Broken Circle

by John Shirley

  Mken eased his chair closer to the insertion dropship. A relatively compact troop transport, the vessel was shaped like eilifula, the humpbacked shelled creatures found in San’Shyuum’s oceans, a purplish-blue transport that, like the corvette, was capable of merging visually with a backdrop for stealth purposes. It had room in it for three San’Shyuum, Sangheili, and as many as ten San’Shyuum females in the specially fitted cargo chamber at the small ship’s posterior. The females would not be terribly comfortable there—but their trip back to the ship would be a short one. They would either make it or be shot down in short order.

  Trok ‘Tanghil, the scarred old Sangheili commander, missing part of one of his lower jaws due to some old military encounter, stood by the open hatch into the dropship; to his side stood a young Sangheili soldier Mken knew only as Vil. It was his impression that Trok was Vil’s uncle. But with the Sangheili, he understood, an uncle was almost the same as a father—and sometimes was the father, though direct paternity wasn’t revealed in the bloodline.

  A Huragok was floating out the hatchway, and as it came it signed with a contortion of its lower tentacles to Vil. “Floats Near Ceiling signals that the vessel is in working order, in all systems.”

  “Perhaps the Prophet would like to inspect it himself?” Trok suggested.

  “No,” Mken said, glancing at Vil. The young Sangheili must be bright to have so quick a comprehension of Huragok sign language. “If the Huragok claims it’s functional, then it is so. I would only perhaps collide my chair into some control panel and make it nonfunctional again.”

  “But you are scheduled to take part in the excursion expedition,” Trok pointed out unnecessarily. “You will have to enter the vehicle at that time. Do you wish to have your chair adjusted? The Huragok could do it.” Trok seemed to have an air of genuine puzzlement—he was apparently one of the more humorless Sangheili, of which there were many, and didn’t realize that the Prophet of Inner Conviction had been indulging in self-deprecating humor.

  “I was speaking lightly,” said Mken. “Even a Prophet must do so occasionally.” Especially when his future looked so doleful. “Who else is scheduled for the mission?”

  “I am, Your Eminence,” said Trok. “And the other San’Shyuum.”

  Mken pondered that. “I may alter the crew list for this leg of the mission. I strongly feel that the greatest danger is an attack on the dropship itself. I will need you to remain with the dropship—to protect it.”

  Trok grunted. “I see the wisdom of the Prophet.”

  “I shall take the Huragok with me—because there is a special relic we hope to find and take with us, and he may be of use. Ranger Vil ‘Kthamee can come along to communicate with him. I have not that particular skill.”

  Vil seemed to tense at that, but Mken had made up his mind.

  The image of the Vengeful Vitality’s pilot appeared in a holograph over Mken’s chair panel. “Sir! We are about to enter slipspace. All passengers and crew are advised to take up stations.”

  “Very good, Captain. I’ll be in my station quickly.” He turned to the others. “You heard him. Get to your stations! We are on our way to Janjur Qom.”

  How long had it been, a thousand solar cycles, since a San’Shyuum descended from Reformists had set foot upon the homeworld?

  His three-fingered hand shook as he tapped the arm of his chair and drifted toward his station. The true home of his people . . . and he was to see it.

  There was a strong possibility he wouldn’t come back alive . . .

  But perhaps, after all, it was worth it.

  CHAPTER 6

  * * *

  Covenant Vessel Vengeful Vitality

  Orbiting Janjur Qom

  850 BCE

  The Age of Reconciliation

  A world spread out below Mken. Clouds spiraled around a giant crater, the immense blue sea known as the Great Apothtea; the dark green of vegetation carpeted much of the main continent; outer regions were more rugged. Mken recognized a number of features from his studies of the old holograms. Was that not Zelfiss, where the fabled fortress of Granduin, undermined by the Stoics, had crumbled into the sea? And the crater—it was once the resting place of the Dreadnought, partly submerged below Apothtea’s surface, but it was now the mark of the great ship’s ascension; it was the scar where the Reformists had taken a god’s fistful of the world as the mountain-high vessel rose to meet the stars.

  The planet below was Janjur Qom.

