by John Shirley
“You will,” he assured her, even as he wondered what a folasteed patrol might be. The word was unfamiliar to him. “Can you signal the others?”
Lilumna seemed to waver. Then she hand-gestured a shrug. “They asked me to meet you—I must decide. I have always been intuitive. You seem honest enough. I will simply have to trust you are not some sort of slaver.”
“I am not a slaver, and you will not be slaves. You will be offered the chance to meet many males, to make the acquaintance of powerful Prophets of the Great Journey, who seek new mates.”
Lilumna pointed at the lake. “The others are watching us—they’re out there.” She took a deep breath and seemed to make her decision. She raised both hands over her head, and made It’s safe to come gestures with both of them.
“I don’t see anyone . . .”
“There—” Lilumna said. “Now do you see them?”
Then he saw the ilpdor—its legs moving rhythmically as it swam toward them, mouth agape . . .
Was this Lilumna here to feed him to a giant aquatic predator?
It seemed absurd. But still the great scaly beast bore down upon them . . .
CHAPTER 11
* * *
The Refuge: An Uncharted Shield World
850 BCE
The Age of Reconciliation
You are under arrest, Tersa,” said Ernicka the Scar-Maker. “And you, too, Lnur ‘Mol. I am sorry, but it must be so. The kaidon demands you submit—or die.”
They had come to the Hall of Feasts, not sure what to expect. The hostile stares of Sangheili should have warned them. And then Ernicka had come in from behind them, a plasma rifle in his hands.
Tersa was carrying a burnblade. He put a hand on the sword grip, prepared to draw it. Ernicka raised his rifle—
“Please, if you value me,” Lnur said, her voice barely audible. “Give up the weapon. We must trust in Ussa.”
Tersa hated the thought of surrendering to a court where he would be slandered, where the king and prince of Sangheili liars, ‘Crolon and ‘Drem, would be pointing accusing claws.
But . . . Lnur had said the one thing that disarmed him. He valued her above all things.
He muttered assent, drew the weapon, reversed it, offering it pommel first to Ernicka.
The weathered Sangheili lowered his rifle and took the burnblade. “A wise choice. Come with me.”
He seemed to trust in their honor, walking ahead of them to Strategy Hall, where Ussa held court.
The rectangular room had been one of several parts of the shield world that hadn’t appeared to be completed by the Forerunners. Enduring Bias had explained that despite this, in some ways, it was one of the Forerunner’s most advanced constructions. There were materials, technologies, found here that were not found elsewhere. They’d been newly developed, just when the Flood, as Enduring Bias called it, had threatened to overwhelm the galaxy. That great war had left this shield world unfinished, populated only by small creatures seeded here to complete the ecology.
Strategy Hall was therefore only a large empty room with steel-colored walls and a crystalline ceiling emitting a soft light. At one end, Ussa’s court attendants had erected a broad podium of extraneous plastics found about the shield world. Here, as Ernicka, Lnur, and Tersa strode up to it, the kaidon sat on a simple wooden chair, constructed from the trees up on the eco level.
Behind Ussa, on the wall, was a half-finished painting of Sanghelios beside the metal-jacketed world of the Refuge—the new symbol of their colony. The mural was Sooln’s work-in-progress.
Ussa shifted pensively in his chair and looked balefully at them. “I have heard an accusation from ‘Crolon and ‘Drem. That you are conspiring against me. That you attacked ‘Drem, tried to murder him, to quiet him about it. That’s the kernel of it, though of course he was tiresomely loquacious. What have you to say?”
“ ‘Crolon and ‘Drem are lying to cover up their own perfidy,” declared Tersa. “I have heard them speak sedition time and again. They were trying to recruit Gmezza and Scorinn.”
Lnur looked reproachfully at Tersa. Scorinn was Lnur’s aunt, and a kind of second mother to her. She’d asked that Scorinn not be dragged into this—but Tersa had made no promises and now he felt he had no choice. Scorinn and Gmezza might well be trusted to tell the truth.
“Gmezza and Scorinn . . .” Ussa ran a thoughtful thumb along a mandible. “I have not heard this.”
