by John Shirley
“Oh—on what basis does it foresee that?” Mken noticed that Vil, off to the side, was signaling the Huragok.
“It’s of no import now. Surrender the Vision to me. Otherwise it may be damaged when we execute you.”
Mken realized he might have to comply. The Vision was more important than he was.
The Huragok drifted toward the niche, placing itself between Loquen and the Luminary as if to protect it. Vil backed toward the same wall. Mken took the cue and backed with them—and made up his mind to defiance. “No, I’m not going to give the Vision to you, Vervum, nor the Luminary. You are not authorized to take them.”
Vervum snorted. “Authorized? I’m authorizing myself. Loquen, do what must be done. I believe I can communicate with the Huragok. So get rid of the Ranger as well.”
Loquen turned his rifle toward Vil. “This one first, then—he’s armed.”
The directed-energy rifles were divided into upper and lower parts. They were jawlike—perhaps a design unconsciously mimicking a Sangheili’s mandibles—and by his expression, it seemed as though Vil had never before looked into them from the point of view of a target.
Loquen fired, but Vil was already reflexively stepping aside, aiming his directed-energy rifle, and he launched a spike of superheated plasma.
The other Sangheili was moving, too—and Vil’s shot burned into Loquen’s left shoulder. Loquen clashed his mandibles in pain and staggered back, his return fire searing over Vil’s head.
A bright beam of energy hummed from the arm of Vervum’s antigrav chair. But Vervum was no expert with chair armament, and the blast burned along Vil’s ribs. Vil’s armor deflected most of it; there was agony but no serious injury.
The Huragok meanwhile was caressing the rock wall to one side, and suddenly the stone barricade began to close. The chamber was being resealed.
Vil fired again, but Loquen had drawn back into the shadows, a bad target, and for a moment it seemed as though Vil had felt an innate reluctance to actually shoot at Vervum, one of his superiors, let alone at a San’Shyuum and the captain of the vessel.
Instead Vil deliberately fired past Vervum and into the darkness, sending several bolts out of the passage and into the undergrowth.
Then the stone doors sealed shut.
CHAPTER 9
* * *
The Refuge: An Uncharted Shield World
850 BCE
The Age of Reconciliation
Her name was Lnur ‘Mol, and Tersa knew perfectly well that he should not be staring at her. She was busily serving out pots of foodstuff to the workers. She had no time for him. He should not be staring at the gleam of her mandible teeth—those teeth so sharp, so white. He should not be considering the slender lineaments of her figure, the jewel-like gleaming of her silver-green eyes, the perfect symmetrical arrangement of her four jaws. She wore no armor, except some neat trappings of leather.
No. Staring at Lnur was not advisable. He had only met her a few times, had not the courage to speak much to her; he hadn’t initiated courting rituals. And Tersa had tasks to complete, helping Ernicka repair the burnblades. Lnur was in the workshop, on Level Two, only to bring in foodstuff for the five Sangheili males at work here.
She brought him his pot of protein mash—and surprised him by making a little conversation. “Is that one done?” she asked, looking at it closely. “Both my egg siblings went into weapons design and repair. I do enjoy looking at them myself.”
“I think I shall test this one,” he said.
He inserted the charger and squeezed the activator. The sword’s metal blade hummed within itself. As they watched, it took on a slight red color as it heated up. It charred what it didn’t cut without cauterizing.
“It looks as if it’s functioning,” she said.
Her voice was mellifluous. To Tersa, it was like listening to music.
“Would you like to try it out?” he asked, nodding toward the synthetic-wood target board across the room.
Female Sangheili weren’t recruited as warriors, but they all knew the rudiments of combat so they could defend home and eggs in case of invasion while the males were away.
She glanced self-consciously at the males working near Tersa. Ernicka was carefully not looking at her or Tersa. The others watched covertly with closed-jaw smirks of amusement.
Then Lnur straightened her shoulders and said boldly, “Yes. Thank you. Should it ever be necessary . . .”
