by John Shirley
“If you will kindly allow me a moment or two, I will interface with the facility’s observation cells . . .”
“Observation cells?” Ussa said. “What is that? I do not know the term.”
“I have informed Sooln about them,” said Enduring Bias. “The observation cells are organized by the communications center—the Chamber of Sensitive Geometries. The cells are implanted into the walls throughout the facility. It was one more special innovation for this facility—a marvel, really. As we’ve chatted, I’ve organized a short selection of interesting observations of the two Sangheili in question.”
And then Enduring Bias projected holographic surveillance footage of ‘Crolon and ‘Drem speaking. It started with their conversation with Tersa in the Chamber of Sensitive Geometries, went to their discussion with him in the Hall of Feasts, including the suggestion that they would falsify testimony against him if necessary. It went to a private conversation they had in a corner of a dormitory, in which ‘Drem remarked, “If we’re to save us from the madness of Ussa—he must die!” and ‘Crolon replied, “Keep your voice low, my friend. But I will just say—I do not disagree. We must organize people against him. And someone must be selected as the new kaidon. I was thinking I myself might be suitable . . .”
“I have heard enough,” Ussa said firmly, glowering at ‘Crolon.
“But there is much more!” Enduring Bias said.
“That will be sufficient.”
“You believe this dark angel?” ‘Drem demanded, looking around desperately. “That machine—over flesh-and-blood Sangheili? I knew it was something demonic about it. I could feel it!”
“Oh, ‘Drem!” ‘Crolon said soothingly. “Ussa would never be so foolish as to trust a machine over his brethren in flesh and blood! He will naturally suspect that the Flying Voice has fabricated this imagery, these apparent conversations—surely the device has the capability.”
“I do have such a capability,” said Enduring Bias. “However, it was not necessary, since these real conversations took place.”
“That thing cannot be from the Forerunners!” ‘Drem shouted, pointing, backing toward the door. “It is from . . . the San’Shyuum! It is from our enemies!”
“Ernicka, take those two into custody,” Ussa said, indicating ‘Crolon and ‘Drem. “Lock them in storage room seven. We will call a convocation for their execution shortly.”
“No!” ‘Drem turned to run, and Ernicka rushed after him, drawing his burnblade. He threw the weapon, and its shaft cut into ‘Drem’s spine. The Sangheili fell and thrashed in agony, wailing.
Tersa found ‘Drem’s writhing to be a distasteful sight. So did Ussa, apparently. Ussa said, “Ernicka—finish what you have started.”
Ernicka walked over and pulled the searing blade from ‘Drem—and then, in one smooth motion, severed the traitor’s head from his neck.
‘Crolon was staring at this in desperation. “Great Kaidon . . . I . . .”
“Take along a sentry, and escort the one who lives to the storeroom, Ernicka,” Ussa said.
Ernicka turned menacingly to ‘Crolon. “You heard the kaidon.” He brandished the burnblade. “Go. I follow.”
‘Crolon walked unsteadily from the room—stumbling as he went in the spreading pool of ‘Drem’s blood, so that he nearly fell into it face-first.
Ernicka grabbed ‘Crolon’s arm and, keeping a solid grip, escorted him from the hall.
“As for you four,” Ussa said, turning to Tersa, Lnur, Gmezza, and Scorinn. “You should know that while there is a mechanism for disassembling this world, it does not relate to . . . destroying it.” Ussa hesitated as if he were not sure himself that this was entirely true. Then he went on. “You must simply trust me.”
“I always have, Great Ussa,” said Tersa. “And today I’ve seen that my trust was well founded.”
Ussa pointed at Gmezza. “And mind what you babble about with others . . . you and your mate!”
“Yes, Kaidon!”
“Now, go about your business! The four of you are wearying me. I wish to consult with Enduring Bias alone. New questions have arisen . . .”