“And if they were there,” Lnur asked, “why didn’t ‘Crolon say so?”
“Yes, one wonders,” Ussa said. “But if they were speaking of treason, why didn’t you come to me with this?”
Tersa sighed. “We were talking about it, Great Kaidon. But—Lnur was worried about her relation, about Scorinn. And we knew it would be our word against theirs. I would have come if I’d had more proof—and if we’d heard them speaking clearly. But some parts of it we weren’t sure of . . . we only overheard them from a distance . . . we didn’t want to cause executions without better proof.”
“Particularly not the execution of Scorinn?” Ussa grunted. “Well, we shall have Gmezza and Scorinn here. Ernicka—send for them!”
“It will be done, Ussa,” Ernicka said, signaling the guardsmen at the door.
“There is another who can speak for us, Great Ussa,” Tersa said. “Enduring Bias!”
“Indeed?” Ussa seemed distracted as he replied. “Sooln was looking for the Flying Voice earlier and he was not easily found. That’s usually the case when he’s inspecting the outer shell. But we shall find him. It may take some time. In the meantime . . . sit over there, on the floor, and wait. I will have water and food brought for us all. And we shall see if you are to live or die.”
Reskolah, Janjur Qom
850 BCE
The Age of Reconciliation
Mken hadn’t quite gotten over his astonishment. He’d been surprised to see eight female San’Shyuum riding the ilpdor. He’d never heard of one of the immense predators being trained, in any way. But it seemed this one was. Low slung but broad, it lurched along the sandy beach with the San’Shyuum females lined up, straddling its back—with variants in the color of the shiny cloth, they were all dressed in the traditional I am willing to consider mating garb.
They seemed perfectly comfortable riding the giant carnivorous amphibian—but the ilpdor seemed clumsy as it trotted along, its webbed, clawed feet not as comfortable on land as in the water. It reeked of scaly amphibian and muck, trailing bits of seaweed and some kind of clutched-on parasite like a grotesque skirt as it waddled up the shore.
Feeling an uncomfortable combination of fatigue and anxious tension, Mken walked a safe distance to the right of the scaly six-legged creature’s wide, toothy jaws. A lolling blue tongue whipped out from time to time, licking at rows of fangs as the ilpdor rolled its faceted eyes toward him. Mken couldn’t get over the feeling that it was imagining what he might taste like.
To Mken’s right was Lilumna, walking with a vigor that put his own trudging to shame; flanking her were the three Sangheili. Vil ‘Kthamee glanced from time to time at the females riding the ilpdor. The Sangheili Ranger seemed amused, if Mken judged that clamping of mandibles right—but it was hard to tell when a Sangheili was amused.
“Lilumna,” Mken said softly, “I flatter myself that I know a good deal about Janjur Qom—though I was never here before today. But I can recall no accounts of an ilpdor having been tamed.”
“It is not exactly tamed; it is more like a partnership. Large fish have become scarce in the lake—the males from the capital city have dragged nets along it, numerous times, and reduced them. My sister, Burenn—she rides there in front—found this creature starving when it was but small. If it had been larger, it would have snapped her up and eaten her. But she fed it the meat and cheese of the garfren and somehow it bonded with her. Now it helps us catch what fish are left, driving them toward our nets. We feed it, and it keeps the worst of the depredations at bay. We have named it Erb. We c
an’t keep it out of the water long, but—”
“Your Eminence!” called Trok softly. “We’ve come to the turning! The signal confirms it—the dropship is this way.”
“Thank the Journeyers for the signal, then,” muttered Mken. He glanced at the sky. The clouds had closed up again and there was little light. “I can’t see where I am . . .”
In a few hours, perhaps much less, it would be dawn—and then there would be all too much light. They must get to the dropship quickly as possible before they were spotted.
They followed Trok off the beach, onto the trail threading through the undergrowth. The ilpdor grunted and whined, seeming reluctant to go so far from the lake. Burenn slapped Erb’s neck and bent over to whisper to it, urging the great predator on.
It sniffed sadly but tagged along after the Prophet of Inner Conviction and his Sangheili guardians, on into the thick, restless brush.
