Halo: Contact Harvest

During a quick briefing in Thune’s parliament office before the militia left for Gladsheim, Mack had expressed that he would rather help with the evacuation "behind the scenes." He never actually refused to manifest in Gladsheim’s terminal, but Avery now noticed Mack did sound a little stiff—his good humor more forced than it had been at the solstice celebration.

Part of this might have been an effort to respect the day’s tragic events. But whatever the reason, the AI’s personality quirks weren’t Avery’s concern. Lt. Commander al-Cygni had spent a great deal more time with Mack than he, and during the briefing she’d taken the AI’s reticence in stride.

Avery paced out of the terminal building parallel to the line of refugees until he reached the gate. Byrne was already standing beside Ponder, but the Captain waited for Avery to draw close before he announced in a harsh whisper: "Some of Mack’s JOTUNs just spotted a convoy heading through the vineyards."

"How many vehicles?" Avery asked.

Ponder looked to Mack. The AI must have been monitoring their conversation, because after tipping his hat to a stocky gray-haired woman holding the hands of her two grandchildren, the AI flashed a wide-stretched hand: five.

Avery had seen the vineyards from the roof. Their evenly spaced rows of trellised vines stretched out from town in all directions. Most of the grapes were for everyday consumption, but some were grown for wine. Indeed, sampling the product of the region’s small family wineries was the main reason Utgard’s more genteel population ever bothered to make the all- day drive to Gladsheim across the Ida.

Avery knew the people in the convoy had headed into the vineyards to stay off the roads.

This late in the summer the soil in the vineyards was dried out and hard packed, so they should have been able to make good time and stay out of sight. But he also knew Ponder wouldn’t have called him down unless there was a problem.

"Mack’s tracking two dropships," Ponder said. "Same ones they used in the gardens."

"Balls!" Byrne spat.

"Take a ‘Hog, see what you can do." The Captain winced as he craned his neck to glance at the shuffling crowd. "But you gotta be quick. One more container, and we’re done."

"Any sign of Jenkins’ folks?" Avery asked.

Again Ponder looked to Mack. The AI wasn’t just greeting people to be friendly. From cameras in his holo-projectors and others around the terminal, he had been scanning faces and checking them against Harvest’s census database. Mack shook his head: no.

"Let’s hope they’re in that convoy," Ponder said as the echo of another plasma strike rolled across the depot, much louder than before. "We gotta move out. Even if they’re not."

Less than a minute later, Avery and Byrne were driving another of the militia’s Warthogs west along the main street. Avery was behind the wheel. Byrne manned the vehicle’s M41 light antiaircraft gun (LAAG), a triple-barreled, rotary machine gun mounted on a swiveling turret in the vehicle’s cargo-bed. The LAAG was the most powerful weapon in the militia’s arsenal and would have been more than sufficient for any internal security operations. But Avery had no idea how it would stack up against the alien dropships’ turrets.

He hung a sharp right onto a northbound avenue, following a waypoint Mack had beamed to a map in the vehicle’s dashboard display. A few more blocks and they were in the warehouse district, their view limited by the height of the metal buildings. Avery made one more turn onto a westward avenue that led to the edge of town and brought the Warthog to a squealing stop.

One of the dropships hung low above the vineyards, its turret firing away from Avery into the rows. Closer in, a dusty hauler and sedan sat burning on a strip of red dirt between the vineyards and the town. Both vehicles’ doors were open, evidence that their occupants had at least tried to run. But they hadn’t made it very far. A line of smoldering corpses lay flopped in the dirt where the turret had cut them down.

Avery saw something emerge from the hauler’s freight container. It glimmered in the fiery smoke shooting from the hauler’s engine, and Avery knew it was the gold-armored alien even before it stepped clearly into view, hammer slung across its back. The creature held a suitcase in one of its paws and a body in the other. Avery watched the creature dump both its prizes on the ground, bend down, and tear the suitcase open with its claws. Not yet alerted to the marines’ presence, it carefully sorted through the jumbled clothes.

"We’re too late," Byrne hissed.

"No." Avery saw the body move—a slender man with thinning hair who screamed as the gold-armored alien caught him around the neck. "Got a survivor."

Byrne braced himself against the LAAG. "Make that son-of-a-bitch stand up."

Avery punched the Warthog’s horn. He didn’t let up until the commanding honk cut through the groan of the dropship’s anti-grav units. When the alien rose to face the sound, Byrne let him have it.

