Broken Circle

by John Shirley

  The Luminary was more important. But . . . Burenn had saved his life back on Janjur Qom. Had saved the entire expedition. And was the biological artifact of her healthy genetic material less important than the Luminary?

  Yes. Leave her! Get to the Luminary.

  But . . .

  Inwardly calling on the spirits of the Forerunners for help, Mken turned furiously to Burenn, went to her as quickly as he could in the lumbering pressure suit. He could see that she was breathing—she was still alive. He dragged her through the door, away from the aft of the ship and into the room where the other females had been seated. The San’Shyuum females had all gone to safer berths forward, and so had that panicky oaf Mleer.

  “Trok! Can the door to twelve be resealed?”

  “The Huragok is working on it, Your Eminence!”

  Mken wanted to scream with frustration. “Get it done quickly! We are about to lose the Luminary!” He put on his pressure suit’s helmet and returned to the next room and the door to the deployment hold.

  He got there just in time to see the breached hull explode outward, the pieces of the dropship flying out into space. It was unable to resist the powerful suction, and was drawn inexorably out into the vacuum.

  “Trok! The Luminary! Can you track it? The pieces of the dropship, the Luminary, they should be in the same gravity well! Can we . . . can we go back? Can we . . .”

  There was a long crackling pause. Finally, Trok reported, “I’m sorry, Your Eminence. Our instruments are following everything that was expelled from the hold. It’s falling back toward Janjur Qom. The Luminary with it—its energy field is quite distinctive. It is plunging into the atmosphere of the planet . . . we have lost it.”

  “No, Trok. No. I cannot bear that. Look again. Please.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Eminence. It is too late.”

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  The Refuge: An Uncharted Shield World

  Strategy Hall

  850 BCE

  The Age of Reconciliation

  Ussa ‘Xellus was just waking up, his first thought that today he must contend with the execution of the traitor ‘Crolon . . . and then attempt to ease any fears among his people, who had come to call themselves “Ussans.” He needed to make sure they remained unified.

  Sooln came into the sleeping chamber, her eyes glinting with alarm.

  “Ussa, ‘Crolon is gone!”

  “What?”

  “He’s gotten away!”

  “When? How did this happen?”

  “We are not sure—at some point as most of us slept. I don’t know how he did it.”

  “Summon Enduring Bias.”

  Minutes later, Ussa and Sooln were hurrying up to the storeroom they’d used as a jail cell. Enduring Bias was already hovering by the open door. “This is all quite interesting. But I should inform you . . .”

  Ussa was staring at a small puddle of blood on the metal deck in the otherwise empty storeroom. “We had the door locked—a guard was stationed outside.”

  “I merely wanted to say—” Enduring Bias began again.

  Sooln turned to the Flying Voice, interrupting. “Can you show us what happened?”

  “Yes. I have only just now retrieved the relevant data. This was recorded earlier.” The Flying Voice angled itself so its lens was focused downward and it projected a holographic image showing the exterior of the cell seen from near the ceiling. There was a sentry, a Sangheili Ussa knew as ‘Kwari, leaning on the cell door, half-asleep. When the storage room was selected for a jail, small holes had been drilled in the door to allow sufficient air for prisoners. ‘Kwari had removed his armored helmet and placed it on the floor.

  Suddenly a thin metal blade, slimmer than a childling’s clawnail, thrust through one of the holes and into ‘Kwari’s hearing membrane. ‘Kwari shrieked in pain and fury and they heard ‘Crolon jeering, clacking his mandibles mockingly.

  “Coward!” shouted ‘Crolon, withdrawing the blade. “That is what happens to the dishonorable!”

  Furious, ‘Kwari did just what ‘Crolon must have hoped he’d do—he turned and unlocked the door, then started in, drawing his burnblade. “I’ll punish you for that! They’ll find just enough alive to execute!”

  And then ‘Kwari screamed in agony, staggering backward. The slim blade had been driven into ‘Kwari’s right eye, all the way to the hilt.

  ‘Crolon wrested the sword from the dying sentry, severed his head, and sprinted away.

  “That fool . . .” Ussa muttered.

  “Where has he gone?” Sooln asked, turning to Enduring Bias.

  “That is what I have been trying to tell you, Ussa ‘Xellus—he has gone to craft launching. He was there for some minutes before I detected it. I cannot watch everything at once, you know. I must access specific visual data before I can—”

  “Craft launching!” Ussa burst out. Unconsciously, he drew his burnblade. “ ‘Crolon is an engineer . . . he could fly one of the smaller vessels! If he chooses the right one, it will almost fly itself.”

  Something floated into the corridor near Ussa then, and slowed down. It was one of the flying freight movers, really just a shallow open box large enough for a moderate load of material. “Enter the mover,” Enduring Bias chirped, “and I will transport you there.”

  “Should we not get some aid from the others?” Sooln asked.

  “There is no time for that,” Ussa said, striding to the mover.

