Broken Circle

by John Shirley

  “What I’m trying to say,” Tersa interrupted, “is that Enduring Bias wants the Huragok here to repair things. To fix the machines.”

  “And to do some repair on myself,” said Enduring Bias. “Yes. At this remove, as long as you do not damage this facility in any significant way, I am actually indifferent to the occupants. The creators seem to have departed. I know not where. I have been out of the communication spiral. Out of the discussion. Out of the loop.”

  “So—indifferent to occupants?” ‘Crolon scratched a mandible. “You would condone the San’Shyuum being here?”

  “Absolutely, though only if it meant access to the Huragok . . .” Enduring Bias said, at last becoming aware of some need for politesse. “I do not reject the Sangheili. Indeed, the one called Sooln ‘Xellus has repaired some of my mechanism. And we have established a new rapport. After all, I’ve always been subject to the wishes of my programmers. And to some extent I have been reprogrammed.”

  “Sooln has reprogrammed you—and you desire the San’Shyuum were here if it meant the Huragok as well?” ‘Crolon murmured. “I find that interesting.”

  “That is mixing what does not need mixing,” Tersa said. And using an old Sangheili expression, he added, “It is mixing blood and oil.”

  “I certainly hope so,” ‘Crolon said. “I would never question Ussa’s decisions. I just take note of this and that and . . . wonder. But I am loyal to Ussa and Sooln and to this—what was it Ussa said this morning? This ‘mission of the new Sanghelios.’ ”

  “I shouldn’t have left the old Sanghelios!” ‘Drem muttered. “This place seems more a trap than a refuge.” Then he looked darkly at Tersa. “You will not speak of what you have heard here, childling,” ‘Drem said.

  Tersa ground his teeth. “I am young—but no childling.”

  ‘Drem snorted. “Really, now? You still have egg yolk on your neck.”

  “Come, ‘Drem,” ‘Crolon said. “It is time for the evening meal.”

  “It is swill—no real meat to it,” ‘Drem grumbled, following ‘Crolon out.

  Tersa looked at Enduring Bias. “I hope you don’t casually repeat what you have heard here. If you do, you could cause bloodshed.”

  “That would be unsanitary,” Enduring Bias said. “Most disagreeable.”

  With that, it flitted away. Tersa wondered if he should be the one to report the discussion—and if Ussa might misunderstand Tersa’s part in what had been said.

  Because it seemed to Tersa that subversion had taken place here. So far it was only words. But back on Sanghelios, Tersa had known words alone to cause more than one beheading.

  CHAPTER 7

  * * *

  Reskolah, Janjur Qom

  850 BCE

  The Age of Reconciliation

  They were concealed by the stealth field projected by the dropship, yet nothing was hidden from Mken; he could see the night-darkened world about them, gleaming in the starlight. Plaon, the old scarred moon, hadn’t risen yet, but he could see creatures flapping in the sky; he could feel Janjur Qom’s fragrant winds.

  The Prophet of Inner Conviction felt a strange mix of buoyancy and oppression.

  The air here seemed to speak to his most primal being. The smell of the vine-wreathed forest nearby—a botanical perfume, a mix of decay and new life that he’d never scented before—seemed impossibly familiar. His genetic makeup seemed to recognize it. Something deep in his brain responded, and it made him feel giddy, light-headed.

  But the unmodified gravitational field of his homeworld was more than he could easily bear. High Charity had significantly lower gravity than this. He had overestimated the strength he’d built up on the keyship. Janjur Qom was not particularly large or dense—it was “Janjur Qom Normal.” Unfortunately, Mken and his San’Shyuum peers from the Dreadnought were not Janjur Qom Normal. The Stoics here, or their descendants, would be stronger, more fit and muscular, more genetically diverse than Mken’s own people. That made the locals particularly dangerous in a close engagement. Given the context, possibly even as dangerous as the Sangheili.

  They hadn’t wanted to drop straight down to the grotto. If the Stoics were monitoring them, it would give away one of the expedition’s primary goals. And the Stoics must not learn why they were here, after all this time. So first they would see if they were being observed. Mken had chosen to approach the grotto circumspectly.

