by John Shirley
His second-in-command, a large Sangheili colloquially hailed as Ernicka the Scar-Maker, was firing at the other pods already lifting off from the excavation known to the San’Shyuum as Site One. His rifle’s energy bolt struck one of them, but to little effect. His multiple, clashing jaws quivered in angry frustration, their rows of teeth clacking.
“They were ready to go,” Ussa mused. “All too ready. And those flying attack machines seemed curiously restrained. I suspect . . . they will fire their orbital weapon.”
“They cannot fire on the excavation without damaging the Sacred Dome,” Ernicka said. “Even they would not dare such blasphemy!”
“So I assumed,” Ussa said. “Now I am not so sure. The dome is of Forerunner hardened energy and holy metals—it would depend on the magnitude of . . . yes!” His clawed four-fingered hand closed into a fist with which he struck his silvery armored chest, as if smiting himself in rebuke. “I’ve been a fool. Quickly—into the air chutes!”
“If we go down that way, we won’t get back up for—”
“I said quickly! Tell the strike force to retreat, and to those we brought in the site—order them down into the chutes, now! There’s not a second to waste!”
Equipped with a new chair, Mken sped into the orbiting shuttle’s control room, shouting for the communications officer. “Signal the Dreadnought! I want the modulated cleansing beam on Site One! Hurry!”
“My Precious High Lord,” the communications officer said, “it is a privilege to—”
“Just be quiet and do it!”
There was a moment as the officer conveyed the order and another as the Dreadnought’s attack array—weapons the San’Shyuum had added to the ancient Forerunner keyship—powered up to firing capacity, drawing on energies the Forerunners had intended for other purposes, some of those unknown.
“Modulated beam prepared and focused, High Lord.”
“Discharge!”
Mken could see the Dreadnought on a viewscreen, in orbit over the Purple Line, well above the churning atmosphere of the Planet of Blue and Red; the convergence of the Forerunner craft’s armament was now pulsing with bright blue energy. Like a blade of fire, the energy suddenly stabbed down into the atmosphere. The viewscreen split to show its impact on Site One.
Mken silently prayed to the Prophets that the beam was modulated properly—their computational systems had assured him that the cleansing bolt would not harm the hardened Holy Dome exposed by the excavation. But it should destroy any living thing at the site.
The surface glowed with the Dreadnought’s destructive power—but to Mken’s relief, the Holy Dome appeared to be undamaged.
“We’re getting a number of organic incineration indicators,” the communications officer said.
“How many?” Mken demanded.
“Six, seven . . . no more.”
Mken sighed. “Fire at Site Two! Destroy all troops there!”
“Some of them are already retreating into bunkers—”
“Then burn the ones you can! Quickly!”
“It is my privilege to obey.”
Mken touched the control arm of his floating chair. “Kucknoi, have you docked?”
“We are here on the shuttle, High Lord,” confirmed the head researcher from Site One. His voice carried a hint of accusation as he went on: “Do I understand that you are attacking the excavation?”
“It is not being harmed, merely cauterized. We have modulated the beam to be certain of that. Kucknoi, there were tunnels under my drop pod. You were aware of them?”
“Not until they were breached. There is a great deal under the surface we have not yet charted, High Lord.”
“And under Site One?”
“There is a subterranean chamber, noted by our subsurface resonator. We believe it could be a major reliquary. We had just found an entrance and were hoping to open it, when this untimely interruption wrenched us from our work . . .”
“Had we not interrupted you, I can assure you the Sangheili would have. They would have cut you all to pieces. Is there a way Sangheili can penetrate the subterranean chamber, from above, without major excavation?”
“There are air shafts that one Sangheili at a time could use, I suppose. We did not choose to utilize them . . . They are not suitable for our chairs or antigrav belts.”
Mken grunted. “No doubt. And no doubt Ussa ‘Xellus knew about them. They are nimble creatures, capable of going exactly where we cannot. We’ll have to send the Sentinels in and clear those Sangheili out.”
But by then, Mken knew, Ussa would have probably moved on. He’d have found his way out of the hoary Forerunner structure, and would make ready to strike again at the San’Shyuum.