  “Then—simply shut down the hangar door for craft launching!” Sooln told the AI as she and Ussa climbed into the freight mover.

  “I regret to report that he has sabotaged the hangar controls,” Enduring Bias said as they flew along the hall toward the elevator shaft that would take them up to craft launching. The Flying Voice soared along right above them.

  “That means ‘Crolon is trapped there himself!” Ussa pointed out.

  “Perhaps not. Though I do not seem to have control over it, he has been able to enable an emergency escape fail-safe, so the door is controlled only by remote signal from within the vessel.”

  They were ascending the shaft now, with dizzying speed. The mover wobbled with air pressure and Ussa held on to Sooln with one hand, the other gripping the rail of the freight mover.

  Then they slowed, and switched to horizontal movement, along a gray metal corridor. The freight mover and Enduring Bias passed through an open door and into a control center that overlooked the hangar. The mover slowed and Ussa vaulted out, running to the window.

  Below he could see three vessels, one of them the small interstellar craft the Clan’s Blade. And it was the Blade that was glowing at the control area—as the wall melted away, on a signal from the ship.

  “He’s on the Clan’s Blade!” Ussa shouted.

  “Yes, and I am afraid the hangar is responding to his plasma engine activation. It knows he wishes to leave—and it arranges his exit.”

  “There has to be a way to stop it!” Ussa said, looking around the control room. But none of the equipment here was known to him. There were arcanely glowing three-dimensional symbols slowly revolving over panels of some unknown material. He wouldn’t know how to operate the controls here, either way. And one of the panels had been smashed—pried open by a burnblade, by the look of it.

  “Can either of you get this working again?” Ussa asked.

  “No, not without much study,” Sooln said. “He was probably just guessing what to sabotage.”

  “I could do it,” said Enduring Bias. “If I had a Huragok here. Can we import one? That would be splendid. We could use the Engineer for a good many critical repairs.”

  “Look, ‘Crolon is already gone,” Sooln said, gazing through the window.

  Ussa followed her gaze and saw that the Clan’s Blade had glided through the opening and was ascending a ramp, to the outer shell.

  “Maybe we can get up there and bring him down . . .”

  “I do have a short-range energy focuser that can be used f
or destructive purposes,” the Flying Voice replied. “But it will not reach the vessel . . . which is already ascending to orbit.”

  “If he’s gone, he’s gone,” Sooln muttered, turning away. “But . . . what will he do, Ussa? Will he return to the Covenant?”

  “It is not likely, in my opinion,” Ussa said. “ ‘Crolon is very much oriented to his own survival. The Covenant might execute him simply for allying with us to begin with. He will search for some safe place to hide himself.”

  But Ussa wasn’t certain of this. ‘Crolon could get the coordinates of the shield world from the Clan’s Blade itself. Suppose he tried to barter those coordinates to the Covenant in exchange for his life? What then?

  “Perhaps we should attempt to find some other place to take our people to,” Sooln suggested, her voice heavy with reluctance.

  “We might choose to do that,” Ussa said, turning away from the window. “I will give it thought. However, there is an alternative—even if the Covenant finds us here . . . and perhaps in the long run, it might be for the best.”

  The Dreadnought, High Charity

  850 BCE

  The Age of Reconciliation

  “Why should we believe a Sangheili, O Prophet of Inner Conviction?” Excellent Redolence sounded urbanely bored as he asked the question.

  Mken sensed the Sangheili beside him tensing at this sneering rhetoric. “I don’t understand the question, Excellent Redolence,” Mken said, though he in fact understood all too well.

  Excellent’s large, hooded eyes rolled to take in the Sangheili, Vil ‘Kthamee and Trok ‘Tanghil, who stood to Mken’s right, the three of them appearing in the High Council Chamber.

  The High Council was intended to include a select number of San’Shyuum and Sangheili, government delegates ordained as part of the Writ of Union, but for now the only authorities on the glassy, translucent platform were merely the triumvirate of the Hierarchs. There were the three of them in their hovering gravity thrones—great cups of circular metal that comfortably gripped the lower half of each San’Shyuum Hierarch, and that also discreetly included, Mken knew, gravity cannons that could annihilate him in an instant, if the Hierarch chose.

  The Hierarchs were lined up along the platform in their nearly weightless chairs. Behind the triumvirate was a decorative backdrop of glowing violet and blue panels. Each Hierarch wore a loose-sleeved robe with similar colors to the panels; their hands, three fingers and thumb, were poised near the controls of the thrones. On their heads were golden helmets, each headdress closely following the shape of the forehead and displaying a glowing blue hologram in the shape of a halo. From the throne’s backing behind the Hierarchs’ collars rose great forking figures of gold that overtopped their heads.

  On Mken’s far left was the Prophet of the Glorious Journey, who was rather slender, with his back hunched, his eyes set widely apart in an almost triangular face. Then came the Prophet of Unity, middle-aged and sitting up straight in his throne, eyes glittering with intelligence. And in the third gravity throne sat Excellent Redolence. Standing, arms crossed beside the dais, facing Mken, was the Minister of Anticipatory Security, R’Noh Custo. R’Noh looked pensive, shifting nervously from foot to foot. His expression was angry, defiant—but his bearing was fearful.