Vengeful Vitality
In Orbit Around Janjur Qom
850 BCE
The Age of Reconciliation
“Commander . . . are we ready to leave orbit yet?” Mken asked nervously, watching the scan monitor. So far there were no signs of an attack from the surface. But the Stoics had enough technology to be dangerous—perhaps even to a ship such as the Vengeful Vitality, which was in the same orbit since it first arrived. Janjur Qom glowed magnificently in a viewport, but now Mken wanted very much to leave it behind.
Trok ‘Tanghil shifted in the captain’s seat to ease the pain of his wound. The projectile had been removed, and he’d been salved and bandaged, but Mken knew the old warrior was still in agony. Trok squinted at a readout and grunted to himself. “I did warn you that I had not the expertise Vervum had, Your Eminence. It appears he locked down the engines. I believe I can get under way shortly, but . . .”
“I know you are injured, Trok, but you are also the only one competent enough to do this.”
“I was not complaining of my wound, Your Eminence,” Trok muttered. “I am merely saying it will take a little longer.”
“I know—never mind. Just do it as quickly as you can. I will check on the females.”
They had lowered the ship’s artificial gravity to match High Charity’s, so Mken got out of his chair and made his way on foot back to the corvette’s hold, retrofitted for the comfort of passengers.
He was visiting the females mostly to keep himself busy. His mind was tormented with questions about the Luminary. As he went along the corridor, his hand went to the projector base for the Purifying Vision in his robe pocket. He couldn’t carry the Luminary about with him, not handily, but at least he could keep the Purifying Vision close. He was going to take it to an officer’s cabin and peruse the hologram again.
It was unbelievably precious. He’d accessed the Luminary just long enough to know that it did indeed contain galactic coordinates for the Halos of legend, specifications for the devices and their manufacture, as well as where they had originated from and data on their ultimate purpose. He hadn’t delved deeply into it—he needed the help of other Prophets with more expertise in sacred relic technology. But at some point, on the way back to High Charity, why not examine the Luminary again? It was still in the dropship, safely in Vengeful Vitality’s deployment hold. He could almost hear it calling to him.
Mken found the nine females strapped tensely in the cushioned seats, four on one side and five on the other, along the fuselage of the vessel. Lilumna was gazing in awe out a port at Janjur Qom.
Mken turned to Lilumna’s sister, Burenn. “I wanted to say thank you. You saved our lives, bringing your . . . your friend Erb into the fight.”
Burenn’s voice trembled as she replied. “I had hoped my mother would care for Erb. And now . . .”
“I want you to know—if I were to have a daughter, I would want her to be like you. I thank you again—we all do.” He turned to Lilumna, still gazing at Janjur Qom. “So, what do you think of it?” Mken asked.
“It is so vast, so shining . . .” Lilumna shook her head. “I knew—we have some basics about our world, and yet . . . I didn’t know. Until you see it . . .”
“Yes. I do understand,” said Mken.
“There’s something else you may not understand,” said Lilumna, looking at him. “When I gaze at it, I-I don’t want to leave it. Suddenly I realize how large our homeworld is. There must be better San’Shyuum than those in Reskolah. There must be more males—better ones! They must be there on Janjur Qom somewhere! Burenn and I—we are not certain we want to go with you now!”
Mken made a hand gesture of sad commiseration. “I understand how you feel. But—we are committed. You must believe me when I tell you we cannot return to Janjur Qom. We are going to High Charity.” He cleared his throat and tugged on
a wattle, hesitating—but he decided he must say it. “Outside the door I just came through, there are two armed guards. They will not let you leave this hold until we are through slipspace—and well on our way.”
“So . . . we are slaves after all!”
“No! Absolutely not. I assure you of this. But here, you must follow the rules of this ship. And I command this vessel, for now. I must insist you remain here. You will not be enslaved on High Charity—of that, I promise you.”
Mken turned away from her and slipped through the door, closing it behind him. He looked at Vil ‘Kthamee and Mleer, waiting outside, and wondered what would happen if they had to use their weapons to keep the females in check. Would Lilumna be shot down?