Mken was surprised at his own feelings—he was inwardly glad Ussa had escaped, though he’d have destroyed the Sangheili, rather than allow the saurian commander to further interrupt their excavations.
Yes, there was potential in this Ussa ‘Xellus. Mken was aware that to other San’Shyuum, the Sangheili were just impediments—but Mken was also a San’Shyuum of vision.
If the Sangheili were not entirely exterminated, then perhaps, on some faraway day . . .
And as for the Sangheili known as Ussa . . .
If this Ussa is not annihilated, he and I will meet again.
I can feel it . . .
PART ONE
* * *
A Place of Refuge
CHAPTER 1
* * *
Dreadnought Keyship
Conference Deck
The Age of Reconciliation
Despite his current status as Minister of Relic Safety, High Lord Mken ‘Scre’ah’ben—the Prophet of Inner Conviction—was always a bit intimidated by the Chamber of Decision. Those he was expected to worship had presumably sat here, at this long, sweeping translucent table within the Dreadnought. The San’Shyuum used their own chairs, but the rest of the room remained just as the Forerunners had left it. The table itself seemed imbued with fractals, animated nesting scrolls that moved into and out of larger forms: three-dimensional, then two-dimensional, then three again. The area faced not a window so much as simply a transparent wall. The hub of the spiral galaxy itself glowed effulgently blue, in places streamed with scarlet and purple nebulae, wheeling with unspeakable immensity, ever transforming, chaotic yet appearing to be an eternal fixed shape.
Who were the San’Shyuum to be here in this vessel, Mken wondered, who were the San’Shyuum to roost here like a flock of the bony-winged rakscraja that dwelled in the vine-choked trees of ancient Janjur Qom?
But here they were, full of officious self-importance, as they awaited the Sangheili treaty commission.
With Mken at the table were Qurlom, the San’Shyuum Minister of Relative Reconciliation, and GuJo’n, the Minister of Kindly Subjection. War had given GuJo’n, the chief diplomat, little to do until recently—his job had been only a sinecure, purely theoretical. Now as he unconsciously braided the tufts on one of his wattles, he seemed puffed with an exaggerated sense of his renewed status. His new scarlet robe was splendidly sewn in golden thread to represent interlinked star systems. Rather a pretentious garment, in Mken’s opinion. But he rippled his three-fingered hand in the traditional sign of Esteemed colleagues, let us begin, and GuJo’n returned the gesture with a magisterial accent.
Qurlom, the elderly former Hierarch, was more pragmatic, and simply began with “The inscription on the Writ of Union is not quite dry, and already the naysayers, the doubters, the heretics begin to arise.” Qurlom was quite serious about the Great Journey; indeed, he was such a true believer that he didn’t waste effort on any ritual, like the social sort, that wasn’t religious in nature. He always launched into the work at hand. “Something must be done.” Qurlom wore a white robe with a platinum five-spiked fluted mantle; his robe bore a simple design: seven circles interlinked in circular chain—the seven Holy Rings.
“I’ve heard such rumors of sedition,” Mken admitted. “There are Sangheili who resi
st our new Covenant. But it is predictable—a flutter here and there, soon gone in all probability . . . once we make a few examples.”
“No!” Qurlom writhed his long, wrinkled neck for emphasis. His wattles shook angrily and his antigrav chair wobbled. “Do not make light of this heresy, Inner Conviction!”
“I would certainly never make light of heresy,” Mken said calmly.
“Perhaps these doubters among the Sangheili do not regard it as a religious matter, but as a cultural one,” suggested GuJo’n smoothly, making an elaborate gesture that meant I do not contradict you.
Qurlom snorted. “Ah, but you do contradict me, GuJo’n. There is no doubt they are heretics.”
“My understanding,” said GuJo’n, “is that the Sangheili object to surrender of any sort—that it is counter to their ethos to ally themselves with their conquerors. They object to subjugation . . . but they can adapt to it, in time.”
“And you truly believe this? I have documentation suggesting that the leader of these heretics, this Ussa ‘Xellus, does not just object to the Writ of Union. He acts!”