  Parts of Janjur Qom throbbed with life—with water, with greenery, with lights. Other parts seemed barrenly rocky. These regions, Mken supposed, might be the mark of the Forerunners’ wrath—he’d found an ancient text referring to the punishment of his people’s world, long ago, for their rebellion against the gods. But most now held that the tale was only a myth, used to inspire fear in the defiant and explain the vagaries of the planet. Or was it true? Had the sacred ones, the makers of the Path to the Great Journey, been so furious with his people’s sins that they burned vast populated areas of the planet away?

  How could one follow a path laid down by such divines? Could a flame of punishment be a manifestation of the holy light of the cosmos?

  Perhaps it could be. The fires of destruction were everywhere. Scourges wiped out entire species; droughts came and went; asteroids crashed murderously into inhabited planets.

  And suns were known to destroy themselves.

  Indeed, the very star at the center of this system—the sun that had warmed Janjur Qom for billions of solar cycles—was thought by some to be particularly unstable. Certain San’Shyuum astronomers had muttered darkly that the end was coming one day . . .

  But the Great Journey promised transcendence, an escape from the inexorable arrow of time, from the endless erosion that is entropy. If the Great Journey was real . . .

  But of course it was. Either that, or the Covenant, the Path—Mken’s entire life—was meaningless.

  Perhaps when he found the Purifying Vision of the Holy Path—if indeed the relic was where Excellent Redolence said it was—he might then see his way clearly. The relic would surely be a light of inspiration; so it was rumored to be.

  But the sight of Janjur Qom itself moved him deeply. As he gazed at it, he thought, Here is the mother I have never known. This is my true lineage. This is the womb of my people. A million solar cycles and more of San’Shyuum history took place here. This was where San’Shyuum emerged from the seas; where they began to farm, to build, to create civilization. Where they shed their blood as they struggled with one another for sovereignty.

  The soil of Janjur Qom was impregnated with the blood of Mken’s ancestors. Over a millennia ago, Mken’s Reformist family had fled from this world—had vaulted on the Dreadnought into the stars.

  Gazing upon it now, for the first time in his life, Mken felt more moved than he had in many cycles. He felt an emotion welling from deep within—from the very cells, the genetic core of his being. Janjur Qom! He wanted to cry out, to weep with the glory and anguish of it.

  But the cry went unvoiced. He had to continue his pose of austerity. He had to be the Prophet of Inner Conviction.

  “You seem to be meditating deeply, Eminence,” someone said, at his elbow. “I fear to disturb you but . . .”

  Startled, Mken spun his chair about to find Vervum L’kosur, the ship’s captain and coxswain, in an antigrav chair, gazing at him with his large, mocking dark eyes. It struck Mken that this Vervum was not at all in awe of the Prophet of Inner Conviction. And Mken instantly suspected that Vervum was R’Noh’s man, was at least a spy for the Minister of Anticipatory Security. It was quite possible that Vervum was even an agent for that Ministry—surely R’Noh had been recruiting for his new intelligence fiefdom.

  Vervum’s chair was decorated with the holograms of the Covenant’s military arm, like fringes of colored light, and he wore a uniform robe sewn with stars indicating the systems he’d served in.

  “I see you served at the Planet of Red and Blu
e, as I did,” Mken remarked, as he tried to get his composure back. “You were on the Dreadnought there?”

  “I was on the planet, guarding the relic recovery team, O Prophet.”

  “Ah. You and the others did a fine job.”

  “The Sentinels did most of it. I regret that the seditious Ussa ‘Xellus escaped your net, O Prophet.”

  Interesting, how Vervum put that. Your net. Laying it all on Mken’s shoulders.

  Yes. He was likely R’Noh’s agent.

  Mken made a mental note to beware of treachery from the captain of this vessel.

  Could it be that R’Noh intended to let Inner Conviction do the work, take the risk here—and then eliminate him, have him assassinated on Janjur Qom, so that he was not present to take the credit for the mission’s success?

  If so, R’Noh was assuming too much. Mken himself doubted the mission’s chances of success. There were too many imponderables on the planet below, too many Stoics. Too much toxic history between Stoics and Reformists.