Would Vil be forced to actually kill her?
His gut clenching at the thought, Mken turned away, heading for the bridge.
“Your Eminence,” came Trok’s voice on the communicator in his collar. “I have the ship ready to depart.”
“Then go! Take us out of orbit!”
Mken had just reached the bridge when he heard the screech of warning from the scanners and looked at the monitor to see the large projectile coming at the Vengeful Vitality.
The corvette had only begun to move from Janjur Qom’s orbit when the missile struck.
The deck rocked, the ship shuddered, a roar reverberated along its hallways, a shock wave reaching the bridge—and Mken, flailing, fell heavily onto his side.
“We’re hit!” Trok shouted, trying to regain control of the vessel. “An indirect hit! Straight from Janjur Qom! If we hadn’t already started on our way, we’d be done for . . .”
“How much damage?” Mken asked, trying to stand.
“Some—in hold twelve!”
The realization struck Mken like another projectile. They’d been hit close to hold eleven—close to the deployment hold where the dropship was stored.
And the sacred Luminary was in the dropship.
Mken managed to stand, grimacing with pain, and staggered back into the corridor. “Get us out of here!” he shouted, as he stumbled his way toward the rear of the Vengeful Vitality. The corvette was still shaking—some part of it was depressurizing, its artificial atmosphere sucking into space. Mken knew that section would be automatically closed off by the ship’s life-support response mechanism—but the precious air jetting from the breach destabilized the ship. It fishtailed in space, twisting this way and that, its artificial gravity rippling with inertia, so Mken was sent bouncing and bruising from one bulkhead to another as he worked his way to the aft.
Somewhere, an alarm went off, an automatic announcement made in a carefree tone, “Holds ten and eleven are experiencing rapid decompression. Evacuate to pressure-sealed areas. A danger of sudden death due to an absence of atmospheric pressure applies to personnel who fail to evacuate holds ten and eleven. Holds ten and eleven are experiencing rapid decompression. Evacuate to . . .”
“Your Eminence!” Vil ‘Kthamee cried as Mken came through the hatchway. “Are you all right?”
Mleer was gaping at him; Mken realized he was bleeding. “Never mind! The females! Get them out—crowd them up into the crew’s quarters!”
“Yes, Your Eminence!” Mleer said.
Vil ‘Kthamee opened the metal door and they stepped through to find the females up and clutching at the straps that held them in place, several of them cursing Lilumna and Burenn for talking them into making this hellish journey.
The corvette lurched again, metal squealing. Vil and Mleer unhooked the females, and sent them toward the front of the ship, one by one.
“What happened?” Lilumna demanded as Mken pushed past. Her voice was barely audible over the alarm and announcement. “Holds ten and eleven are experiencing rapid decompression . . .”
“A missile, from the surface!” Mken shouted as he got his footing and hurried toward the hatch to the deployment hold.
She looked around wildly, calling after him, “Is this only the beginning?”
“I think we’re out of range now . . .” That of course was just a guess. They knew so little about the Stoics’ military capability. “Follow Vil ‘Kthamee!”
Burenn was at the back of this compartment, where Mleer was just helping her stand, when Mken reached the door to the deployment hold. She’d struck her head when the ship was shaken about, and blood streamed into her eyes.
But at least the vessel was pitching less. It was easier for Mken to move. He was only badly bruised from the initial impact—and he was charged with purpose, able to ignore the pain.
“This way!” Mleer shouted at the females, hurriedly leading the way toward the ship’s bridge.
Mken checked the pressure indicator on the door to hold eleven and found the pressure normal. But beyond that . . .
His pulse raced madly as he thought about the implications of the Luminary, the sacred artifact that held the Covenant’s key to the Great Journey, now threatened by the void of space.
Mken palmed the door open. It slid aside and he went through. He sealed it behind him, then turned to the racks and lockers along the walls; they contained everything he needed: pressure suits, atmospheric chargers, tools.