As the odd procession wound its way up the trail, vines licked out and seemed to snuffle at them. Erb snapped at the probing vines, driving them back.
They were within a hundred paces of the dropship when the enemy found them.
It was hard to tell what they were at first. “Soldiers!” Burenn shouted. “They’re coming on folasteed!”
But Mken, in his weariness, had forgotten to find out just what folasteeds might be. At first they were just the rough shape of a four-legged riding animal emerging from the brush—about ten of them. There was a zipping sound, and a peculiar reorientation of the undergrowth. He heard someone or something yowling—it sounded like a cry of agony.
Then the clouds parted and moonlight flooded the glen. Mken saw San’Shyuum in armor, carrying large, clumsy-looking projectile rifles, and riding on . . . what was that, exactly?
The folasteeds were made of the underbrush itself—it was as if the thick vines and plants, the smaller trees, the shrubs, all merged together beneath the riders. The riders were carried along on rough four-legged shapes, with heads and torsos, their general outline like steeds found, in variations, on many planets—but these were constantly taking form and falling back into the brush. The outline of the steed continued consistently under the riders—the riders passed along, the steeds formed from the brush they came to. It was as if the forest itself was constantly creating riding mounts from itself for the soldiers; as if the riders were sliding along on living plants rather than each riding a single steed.
“What are they?” Mken blurted.
“At a guess—gene-forging!” Vil ‘Kthamee muttered, firing his weapon. “The plants have been redesigned to work for the Stoics!”
That made a sort of blurred sense to Mken—the Stoics had drawn a line when it came to hardware technology. They were allowed so much, and no more. So their scientists had digressed into wild botanical genetic engineering experiments.
The folasteeds were almost upon them.
Drawing his sidearm, Mken shouted, “Lilumna! Get back, behind Erb! Keep all the females back!” He fired his plasma pistol toward the riders, not at all sure if he was hitting what he was aiming at. More illumination came in staccato strobing from the plasma rifles, which spat luminous bright energy at the onrushing patrol.
And that’s when Mken saw Loquen—he was being carried along by vines himself, not by a folasteed, but by a plethora of vegetable cords that whipped from the grass to pass him along, one thicket to the next. He screamed as the vines tore off shreds of his hide, as two other vines probed into his eye sockets. Loquen was being displayed here, Mken realized, to frighten them—to make them lose heart.
“Let me go!” Loquen shrieked. “I showed you where they were to be! Let me go now!”
But the vines tore Loquen to pieces in seconds, flinging the steaming, spurting chunks at the Sangheili and the Prophet of Inner Conviction.
The riders circled the small party of outworlders now, the steeds tearing up roots when they needed to cross the path, reinforcing from more plant matter beyond it, bellowing.
Vil fired at the riders, his aim unerring. One of them went down, his eyes burned away. Another fell from his steed and rolled, clutching at a charred midsection.
Ziln ‘Klel shouted defiance, putting aside his fears and rushing at the enemy, firing his weapon . . .
Mken staggered back from the onslaught as projectiles hissed past him. He fired his pistol till it burned his fingers overheating. One of the riders fell, roaring in pain.
A projectile struck Ziln ‘Klel in the torso, making him cry out and stagger—another caught him in the head, blowing it apart. His body fell limply, like a thing of rags.
Trok fell then, grunting with pain as he was hit by a projectile—shot but not killed, not yet. His weapon was drained of power and, lying on his back, he drew his burnblade. Projectiles flashed past Mken and he knew his time was about to come. They could not miss forever.
Then there was a gurgling roar and the ilpdor was among the enemy, ridden now by Burenn alone. She shouted commands and clutched at its neck as it reared back on its hind four legs, slashing with its front talons, its huge jaw snapping. It tore into vines and soldiers, ripping them from their steeds, shaking them to break their necks, throwing them aside.
Vil was hurtling grenades—they exploded in enormous blossoms of blue-white incandescence, as if mocking the living plants around them, and two of the riders went down, their steeds blasted apart, armor ruptured . . .
Another rider—the last of them—leapt from his mount, firing his weapon over and over into the throat of the ilpdor as he came skidding off the folasteed along the trail.