Blue sparks burst from the alien’s energy shields as the LAAG’S twelve-point-seven millimeter rounds drove home. The creature staggered backward, and, for a moment, Avery thought Byrne’s sustained fire would cut it down. But just as its knees looked set to buckle, the alien rolled sideways behind the sedan. Just then the dropship swung round, insects buzzing from its bays. Avery held steady and let Byrne rake the scattering swarm. But then he saw a vaulting flash of gold.

"Hang on!" Avery shouted, yanking the shift lever on the Warthog’s steering column into reverse and stomping the accelerator. But before the vehicle had moved more than a few meters backward, the gold-armored alien thundered onto the avenue, dropping its hammer with a mighty roar. The weapon crushed the front of the Warthog’s hood and sheared off its tow- winch. The Warthog’s engine was unscathed, but the force of the alien’s strike popped the vehicle’s rear wheels clean off the pavement.

"Roll!" Byrne thundered, struggling to level the LAAG as the Warthog bounced back onto its tires.

But Avery had already changed gears, and now the vehicle surged forward, hitting the gold- armored alien in the chest and driving it backwards through the swarm. One insect flew into the windshield, cracking the glass and dying in an explosion of mustard-colored gore that covered Avery’s shooting glasses. As Avery tossed his glasses aside, another bug toppled over the first, clawed limbs flailing, and slammed into the tapered, armored plates that bracketed the LAAG’s barrel.

"Bugger off!" Byrne yelled at the insect as it tumbled past. The creature raked its claws, managing to cut the Staff Sergeant’s arm. Even though it was a shallow wound, it made Byrne angrier than he already was. He swung the turret around and hit the insect with an extended burst. But they were through the swarm now, and as the surviving bugs slowed in an effort to circle back, Byrne gladly distributed his fury.

The Warthog came to another abrupt halt—an impact that was so violent it snapped Avery’s chin to his chest and loosed the insect from the shattered windshield. But the crash was intentional; Avery had driven the Warthog right into the sedan, pinning the gold-armored alien in between. The creature roared with pain. It had dropped its hammer, and now its only weapons were its gauntleted paws, which it proceeded to clang against the Warthog’s crumpled hood like clappers in a pair of church bells.

"What are you waiting for?" Byrne shouted as Avery unholstered his M6 and leveled the pistol at the alien’s face. "Kill the bastard!"

But Avery didn’t pull the trigger. Instead he glared up at the dropship’s cabin: You shoot me? I shoot you-know-damn-well-who.

The dropship’s turret had swung around to face the Warthog. Bright blue plasma crackled deep inside its two-pronged barrel. But whatever creature sat inside the cabin heeded Avery’s warning, and the weapon did not fire.

"Byrne. Grab the survivor."

"Are you crazy?"

The armored alien stopped pounding. It put its paws against the Warthog’s exposed engine block and tried to push the vehicle back. Avery gave the Warthog some gas, spinning its rear tires in the vineyard dirt and applying additional pressure. "Do it!" Avery shouted.

The alien stopped pushing and howled in agony.

Byrne leapt down from the LAAG and walked slowly to the wounded civilian, the dropship’s turret pivoting between him and Avery. Byrne helped the thin-haired man to his feet, slung his arm across his shoulder and led him to the Warthog’s passenger seat.

"You’re gonna be alright," Avery said as Byrne buckled the man’s shoulder belt. He was barely dressed—wore only a pair of striped boxer shorts and a white tank top that was melted to his chest. His face and arms were covered in second and third degree burns. When the man tried to speak, Avery shook his head. "Just relax."

"I’m in," Byrne said, settling back into his turret. "Now what?"

Avery stared into the pinned alien’s yellow eyes. "Soon as I hit the gas, you pop golden boy in the chin."

Byrne grunted. "Deal."

Avery drove his boot against the floorboard. The Warthog jumped backwards, and the gold- armored alien howled anew. Avery only caught a glimpse of the creature’s injury before he twisted in his seat to see where he was driving. The alien’s right thigh was shattered. The armored plate on its leg had sheared away, and two spurs of bone jutted through its bloodied skin.

As bad as the injury was, it saved the alien’s life. Right as Byrne opened fire, the alien’s leg collapsed and it toppled to the ground. Byrne didn’t have time to adjust his aim before Avery yanked the Warthog’s wheel, spinning it back between the warehouses. Plasma fire from the dropship’s turret baking the pavement behind them, the two Staff Sergeants and their lone evacuee sped back to the terminal.