Mken remembered the Planet of Blue and Red from several solar cycles earlier, when he had been a mere High Lord. Ussa ‘Xellus had escaped the planet and gone on to fight, with characteristic craftiness, in many ensuing battles against the San’Shyuum, on other worlds.
His voice almost a growl, Qurlom went on. “This Ussa ‘Xellus declares, and I quote . . .” He touched the arm of his chair, summoning a holoscreen that flickered into definition in the air over the table, and read out the text unscrolling there. “ ‘This Great Journey—what is it? Just another surrender, from what I can tell! Did the Forerunners truly summon us to sublimation, in the shadow of these Rings? Or is that an excuse on the part of the San’Shyuum to exterminate us? It is a murky pond in which no Sangheili would dare bathe!’ ”
“Very inflammatory indeed,” GuJo’n allowed. “Who provided this quote? Perhaps some profiteer?”
“Again you rebuke me, GuJo’n,” Qurlom snapped. “You imply my information is fallacious.”
“I am merely curious as to intelligence sources.”
“And I would like to know as well, Qurlom,” Mken put in gently.
“My intelligence source is the Sangheili themselves,” Qurlom replied. “Those who committed to the Writ of Union have no notion of being made fools of—they are quietly providing surveillance of all dissenters for us.”
Mken gave a hand sign of approval. “You’ve been thorough, Qurlom—I am happy to see it.”
“So then, Prophet of Inner Conviction”—Qurlom gave Mken’s spiritual title a fillip of irony—“what shall we do about it?”
“Ideally, it should be something taken care of by the Sangheili,” said GuJo’n.
“Yes,” Mken agreed. “Then let us have the Commission here . . . and I see they have just arrived. We will bring this up with them.”
By the time the Commission arrived, the keyship had turned in space, the enormous, towering Dreadnought structure ever so slowly rotating as it coursed its orbit. And now as the Sangheili filed in, Mken could see the skeleton of new construction through the viewing wall. Destined to become a kind of shell around the former Dreadnought, the mobile capital city dubbed High Charity was being manufactured by robotic and Covenant workers, all toiling on the rocky base, long ago ripped from the homeworld of Janjur Qom. A force field kept in the atmosphere needed by the workers, and held the void and detritus of space at bay. It was already a habitat. Someday it would be far more.
In time, High Charity itself would become an interstellar vessel, as well as the new, traveling center of San’Shyuum power. Thus far High Charity was only a living sketch of its potential, the semiglobular shape catching the starlight as the city gradually accreted. Fairly soon, the former Dreadnought would complete its decommissioning as a weapon and fulfill the terms of the Writ of Union; it would be set upon an anointed altar in High Charity, permanently attached. It had once been the most dreaded weapon in the known galaxy—now it was a symbol of disarmament, at least among the members of the Covenant.
And yet the Covenant still had teeth.
Mken looked over the visiting Commission. They consisted of two Sangheili, Commanders Viyo ‘Griot and Loro ‘Onkiyo. Behind them were two Honor Guards—the San’Shyuum referred to the Sangheili as “Elites,” in part to acquiesce to their appetite for honorifics, but also to adequately express the Sangheili’s uncategorical expertise in combat. In turn, the Elites generally noted the San’Shyuum as “Prophets,” though only a few actually held such formal stations.
The Honor Guard stood in the background, heads bowed respectfully; the commission stood, too—only because they were not being offered seats, as that would imply equality with the San’Shyuum. They would remain standing for hours at a time, like mere petitioners. Mken could barely tell them apart—they both had the mandible-like, four-part jaws that clapped together as arthropodic mouth parts; the multiple rows of sharp teeth; the gray, saurian skin and serpentine eyes. Their massive arms and thighs were thick with fighting muscle, and these two wore gleaming silver cuirasses and helmets, adding to their bulk—but it was Mken’s understanding that they were what passed for diplomatic corps types among their species. He noted that Viyo, on his right, was a little taller, and his helmet, itself with three fins on it as if echoing Sangheili jaws, sported blue panels alternating with silver.
