Halo: Contact Harvest by Joseph Staten Read Free Book Online Page A

one of the circular vents of a mask that covered his pug nose and wide mouth. Unlike the Kig-Yar, who were quite comfortable in the oxygen-rich environment of the alien vessel, Unggoy breathed methane. The gas filled a pyramidal tank on Dadab’s back, and flowed to his mask via hoses integrated into the tank’s shoulder harness.
More melon sailed Dadab’s way. But he was past the Kig-Yar now, and he ignored the sticky projectiles that slapped against his tank. Annoyed by his disinterest, the throwers returned to their petty squabble.
Minor Transgression was part of the Covenant Ministry of Tranquility’s vast fleet of missionary vessels—ships responsible for exploring the boundaries of Covenant-controlled space. Deacon was the lowest Ministry rank, but it was also the only position open to Dadab’s species—one of the few jobs Unggoy could get that didn’t involve hard manual labor or risking their lives in battle.
Not any Unggoy could qualify for a Deaconship, and Dadab had made the cut because he was smarter than most, better able to understand the Covenant’s Holy Writs and help explain these laws to others.
The Covenant wasn’t just a political and military alliance. It was a religious union in which all its members pledged loyalty to its supreme theocratic leaders, the Prophets, and their belief in the transcendent potential of ancient technology—relics left behind by a vanished race of aliens known as the Forerunners. Finding these scattered bits of technology was the reason Minor Transgression was out in the deep black, hundreds of cycles from the nearest Covenant habitat.
As Deacon, it was Dadab’s responsibility to make sure the Kig-Yar followed all applicable Writs as they went about their search. Unfortunately, ever since they’d boarded the alien vessel, the crewmen had been anything but obedient.
Muttering inside his mask, Dadab trundled down a row of containers. Some of them were clawed open, and he had to leap over slopes of half-chewed fruit the Kig-Yar had left in their rush to sample all the vessel’s delicacies. Dadab doubted any of the containers held items of interest to the Prophets. But as Deacon, he was still supposed to supervise the search—at least offer a blessing—especially when it involved items belonging to aliens as of yet unknown to the Covenant.
As focused as the Prophets were on finding relics, they were always eager to add new adherents to their faith. And although that task was technically the Ministry of Conversion’s responsibility, Dadab was the only religious official present, and he wanted to make sure he followed all the relevant procedures.
For the Deacon knew a good performance now might guarantee a promotion later. And he desperately wanted off Minor Transgression and on to a posting where he wasn’t just responsible for keeping tabs on irreverent bipedal reptiles. More than anything else, the Deacon wanted to preach—to someday become a spiritual leader for Unggoy less fortunate than himself. It was a lofty goal, but like most true believers, Dadab’s faith was buoyed by ample amounts of hope.
At the end of the row of containers was a mechanical lift that rose up the side of the hull. Dadab stepped onto the lift and considered its controls. Raising one of his two spiny forearms, he thumbed a button that seemed to indicate up, then grumbled happily as the lift rattled up the wall.
A narrow passage led from the top of the lift to the vessel’s ruined propulsion unit. Dadab caught a whiff of something foul, and stepping squeamishly through a bulkhead door he disabled his mask’s olfactory membranes. The pile of fibrous mucus in the center of the cabin beyond was instantly recognizable—this was where the Kig-Yar had chosen to defecate.
Gingerly, Dadab slid one of his flat, four-toed feet through the sticky results of the Kig-Yar’s fruit-fueled gorging until he struck something metallic: the small box that had attempted to converse with Minor Transgression