  And this landing, some distance off from the first destination, gave Mken the time to get an intuitive grasp of Janjur Qom.

  He had stepped away from the front ramp of the landed dropship, leaving his chair a few strides behind.

  But here he felt like a toddling infant taking his first tentative steps. A notion came to him, that the homeworld itself was punishing him, and all his kind, for abandoning her. They had left their mother, Janjur Qom, and now she pressed the heavy hand of gravitation on them, to put them in their place.

  Absurd. You’re falling victim to a runaway imagination.

  He glanced toward the Sangheili, like the young Ranger, Vil ‘Kthamee, who moved about with such ease as they patrolled the perimeters of the camp around the turret and mobile combat barriers.

  “Gravitation is more than we’re used to here,” grunted Captain Vervum, directing his own chair up to hover beside Mken. “I am surprised you trouble to leave your chair.”

  Mken gestured, It’s a minor difficulty. “This is our homeworld. I wanted to feel it, as San’Shyuum would, in ancient times. I am also a historian.”

  “We are not here to study history,” Vervum said.

  “You are using a disrespectful tone I do not care for, Captain,” said Mken.

  “I meant no disrespect, O Prophet.”

  Mken gestured, I choose not to be offended. “The artificial gravity of the keyship is dialed lower—substantially lower, actually. I have often wondered if it should be higher, raised by degrees, over a solar cycle or two till we strengthen our bodies.”

  “Our limbs are not what they should be, trained or not, Your Eminence,” Vervum said, his tone more respectful. “That is one reason we are here. For the replenishment of fresh blood—for improved physical form in our offspring.”

  “I have visited a number of worlds, most of them with lower gravity than this one. And I have found myself wondering if we should try harder to . . .”

  But he decided not to go on. He had not forgotten that Vervum might well be an agent for R’Noh—and was quite likely an operative for the Ministry of Anticipatory Security. Mken didn’t wish to say anything that could be willfully misconstrued as a heretical defiance of the Hierarchy.

  Mken gestured, I will speak of it another time. But he didn’t intend to do so.

  A light spilled onto the mossy soil as the hatch of the dropship clicked open for them. “Almost time to head for our target,” Vervum observed.

  Mken realized he’d been stubbornly standing here, legs aching from the planet’s heaviness, when he really wanted to go back to his chair—he’d been delaying out of sheer unconscious pridefulness, merely because Vervum was there.

  He sighed, turned, and slogged back to his chair, sitting on it with a sigh of relief as the ambient gravity field reduced his body’s burden to what it was used to.

  Settling back, Mken glanced at the sky, half expecting to see some form of Stoic San’Shyuum overflight. The remote Eyes had revealed that the Stoics had advanced little technologically since the war. It was unclear why, though perhaps they felt further advancement, after the violent departure of the Dreadnought at the hands of Reformists—which they clearly viewed as blasphemy—might incur the wrath of the gods. Nevertheless, the Stoics possessed flying attack vehicles not terribly different from those at the time of the war a millennium ago. They were simple, using air compression and gas-igniting fuel to drive their vessels and fire their weapons. Mken wasn’t at all sure the Vengeful Vitality’s stealth field was impervious to detection. On the way here, he’d read the report on Stoic capabilities. The
y did possess some kind of reflector scanning to detect vessels entering their atmosphere. Once a remote Eye had been pursued by Stoic aircraft. And the Stoics were likely well aware that there were hostile species equipped with space travel in the galaxy—and they’d be watching for those hostiles. And for the possible return of the hated Reformists.

  What would the Stoics do if they captured Mken? Simply put him to death? Or worse?

  The thought of never seeing Cresanda again was already worse than death to Mken. She was to have his child—who had been conceived in a rare moment of profound biological intimacy, matching their emotional intimacy. Scarcely ever did the San’Shyuum females become fertile now. Something so rare and precious . . . and he might never see the child. He sighed. He was more scholar than fighter. But here he was, on a planet full of enemies.

  His father had often said, Whatever arises, the wise ones meet with a calm face.