  And if they were successful, R’Noh was assuming far too much about Inner Conviction—that he was foolish enough to allow himself to be stabbed in the back.

  I will not make it easy for you, R’Noh.

  “Captain, have you been monitoring transmissions from Janjur Qom?”

  “Yes. Their language is archaic but we manage to understand them. They do not seem to be aware of our orbital position. They have some satellites, some simple technology. But on the whole they seem to be the Stoics they were when our people left. Predictably, they have resisted progress. They don’t appear to have the capability of penetrating our stealth shield.”

  “Then let us position the ship over our drop zone . . . and prepare the dropship for landing.”

  The Refuge: An Uncharted Shield World

  850 BCE

  The Age of Reconciliation

  Tersa was finishing his scan of the cryptic, floating devices in Sublevel Four—a series of hovering three-dimensional rectangular cuboid objects that occasionally changed shape, becoming tetrahedronal, octagonal, pyramidal, then back to rectangular cuboids. He had realized early on that the objects changed shape when he scanned them, or even when approached closely. They seemed aware of him, and again he had the uncanny feeling they were scrutinizing him rather than vice versa. If he spoke, muttering over his task, the objects emitted sweet chiming sounds, as if responding to him in some crystalline language.

  He stepped back and looked around the enormous hall, a bit spooked by this place. He was occasionally unsettled by the shield world, especially when he was alone in the alien, artificial vaults and corridors, the chambers and galleries. The Forerunners, who had built this world, seemed everywhere—and nowhere. Their work was here, their artifacts, their architecture, the personality of their culture. Most of it seemed enigmatic to Tersa, and to most of the others, just as it should. Was it even permissible to understand the gods?

  But sometimes Tersa felt that the Forerunners were somewhere near at hand, watching, perhaps just around a corner or hidden behind some panel. Absurd to think that, of course. They had all passed from this plane of existence—the Covenant said they had taken the Great Journey. Ussa said no one knew where the Forerunners went, or if they would ever be back, least of all the Covenant—but their traces were sacred to the Sangheili all the same.

  He remembered what he’d heard from Enduring Bias about the Disassembler. What was Ussa planning? Disassembling the shield world . . . it sounded like madness.

  Put it out of your mind. You cannot possibly understand what Ussa intends.

  But still . . .

  ‘Crolon and ‘Drem hurried up then—‘Drem was a taller, spindlier Sangheili than most, wearing rusted armor and leather braces and boots from the almost extinct and quite vicious barbed thremaleon of Sanghelios. Wearing the spiky running lizard skin was an affectation, usually to give the impression of membership in a Victory or Death cult. More mandible flappers than fighters, that Victory or Death bunch, Tersa’s uncle had said. All boast. ‘Drem had the old runic tattoos of Victory or Death on his neck, too, Tersa saw.

  Right now, ‘Drem looked more like death than like victory—he looked shaken, his eyes shadowy, almost hollow. “I cannot abide this room,” ‘Drem said in a creaky voice. “I feel a vibration within me here. Not natural. Not right.”

  ‘Crolon nodded, “True enough.”

  ‘Drem had become a companion of ‘Crolon’s lately. They were an unpleasant pair, to most of the others. But ‘Crolon was slippery and glib, and sometimes the adherents listened to him.

  “I sense strangeness in here, too,” Tersa admitted. “But if it was dangerous, Sooln would know. Enduring Bias would warn us. I’m sure there is no cause for concern.”

  “What could go wrong,” ‘Crolon wondered with acrid sarcasm, “in a room created by the gods? A room deep beneath the shell of an alien world? Why, nothing could go wrong there, I’m certain.”

  “I have been here for some time,” Tersa said. “As you see—nothing has harmed me.”

  “Perhaps it is simply waiting,” ‘Drem said. “Perhaps it was waiting for more of us—for its little trap to be sprung.”

  Tersa stared at him. “Trap?”

  “Indeed. Who knows what these things are for?”

  “I have a theory,” ‘Crolon put in. “I wonder if these vibrating shapes could be for testing souls! You have seen how reactive they are. They could be probing us. The Forerunners—the gods, the messengers of the cosmos—could be using them to decide which of us live or die. If we are worthy or unworthy. When they decide . . .” He clashed his mandibles in the Sangheili version of a resigned shrug.