Viyo flexed his clawed, four-fingered hands as if looking for a weapon that wasn’t there, glancing around uneasily. Mken doubted if the Sangheili had employed any true diplomats at all until the Writ of Union had been executed, and these two were clearly uncomfortable in their assigned roles.
Having concluded formalities, Mken asked, “Commissioner Viyo—what of the deployments? Are your troops en route?”
Mken hoped his chair’s translation device was up-to-date—over time they’d obtained a more comprehensive understanding of the Sangheili language mostly through interrogating prisoners, and cooperation had been predicated on rather vicious torture, which was perhaps not the best way to learn a new tongue.
“The troops are en route, Great Prophet,” Viyo replied. “The vessels are doubly crowded with soldiers of many specialties. They will soon be arrayed in advance of all San’Shyuum expeditions—all discoveries of Forerunner artifacts from this time forward will be fiercely protected.”
“Just as it should be,” said Mken.
“But heed me,” Qurlom put in. “You speak glibly of Forerunner artifacts. These troops of yours—are they truly committed to protecting them? We must know: are they fully devoted to the Great Journey?”
“Indeed they are, Minister!” said Loro ’Onokiyo, with something that might be the genuine enthusiasm of a recent convert.
“The Great Journey is not merely a matter of being ready militarily,” Qurlom portentously asserted, “though that is of importance. But truly, those who seek the light of the seven Rings must be purified within, utterly convinced of the truth of the Prophets, to the last vestige of their being, and willing to die for the cause without hesitation.”
“It is so, Minister. We are all ready to die for the Great Journey. Always have the Sangheili revered the Forerunners—and now we know at last just how to clearly hear the true word of the Forerunners and obey it. We are purified in the light of the Rings!”
Mken wondered, as he did every day, if he himself was purified within, if he himself was utterly convinced. He was the Prophet of Inner Conviction, because of the intrinsic purity he had once preached—he was hearing his own sermonizing echoed back. But increasingly, as he studied what could be gleaned from Forerunner machines and records, he wondered if the true purpose of the Halos was indeed a mass propulsion into a higher plane, a Great Journey to the paradise foreseen by the Prophets. It was true that the Rings seemed associated with a purification process—but what exactly had they purified, and how?
But he cut these heretical thoughts short. Blasphemy. Prophet o
f Inner Conviction, indeed—what irony. Find your own Inner Conviction!
GuJo’n meanwhile signified satisfaction with the data on troop movements, using a gesture the Sangheili probably could not read, and added, “Very good—but what of this tale of sedition that’s come to us? I speak of the one called Ussa ‘Xellus. He and his followers have been cited in accounts from your own spies.”
“Ussa ‘Xellus? That crawling fur grub cannot be called a true Sangheili!” retorted Viyo ‘Griot.
“Yet he is a highly effective military strategist,” Mken remarked. “One who should not be underestimated. I have seen it myself, long ago, on the Planet of Blue and Red.”
“Once he served Sanghelios, it is true,” Viyo admitted. “But no more. He rejects the Writ of Union—he claims it is shameful to join our strength with your own! Even to negotiate peace with the San’Shyuum is tantamount to surrender. When his sedition was first accounted, we entreated him and his people, as he was once a warrior like us. But he refused to listen to reason, and brought war to Sanghelios. Our own keeps responded with . . . less subtle means, subjecting the entire state of ‘Xellus to incredible firepower. We intended to cut off the root of treason at the source, but apparently many of his people survived. We suspect he now hides like a coward somewhere in the barrens near the south pole of Sanghelios. A little-known region called Nwari. We have not heard from our spies for some days—it may be that they have been compromised. But we have our assassins looking for Ussa ‘Xellus now. When they do find him, be assured, they will choose their moment . . . and they will kill him. His followers are drugged into madness by his word. It seems likely that with him gone, their cult will dissolve.”
“Will it dissolve?” Mken wondered aloud. “Have you never heard of martyrdom?”
A Sangheili Mining Colony on the Planet Creck
The Age of Reconciliation
The mission was a failure.