  Mken looked at the sky again, saw nothing but a veering bony-winged rakscraja, its pale wings reflecting starlight. He tugged at a wattle, thinking, First things first.

  The excursion team would take the dropship to the grotto of the Great Transition. And then, the village of Trellem.

  Mken tried to remember what he’d read about the grotto. He knew it was associated with iconography of a legendary goddess, a mysterious Forerunner his people had long associated with rebirth. He assumed she was mythical—a symbol, merely. But who knew for certain?

  Mken felt an attenuated, almost ghostly thrill, considering the possibility of entering the grotto of the Great Transition. Long ago it had been protected as sacred, and forbidden, by the Stoics. Remote-control Eyes sent to the planet from the Dreadnought suggested the grotto was now forgotten, overgrown and abandoned . . .

  But there was the risk that it was still defended, after all this time.

  He heard an odd fluting sound, and turned to see the Huragok floating along, like a sea creature somehow transferred to the air as it returned to the dropship—it had been checking the stealth field. Vil ‘Kthamee was walking close behind the creature, as if gently herding it along. Certainly the young Sangheili—who didn’t seem in the least inconvenienced by planetary gravity—had a peculiar rapport with the Huragok.

  Trok ‘Tanghil was already loading up the turret, while standing on guard with directed-energy rifles. Vervum was entering the vessel, preparing to pilot the humpbacked vehicle.

  It remained only for Mken to follow them. With one more nervous look at the sky, Mken directed his chair through the small hatch into the excursion vehicle and gave the order to head for the grotto.

  Vil ‘Kthamee was strapped into a seat along the bulkhead, across from Loquen ‘Nvong, who looked back at him with quiet, condescending amusement.

  Turning away from Loquen, Vil peered out of a viewport. A rolling landscape of trees and other foliage—green and argent and turquoise—went unreeling below as the dropship flew just over the treetops. The stars glowed brightly overhead, lending a blue-white sheen to the colors. In the distance were the lights of a town. He saw one road, cracked and weedy. It was there, and gone. They passed over a river, where some massive, glossy amphibian rose into view, shook itself, then descended from sight. They flew onward.

  “You’re enjoying the view?” Loquen asked gruffly as he fingered his plasma rifle. The bifurcated rifle was pointed upward, but a quick motion of Loquen’s hand could turn it toward Vil.

  Glancing at Loquen, Vil flipped his hand noncommittally. “New world. I am as curious as the next Sangheili.”

  Vil was coming along to translate for the Huragok. He’d been surprised to see Loquen ‘Nvong along on the dropship. Vil had understood the expedition was to avoid conflict of any kind. This was to be a clandestine mission. So why the large and dangerous Loquen, who was always spoiling for a fight?

  Though Loquen was fairly young, the Sangheili warrior was arrogant—and Vil had seen him sacrifice other soldiers for his own glory. Loquen kept his mandibles half closed much of the time—a symbol, to a Sangheili, of warning: Do not threaten me. I am on the alert.

  Vil heard Floats Near Ceiling tootling to get his attention. He glanced up, and, as it happened, the Huragok was in that moment truly floating near the ceiling of the dropship’s fuselage. The Engineer organism flapped and flashed its tentacles—a question of some kind, rendered too fast for the Ranger to read. Vil signaled Repeat.

  When the Huragok repeated its question, Vil had already touched the wrist holo interpreter. The device scancammed the Huragok, and holographically translated the symbols to Sangheili runes.

  <> the Huragok was saying. <>

  Vil understood. He had heard how the San’Shyuum had broken up into two major factions, one leaving for the stars, to unravel the puzzle of every Forerunner relic discoverable out there, the other group remaining, now stifling any advances in technology, inheriting a world in which there were countless cryptic Forerunner relics, most needing repair. And somehow the Huragok had already sensed those mechanisms, outside. But how?

  “How do you know what is out there?” Vil asked the Huragok. Vil had a scientific side that many Sangheili didn’t share. The others were all technologically capable, but the more pragmatic—and that was most Sangheili males—lacked much curiosity as to the underlying principles of that technology.

  <> the Huragok responded.