Tersa warmed to her even more, then—her refusal to be completely cowed by the ancient gender roles was strangely attractive. It suggested she might be capable of bold intimacy, as well as bold action.
But of course, he mused as they walked over to the testing target, Lnur was still Sangheili—and he had never heard of a Sangheili female truly challenging the old patriarchal order. Sooln was perhaps more active in the technological world than many females; she gave her counsel to Ussa ‘Xellus himself. But she didn’t go too far. Privately, he wondered if the time would come when some Sangheili female would try to rebel in a more significant way. But of course she would be quickly put to death.
The very thought disturbed him.
Tersa stepped up to the target, once more activating the burner element in the sword, and gave it a tentative slash. The target was fittingly shaped like a San’Shyuum—the only enemy any of them had known for decades—and the blade cut and burned at once into the neck of the figure.
“It seems to work,” he said. He glanced at Ernicka, working a few tables away. Ernicka seemed to be pretending to be unaware of Tersa and Lnur. “Here, Lnur. You give it a try.”
He carefully handed it over to her and stood back—perhaps a little more than he would if he were with an experienced soldier.
She gave him a glance of mild reproach and then swung viciously at the target. The blade sizzled and cut halfway through the San’Shyuum shape’s neck.
She gave it a cunning twist of her wrist and the sword came free, leaving a trail of smoke in the air.
“You have fashioned this in dangerously fine shape!” she said. It was a traditional compliment to an arms worker.
“Has he, now?” said ‘Crolon, walking in. He was carrying a small crate of swords to be upgraded. ‘Crolon paused to look at the two young Sangheili, and at the target Lnur had slashed. “You seem to have some considerable experience of weapons, young female.”
“My mother taught me . . . For the—”
“I know, for the defense of home and eggs,” ‘Crolon interjected with amusement. “How often I’ve heard that excuse for a female not knowing her place.”
Tersa felt anger rise up in him, like boiling water through a tube. He took the sword from Lnur. “ ‘Crolon . . . you’re a swamp skorken nipping at a wader. You need to apologize to my friend. Or perhaps take one of those swords from your box.”
The room fell silent, Ernicka watching narrowly from his worktable. ‘Crolon looked at Tersa with surprise. “So! There are teeth in your jaws after all! Interesting. And interesting, too, this socially corrosive activity you’re engaged in here. I will not fight with you, young Sangheili—not so you can caper impressively in front of a female.”
Lnur gave an embarrassed gasp at that.
‘Crolon went on. “Ussa has ordered us not to waste our fighting on one another—not without grand provocation or permission.”
“On the contrary,” said Tersa. “You have been provoking me, threatening me—and now you’ve insulted my friend. If you continue, I will ask Ernicka’s permission.”
“How dare you.” ‘Crolon gave Tersa a coldly glittering look and then walked to the table, dropping off the crate, without another word.
Ernicka was looking at Tersa with a mix of approval and irritation. “Back to work, Tersa!” he called out.
“Coming!”
“I’m sorry if I got you in trouble,” Lnur murmured.
“I’m sorry I embarrassed you!” Tersa whispered ruefully. “I shouldn’t have said that you were . . . as
sumed you were . . . a friend. I mean . . . I scarcely know you . . . I mean, I did not intend any . . .”
“It is all right,” she said. “If it is up to me—you are my friend.”
She turned and walked out the door.
With a great effort, Tersa managed not to watch as she left.
Reskolah, Janjur Qom
850 BCE
The Age of Reconciliation
Mken, Vil, and Floats Near Ceiling found themselves locked away inside the grotto.
The Huragok had triggered the wall to close off the inner chamber; it seemed a permanent seal, a seamless barrier between them and their enemies. Loquen and Vervum were outside . . . and beyond them, something moved in slippery camouflage through the undergrowth. Something dangerous.
The glow of Mken’s antigrav chair and the Luminary lent a weak light to the room. The Huragok fluted mournfully and flicked its tentacles at Vil ‘Kthamee. Mken waited nervously for the translation.