“Holds ten and eleven are experiencing rapid decompression. Evacuate to pressure-sealed areas. A danger of sudden death—”
“Trok!” Mken shouted, hurrying to the lockers. “Are you hearing me?”
“Yes, Your Eminence!” came the voice from Mken’s collar communicator.
“Then find a way to shut off those alarms and that cursed announcement! I have to concentrate!”
“Immediately, Your Eminence!”
It wasn’t quite immediately, but when Mken had the boots off, the clangor and looping announcement fell silent. He could hear thumping, creaking from the deployment hold.
Hurry!
Hands shaking, Mken dragged on the pressure suit—it was designed to be donned quickly, edging itself onto his limbs and torso with self-guiding intelligent materials sensors. As he dressed, he called Trok on the communicator. “Trok! What’s the ship’s status?”
“Engines are online, but working at one-quarter power. Vitality is preparing to form a slipspace aperture, but it’s taking time. There have been no follow-up attacks from the surface of the planet.”
“They must have seen us when we took off at dawn—enough sunlight can compromise the stealth field. We’re fortunate to have gotten away at all.”
“The Huragok is working to repair the power lines. We hope to be at full power shortly, Your Eminence.”
“What’s the status of the deployment hold?”
“Stand by, please, while I check the . . .” He sputtered something unintelligible in some dialect of Sangheili. A curse of some sort. And then: “We had a temporary seal on the breach . . . but the seal has just broken down! The hold is once more decompressing!”
Mken heard a high-pitched grating sound from the deployment hold and his mouth went bone dry. Holding the helmet in his hands, he rushed to the door and into the next chamber, and looked through the window. To his right, he could see the gash the missile had made in the metal skin of the ship, sharp curled pieces of hull bent inward. He glimpsed stars flashing beyond the rent in the bulkhead; within the hold—which was actually a small hangar for the dropship—unidentifiable debris, scraps of metal and detritus, had once more begun whirling toward the breach in the hull. The last of it was drawing the overturned dropship with it, making it move gratingly, a little at a time, toward the gash in the bulkhead. The dropship was breaking up as he watched—pieces of it were tearing off, flying out into the ravenous void of space.
He put the helmet on, then turned at the chime from the door behind him. Hadn’t he sealed that door?
It was opening, and Burenn was stepping through, the San’Shyuum female dazedly looking around. “Mken . . . if you please . . . I am . . .”
“Get out of here! I’m about to decompress this room! Get out!”
“I can’t!” She b
linked, seeming about to keel over, and leaned against the doorframe. “Mleer left me . . . the door sealed—it’s locked! I can’t get out!”
“Then wait for me there! Get back in that room and close that door!”
“I didn’t open it.”
“What?”
“It opened and I came through . . .”
“Trok!” Mken shouted, turning to look through the small window in the hatchway door again. In the hangar, the dropship was now banging against the breach in the hull—which looked as if it was about to deliver it into space, like a female delivering an offspring from her womb.
“Yes, Your Eminence?” came Trok’s voice.
“Why are there doors unsealing on their own down here?”
“It’s the life-support system—the damage to the ship has caused a power pulse that has reset it. Some of the doors are not sealing, and are opening of their own accord—the ship’s computer seems to be prioritizing to close those doors necessary to save the rest of the vessel! The Huragok is trying to control it but . . .”
“Please . . .” Burenn sobbed. Mken turned and saw her collapsing limply to the floor. And she was blocking the opposite door. It wouldn’t close with her there. If she was left lying in that spot when he opened the door to the deployment hold, she would be taken violently along with the decompressing air into the vacuum. And there was no time to get her into a life-support suit.
Mken turned to the window in the door to the deployment hold—and saw the dropship, now in pieces, blocking the gash . . . but he could see the hull buckling. And something else. Half seen in the partly shattered dropship was the glimmering blue of the sacred Luminary. It was in danger of being lost forever.
If he didn’t get Burenn into the other room when he opened this door, she would die. If he did take time to help her, he would very likely lose the Luminary.