  “Call to you? How?” Vil tapped the translator module fixed to his hearing lobe to make it translate for verbal on his end.

  <>

  Creator-designed. Meaning the Forerunners. Vil’s cousin K’ckel had told him about it—cousin, or possibly brother, since Sangheili were raised in a way that made murky the identity of one’s real father. K’ckel was a junior researcher in an armory on Qikost, one of Sanghelios’s two moons. He had spoken to Vil about the distributed intelligences, found partly intact, machine intellects who had referred to “the creators.” The term “creator” had helped increase the numinous aura of the Forerunners. Who were the final creators, if not the gods?

  “The Prophet of Inner Conviction has his own plan for you,” Vil told the Huragok at last.

  Floats Near Ceiling fluted discontentedly. <>

  Vil could feel the dropship slowing. He looked out the viewport, and saw that it was descending into a ravine.

  Just a few moments later, they were filing out the air lock into a muggy night. The air seemed without breeze—yet the plants about the dropship rustled as if wind-stirred. Something screeched as it flew overhead; smaller, insectlike creatures hummed near, away, and then nearer still.

  Like the others, Vil had been treated with antibiotic, microscopic nanoagents, which protected them with astonishing efficiency, destroying all local antigens invading their system before any harm could be done. The air was breathable on Janjur Qom, the gravity bearable, at least to Sangheili. But the insectlike flying creatures grew bolder, and soon sucked at Vil’s skin—they were tiny, almost diaphanous organisms that seemed to combine legs with wings. They died almost instantly when they drank his blood, not from nanoagents, he supposed, but because Sangheili blood was so very alien to this world.

  But the San’Shyuum Prophet, up ahead and drifting along in his antigrav chair, was scratching at bites on his arms—his blood was a slightly exotic treat to the parasites.

  With the floating Huragok beside him and a plasma rifle in his arms, Vil followed the San’Shyuum along a dark and dank trail that snaked from the center of the ravine toward the walls of stone to one side. The San’Shyuum, Inner Conviction and Captain Vervum, took the lead, with muted lights on their antigrav chairs. Loquen followed behind, and havin
g the trigger-happy Sangheili in the rear made Vil a trifle nervous.

  To either side was a high hedge of flexible-looking foliage that rustled as they came close to it; it quieted down when they were well past. Occasionally, tentacle-like shoots reached sinuously from the wall of foliage, and gently stroked at the interlopers, as if inspecting, perhaps tasting them. The San’Shyuum had warned them this might happen, but assured them the probes were harmless, merely investigatory on the part of the organisms—which were, actually, as much animal as they were plant. A large blossom lowered from somewhere overhead, opened wider, so that the eye within it could inspect them.

  Unfamiliar smells barraged Vil’s nostrils, some astringent, some cloyingly sweet, some hinting of decay. The familiar smells of mineral and water came to him, too. He felt the ancientness, the alienness of this planet. And something—as the plants shifted, the blossoms stared—that was almost a subcurrent of hostility from the world itself.

  It was as if this entire planet, this Janjur Qom, was silently intoning, You do not belong here, Sangheili. You are invasive, you are foreign to my living body. I will enwrap you, dissolve you away . . .

  Strange thought in a strange world. But he’d always been more imaginative than most Sangheili. His uncle had often taken him to task for it.

  Suddenly the thin path opened out into a small meadow, knobbed with boulders. Beyond it, a beetling cliff loomed, its craggy embossments picked out by starlight.

  They wended between the low boulders, approaching the base of the cliff wall. Above them, the top of the cliff was furred by another kind of plant—thick, dense, and brown.

  As the expedition drew near, a cloud slipped away, somewhere overhead, and a little more light eased through to the rocky wall to expose a panel of somewhat eroded carvings, a kind of lintel above a roughly rectangular shadow so dark it must be the entrance to a passage. The Prophet of Inner Conviction aimed a light from his chair upward onto the images sculpted into the lintel. The bas-relief carving was divided in two, a row of figures seen on the right and left, in hieroglyphic profile, both groups facing inward toward a circular form enclosing a star.