Vil grunted. “He is able to use the hidden devices in the walls—he can sense some of what is going on out there. It is as I hoped . . . but I may wish later I had not done it.”
“Explain,” demanded the Prophet of Inner Conviction.
“I fired past Loquen and the captain, out through the door, into the undergrowth, to stir up those who are hunting out there. So they would think Loquen was the one firing at them. And so that it would be they who would destroy the San’Shyuum—and not me.”
Mken was impressed by Vil ‘Kthamee’s strategic thinking, and his honesty. The young Ranger wasn’t foolish enough to kill a San’Shyuum and still hope to avoid punishment, whatever his motives. “And you managed to convince the Huragok to seal us in so we would be safe . . . but can it get us out again?”
“Yes, so it says.” Vil signed to Floats Near Ceiling. It responded. “The Huragok says they are fighting out there now . . . something is firing projectiles at them . . . Loquen and the captain are firing back. Ah—Vervum . . . he has been killed.”
Mken felt a chill at that. The Vengeful Vitality could be instructed by anyone who knew the vessel’s command codes to return to the Dreadnought—and Mken had those codes. But Vervum had been an agent of the Minister of Anticipatory Security. Mken had hoped to outmaneuver Vervum rather than kill him, and so avoid having to explain everything to the Hierarchs. The tale of Vervum’s death could easily be twisted against him when R’Noh and Excellent Redolence got hold of it.
The Huragok was now signaling again. Vil translated: “Now . . . Loquen is firing his weapon, and running into the forest. The hostiles are coming into the grotto! They are San’Shyuum—but different from those we know from High Charity. They do not use chairs. They are more . . .” The Ranger paused, evidently deciding, out of instinctive politesse, not to quote the Huragok contrasting the two breeds of San’Shyuum. “They have projectile weapons. Perhaps gas fired. One of them now takes Vervum—and the chair. But this they must carry. The chair is broken. The Huragok wishes it could fix it . . .”
“Only what is relevant, please, Ranger.”
“Yes, Your Eminence. They are departing the grotto—they do not seem to be aware of this room.”
“With luck, they don’t know you and I are here, then. Perhaps they think our group has split up.”
“Yes, Eminence. I suspect they’re going to look for us elsewhere.”
He turned and looked at the Luminary—and again it seemed as if it looked silently back at him. “Now . . .”
Mken directed his chair to approach the Luminary. He spread his arms, reaching for the sacred relic. And it surprised him by floating toward him and turning, then settling into his grasp. It was almost as if he held it in his lap. “I’m clasping the ages,” he murmured. “The past and the future.”
He was profoundly moved. To find an artifact this important, this fully intact . . .
“It is a beautiful relic,” Vil said reverently, looking at the Luminary.
“Yes. You must not speak of it, back on High Charity—not with anyone unauthorized. Do you understand?”
“I do, Your Eminence.”
“Good—the Huragok can open the outer wall and we’ll be on our way.”
“To Crellum, Your Eminence?”
Mken found himself wondering suddenly if they should go to Crellum at all. Wasn’t it more important to get these sacred artifacts away from Janjur Qom? He had the Luminary. The females seemed almost unnecessary in comparison. But even as he’d argued with R’Noh and Excellent Redolence back at High Charity, he’d known that the fresh genetic material the women would bring could be vital. He’d been reluctant to take on that part of this mission. But he was here now. And if he didn’t come back with the females, R’Noh and Excellent Redolence might retaliate: they might block Cresanda’s right to have their child. She could be at risk of being incarcerated.
He must go on with it.
“Yes,” Mken said. “We will go to Crellum and retrieve the females. May the spirit of the Great Journey protect us. Now—tell the Huragok to get us out of here. The air is growing stale.”
Vil translated the command, and the Huragok opened the wall. Moonlight and some cool air reached them from the passageway back to the meadow. A nocturnal flyer gave a trilling cry, somewhere distant.