  ‘Drem stepped back from the hovering geometrical figures—and then took another step back. “Those things can see . . . inside me? My soul?”

  Tersa waved a hand, dismissing the idea. “That’s ‘Crolon’s theory. More likely they are part of the shield world’s energy system. Or used in communications.”

  “You are correct—they are used in communication!” said Enduring Bias, buzzing into the room.

  The abrupt entry of Enduring Bias made ‘Drem hiss and snarl, startled. “The dark angel slips up behind us . . . !”

  “What an interesting cultural tang there is in that appellation—dark angel. I hardly know what to say,” Enduring Bias remarked, turning to scan ‘Drem in curiosity.

  “What is it doing to me?” he muttered, backing away. “I feel a tingle! An intrusion!”

  “ ‘Drem, it is only scanning you,” ‘Crolon said. “It is the eye of the Forerunners—a sacred relic.”

  “Relic, I am,” said the machine. “The relic of an earlier age. But I have never felt sacred.”

  “You said I was correct about communications?” Tersa asked. Like youth of any race, he enjoyed being told he was right; it happened so rarely.

  “Yes,” said Enduring Bias. “These are communication dispensers. It was once called the chamber of sensitive geometries. These shapes generate a quantum action-at-a-distance field enabling instantaneous communication through barriers within the shield world. Of course, one must know the key. The entry phrase. I have lost that, I’m afraid. But we hope to rediscover it. Some of my files are restorable.”

  ‘Drem stared at the shifting hovering shapes. “Communication . . . and it is everywhere? So in a way, it watches whatever we do?”

  “It is aware of you, wherever you are on the planet, would be a more precise way of putting it.”

  “I do not trust such a thing,” ‘Drem muttered. “Ussa has brought us here to live like that? It isn’t right.”

  “He doesn’t even know how to use these devices,” Tersa said.

  “So this machine says—but Sooln is Ussa’s female. And she controls the machine.”

  “She certainly does not!” Enduring Bias said. “I resent the implication. I have a much higher purpose. I am programmed and instructed to do my best to monitor and even to repair this shield world. We do need som
e Engineers here. The Huragok would be most welcome. You don’t have any Huragok with you, do you?”

  “Huragok? What are those?” ‘Crolon asked.

  “You see their like in this reproduction,” Enduring Bias said, projecting an image of a strange hovering creature composed of billowing spheres and tentacles. But it looked familiar.

  “I have never seen one,” said Tersa, “but in the wars, my uncle saw one when they raided a San’Shyuum ship. He told me about them . . . They are with the San’Shyuum now, fixing things.”

  “Are they?” Enduring Bias asked, its single, electric-blue eye glowing with renewed interest. “The San’Shyuum. Sooln told me of them. I believe them to be a race with certain ancient connections to my creators. The Huragok, now—they were taken from here, when the decision was made not to test this facility, but, sadly, no one consulted me. I need the Huragok. One could wish the San’Shyuum were the new occupants of this world, if indeed they have the Huragok handy . . .”

  “What treachery is this?” ‘Drem sputtered. “The San’Shyuum are the enemy—and this construct wishes to work for them instead of the Sangheili!”

  “I was merely expressing what I think could be characterized as a wistful observation,” Enduring Bias said.

  “What does all that mean?” ‘Drem demanded.

  “It means,” said ‘Crolon thoughtfully, looking at the machine, “Enduring Bias does in fact wish the San’Shyuum were here. And it works closely with Ussa . . .”

  “No. He just wants their Engineers,” Tersa said, worried that some kind of rebellion was breaking out—and that he might be caught up in it. Or killed if he didn’t take part. “He . . .”

  “He? It’s a he?” ‘Drem said. He sniffed. “It’s a thing. A mere construct.”

  “I have engaged a male tonality,” Enduring Bias said. “It seems to generate more respect among those of your culture, for reasons quite unknown to me. I hypothesize a classic patriarchal structure, with the expected attempts to suppress the—”