tiara? He wondered. When did that happen?

Thune looked at Ponder with a desperate rage. "Am I the only person in this room that still has control of his goddamn senses?!"

"I'm gonna need you to calm down, Governor." Ponder's face was pale. He looked unsteady on his feet. "We don't have time to argue."

Thune hunkered low over his desk. His voice rumbled deep inside his throat. "Don't you dare give me an order, Captain. I'm Governor of this planet, not one of your grunts." The veins in Thune's neck pulsed rapidly, flushing his face as bright as his beard. "I will decide what we should and should not do." Then, his eyes shooting daggers at al-Cygni: "And I will not let you use my people as bait!"

The office grew very quiet. Mack removed his cowboy hat and smoothed his uncombed hair. "I'm sorry, Governor. But a plan is a plan."

In the moment it took Thune to register the AI's disobedience, Jilan reached behind her back and unholstered a small black pistol scarcely larger than her palm. She leveled the weapon at the center of Thune's chest. "In accordance with section two, paragraph eight of the internal security amendment to the UNSC colonial charter, I hereby revoke your title and your privilege."

"Lars! Finn!" Thune bellowed. But the two constables were already halfway through the office door, M7s up against their shoulders, aimed right at Jilan.

Avery still didn't understand the argument. But he knew one thing for sure: al-Cygni and Ponder—his commanding officers—weren't on the Governor's side. That was reason enough for his response. But, frankly, he didn't much like the constables pointing their weapons at a woman's back.

As the first officer stalked past, Avery grabbed the top of his M7 and jerked the weapon down. As the constable fell across Avery's body, he hammered his right elbow into the man's nose, accelerating the constable's drop to the floor and relieving him of his weapon. When the second constable swung toward Avery, Byrne swept the man off his feet with a deft swipe of his boot, and followed him to the office carpet. One knee in the constable's neck and the other crushing his M7 to his chest, Byrne gave the man a second to stop struggling. When he didn't, the Staff Sergeant smiled and knocked him out with a short, sharp punch to the chin.