"Captain!" Avery barked into his throat-mic. "We’re on our way!"

"We got bugs in the yard and hostile air!" Ponder replied. Avery could hear shooting and shouting over the COM. "We’re loading the last of the civilians now. Need you to draw some fire!"

"Byrne, you see another ship?"

"Water tower! Left at the next intersection!"

Avery swung the Warthog onto Gladsheim’s main street in a wide, squealing turn. A moment later, he saw the second alien dropship cruise north above the terminal, its turret blasting the yard below. Byrne raked one of the ship’s troop bays with a long burst that brought its turret quickly around. But Avery had already punched the accelerator, and the turret’s reply burned into the street behind them.

"It’s turning to follow," Byrne yelled. "Go, go, go!"

Avery pressed his boot to the floorboard, and soon the Warthog was rolling at maximum speed toward the eastern edge of town. Despite nonstop fire from Byrne, the dropship was quickly closing the distance; Avery could feel the heat of its strafing plasma bolts on the back of his neck.

"Hang on!" Avery shouted as he pulled the Warthog’s emergency brake and turned hard right. The Warthog’s front wheels locked but its rear wheels swung out to the left, whipping the vehicle around the base of the water tower. Avery looked over to see if his civilian passenger was okay, but the man had passed out from shock.

"Are you alright?" Mack’s voice buzzed in Avery’s helmet. The AI sounded too calm for the present chaos.

"For now." Avery grimaced as the dropship sped past the Warthog, too quickly to match its fishtail turn. The dropship splashed the water tower’s tank with angry, errant blasts, then disappeared around Gladsheim’s hotel. "Everyone away?"

"Everyone but you," Mack replied.

The Warthog was now pointed directly at the depot. Down the avenue, Avery could see a cargo container pull out of the terminal, building up speed. "Send another box! We’ll drive right in!"

"I’ve got a better idea," Mack said. "Back up, head into the vineyard."

"Hell with that!" Byrne shouted.

Avery yanked the shift lever. "Dropship’s right on our ass, Mack."

"I know." The AI sounded positively cheerful.

A few seconds later, all Avery could see was the rush of leaves and the burgundy blur of grape clusters as the Warthog sped east down a vineyard row. "What’s the plan?"

"There’s an emergency siding two-point-three kilometers east of your current location,"

Mack revealed. "I’ll have another container waiting for you there." Just then, the dropship swung back in behind. Its turret blazed, sending blind shots through the Warthog’s dust that hit farther down the row. Avery swerved to miss a zigzag of steaming potholes. "Well, not waiting exactly," Mack continued. "What’s your current speed?"

"One hundred twenty!"

"Excellent. Don’t stop."

Knuckles tight against the wheel, Avery barreled down the row, doing his best to avoid additional impact craters. But he couldn’t swerve to miss them all and maintain his speed.

"Steady, you bastard!" Byrne yelled as the Warthog bounced in and out of a particularly nasty hole.

Avery’s ears were ringing from the LAAG’s report—a non-stop whirring thunk—and the clatter of its brass cartridges spewing into the cargo bed. "Kiss my ass!" he shouted at Byrne as a plasma bolt scorched overhead so close that it almost boiled the sweat soaking his fatigues.

"Not you! The bastard on our six!"

The dropship had begun swinging back and forth, trying to get an unobstructed shot. Its turret was having trouble tracking, and its shots hit wide on either side, melting the metal wires that kept the vines trellised between thicker vertical posts. Avery knew its poor aim wouldn’t last forever.

"Mack?"

"Keep going. Almost there …"

The dropship’s fire swung left in front of the Warthog, filling the row with globules of molten metal from the trellis wire and posts. Avery put a hand behind his civilian passenger’s neck and thrust him forward in his seat—ducked his head below the dash as the Warthog sped through a sticky, searing cloud of vaporized grape juice.

"We’re about to get cooked!" Avery shouted, face and forearms smarting from the cloud.

Then something exploded behind him.

"Ho-lee shite!" Byrne cheered.

Avery didn’t see the dropship die—how its troop bays burst apart and careened into the vineyard. But he saw some of its killers: a squadron of JOTUN crop dusters streaking north to south. Mack had set a trap—guided these subsonic, makeshift missiles into the dropship’s path, knowing the ship’s momentum and singular focus on Avery’s Warthog would seal its fate.