The ilpdor, spurting green blood, thrust toward its tormenter and crunched his head in its jaws . . . and then Erb staggered and tipped to one side. Burenn jumped free at the last moment, just evading a crushed leg.
Erb shuddered, and gasped, and spat out an enemy’s head . . . and then died.
Weeping, Burenn knelt by the hideous, reeking beast, hugging its bloody head to her chest.
“Come, Burenn,” Mken said, dazedly helping Trok to his feet. The commander was shot through a thigh, but he would likely get back to High Charity alive, if any of them did. “We must go. The dropship is near. We must all hurry. Where are the other females?”
“We’re here,” said Lilumna, leading the other six female San’Shyuum from the shadows. “We must flee.” She pulled her sister, Burenn, to her feet and hugged her. “The plants have no real mind—they are controlled by the riders. But they can feel threatened. They may attack us—and soon.”
The San’Shyuum gunner Mleer came hobbling up then, looking around wide-eyed. “I saw the battle! Are there more of them?”
“And what if there were?” Trok growled at him. “What use were you?”
“I didn’t know if I should leave the ship—my orders.”
“He’s right, Trok,” Mken said, helping the warrior trudge toward the vessel. “Mleer, help Trok back to the dropship. I need to know the relics are safe. Let us leave Janjur Qom . . . as quickly as we can.”
They would leave their true home for a mere substitute—for High Charity. But they had the females. And they had both the Purifying Vision and the rare Luminary. He would especially take that in triumph back to R’Noh, and somehow manage not to simply throw it in the Minister’s face.
CHAPTER 12
* * *
The Refuge: An Uncharted Shield World
Strategy Hall
850 BCE
The Age of Reconciliation
‘Crolon, ‘Drem, Gmezza, and Scorinn had been summoned to Strategy Hall to face Ussa ‘Xellus. Tersa, standing with Lnur off to the side, watched them closely. ‘Crolon and ‘Drem looked sullen, Gmezza and Scorinn frightened.
“We did not speak of sedition, Great Ussa,” said Gmezza. He took a limping step closer to the podium where Ussa sat, half slumped in his chair, listening closely.
Ernicka the Scar-Maker, expression like a storm cloud, stepped between them.
“It is quite all right, Ernicka,” Uss
a said, glancing to all who stood before him, his eyes lingering a bit longer on Lnur. “He is not armed. Nor am I afraid of him.”
“We simply requested more explanation,” said Scorinn, her eyes cast down. “We wondered why . . . We heard rumors . . . We . . . I apologize, Kaidon, that we . . .”
“I do not tolerate sedition,” Ussa said. “If I am leader here, then it is truly so. If I am not to be accepted, so be it. But those who wish me to be leader must accept my word. Nothing else is possible here. And that is the way of a clan and a kaidon. But . . . not every doubt can be considered treason. If it were, we would all have to be executed at some point.” He looked at ‘Crolon and ‘Drem. “I have heard from Gmezza and Tersa that you two suggested that I was planning to destroy everyone . . . to annihilate the shield world. That I was planning to invite the San’Shyuum to be my allies.”
“Oh, but we didn’t say that,” said ‘Crolon smoothly. “We were misheard. The sound of the waterfall obscured us perhaps. We had heard Tersa there speaking of a method for dismantling the planet—this shield world—and we heard the machine called Enduring Bias discussing the San’Shyuum fondly. But we were actually concerned about Tersa, not about you, Great Ussa. In fact—”
“Did I hear someone use my informal designation?” called Enduring Bias, zipping into the room. The Flying Voice flew in over their heads and hovered over the dais, turning to look at the group gathered before Ussa. “Someone was inaccurately paraphrasing me, I suspect. And not the first time.”
“You are familiar, now, with our customs, Enduring Bias,” Ussa said, not looking at the device as he spoke. “You know what we regard as breaking our rules and those rules respecting sedition—treason, treachery, dangerous levels of disloyalty. There are some fine lines, in some cases—but perhaps you are aware of remarks by these two”—he nodded toward ‘Crolon and ‘Drem—“which might fit into the category of treason or treachery.”