They watched and listened. There was nothing else—no sign of Stoics outside, no enemy at all. The camouflaging wall had worked. Unconsciously, Mken hugged the Luminary a little closer. “Good. Let’s get on with this. Back to the dropship.”
“And then to the corvette, Your Eminence? To store these relics?”
Mken was tempted. However . . .
“No—there’s no time. We have the rest of our mission to complete. And the Stoics will not expect us to go to Crellum. Or so I hope.”
What remained of the grotto expedition returned to the dropship without incident, though with every step along the trail, Mken expected an attack from the darkness.
As they arrived at the dropship, he saw that clouds had gathered, swept in on a soft east wind, and the moon was rising to join them.
Vil saluted Trok ‘Tanghil as they approached, but Trok was gawping at the Luminary clasped to Mken’s chest. “Is that . . . ?”
“It is what it should be,” said Mken briskly. “That is all you need to know. Everyone board the dropship. Get ready to take off!”
Trok blinked. “Certainly, but—should we wait for the captain, Your Eminence, and the Ranger Loquen?”
Mken hesitated, wondering if he should trust Trok with the full truth. But it was better to say too little instead of too much. “The captain was killed by the Stoic primitives. And the Ranger, the one called Loquen, ran into the forest. We believe he is likely dead.”
Trok scratched at his broken mandible. He seemed to have difficulty comprehending. “He ran? You mean—he was trying to flank the enemy?”
“No. He panicked.”
Trok appeared confounded. “He was impulsive, but I’ve never known him to be dishonorable!”
Mken waved away the subject. “We have no time for this discussion. We must be off for Crellum.”
“Just as you say, Great Prophet, but”—Trok peered at the dark undergrowth—“do you think you were followed?”
“Have you any indication the Vengeful Vitality was discovered?”
“Our stealth field seems to have worked so far, O Prophet.”
“Then probably we’re safe for the moment. They found some of us—they didn’t discover the others. Or so I conjecture. Trok, can you pilot the Vengeful Vitality when the time comes?”
“Indeed, I can. I am not the expert that Vervum is . . . or was.”
“You will act as captain, then, when the time comes. Hurry!”
Vil ‘Kthamee helped Mleer store the turret in the dropship’s armaments locker. At the opposite bulkhead Mken was placing the base of the Purifying Vision in a relic storage cabinet, and then eased the Luminary in beside it. He fastened the protective webbing around the device, and then
locked it away.
Vil hurried aft, made sure the Huragok had its tentacles firmly clinging to its wall grips, then went forward to his assigned place.
As he got strapped into his seat, Vil looked around, taking stock.
There were six Sangheili left, and all were at their stations as the dropship rose humming into the air, Trok piloting up front.
“Trok!” Inner Conviction called. “Take us up—we’ll travel as high as we can.”
They ascended steeply. Vil watched through a port as the small vessel rose above the thin cloud cover. Now, silvered by the light of Plaon, Janjur Qom’s moon, the clouds looked like a shining field of snow.
Vil wondered if Loquen had been captured by the Stoics. The San’Shyuum now inhabiting Janjur Qom were said to be more savage than those on High Charity. They would be quick to torture, he supposed.
Loquen might not be as resilient as everyone supposed. After all, he had fled into the jungle, when most Sangheili would have chosen to fight to the death. What would Loquen tell them if he were caught and came under the knife? Did he know enough to give the Stoics the location of High Charity? Would they even understand his speech?
The Dreadnought could be moved, even now—but with High Charity only partly completed, it might very well be vulnerable, if somehow the Stoics possessed the means.
Then another thought struck Vil: Suppose he himself was taken by the Stoics? What would he tell them under duress?
Nothing. He, Vil ‘Kthamee, would not be taken alive. Not if he could choose. If by some mischance they’d struck him unconscious, and he found himself captured, he would never reveal anything, come what may.
But Loquen? Vil knew that a habitual display of fierceness could camouflage fear. He suspected that Loquen, if still alive, could not be trusted.