  The testimony from Vil ‘Kthamee and Mken had been damning. Trok hadn’t been there, in the grotto, when R’Noh’s agent, Vervum, had tried to assassinate Mken—but he had seen Vervum tamper with the weaponry on Mken’s antigrav chair. He had supposed Vervum was merely adjusting it. But given the testimony, it did sound as if Vervum had disabled the chair’s armaments.

  “You do not understand my question!” Excellent Redolence said in mock astonishment. “Really!”

  Mken glanced at the Sangheili. “Excellent Redolence, with all due respect.” He made the hand gesture of respect, as well, to reemphasize he didn’t want to offend the Hierarchs. It wouldn’t help Cresanda to have her husband disintegrated with a gravity cannon. “The Sangheili are our allies in the Covenant. We must trust them and they in turn must trust us. Trok ‘Tanghil here is a well-respected commander. Ranger ‘Kthamee earned my respect. He saved my life.”

  “You are at least partly right,” said the Prophet of Unity. “The Covenant must be based on mutual respect. I’m sure that Excellent Redolence did not intend it quite the way it sounded. The Sangheili are indeed our allies. But let us look at the situation. You were asked by a Hierarch to bring back a group of female San’Shyuum; this you accomplished. You were asked to bring back the legendary Purifying Vision—and its accompanying Luminary. You claim you had the Luminary, and yet it is lost. How you could lose anything so unspeakably precious passes understanding. Is it any wonder that we ask ourselves if you have muddied the story to avoid blame?”

  “I accept all responsibility,” said Mken. “I was in charge of the expedition. But you have heard Trok ‘Tanghil say that the word of this young Ranger can be trusted. And he testified as to what happened. The Huragok can also be consulted.”

  “The Huragok!” Excellent Redolence jeered. “Now we’re consulting artificial organisms created to fix machines!”

  “It is true that we cannot admit a Huragok as a witness,” said the Prophet of the Glorious Journey blandly, waving a dismissive hand at the notion. “They are almost without volition—too easily influenced. And difficult to communicate with.”

  Vil ‘Kthamee stirred and opened his mouth to speak, and Mken thought he was going to argue about the possibility of communicating with Floats Near Ceiling, so he reached over and squeezed the Sangheili’s shoulder in warning. Vil clamped his mandibles and merely growled softly to himself.

  The Prophet of Unity, thoughtfully tugging a wattle, said, “Huragoks aside, we cannot ignore the . . . the probability that Vervum, an agent of the Ministry of Anticipatory Security, attempted to assassinate the Prophet of Inner Conviction.”

  “And it was that attempt, and its aftermath, that delayed us, O High Prophet,” said Mken, ceremoniously gesturing to show respect and agreement. “Had we not been delayed, I believe we could have safely eluded the Stoics. And had we left without having a battle with the Stoic folasteed patrol, we likely would have left Janjur Qom in time to avoid the missile attack, which cost us the Luminary.”

  “If you had properly stored the Luminary in another part of the vessel,” said Excellent Redolence, “you would have it here now. That is—if you ever had it at all.”

  Mken clenched his fists. He wanted badly to use his own chair’s weaponry on Redolence. Instead he gestured, So you say.

  “You have all seen the damage to the ship,” said someone behind Mken. He turned to see old Qurlom floating into the room on his gravity chair. “The Vengeful Vitality’s systems recorded the presence of the Luminary.”

  “Qurlom,” Excellent Redolence snarled, “you are no longer a Hierarch, and you have no right to—”

  “Oh, but I do have the right!” Qurlom said. “Look at the Book of Hierarchs. Review the rules! I am not active—I am retired. But I am still allowed to voice an opinion here when I choose. And my opinion is, this is all a waste of time. Mken has done nothing wrong. He acted heroically! The Great Journey has blessed him . . . and the gods of the Journey have decreed, quite evidently, that we have not yet earned a Luminary that will show us the whereabouts of the Halos. But I have just come from viewing the Purifying Vision. Have you all seen it? That is—the exhibition of images within the device?”

  “We have,” said the Prophet of Unity.

  “Then you would have to be blind not to know what it is telling us!” Qurlom said. “The loss of the Luminary is a judgment upon us from on high! We are not yet worthy! But the Purifying Vision informs us that we are on the Path—and it gives us clues . . . which one day may lead us to Halo!”

  “I respect Qurlom’s theological acumen,” said Great Journey. “It is long tested and always righteous. Thus I vote that we rule that the Prophet of Inner Conviction is found blameless for
the loss of the Luminary.”

  “And what of the attempted assassination?” Qurlom demanded. “I know the story from Inner Conviction’s own lips. And who is to blame? The Ministry of Anticipatory Security—surely a dangerous concept in itself—and that fool, R’Noh!” Qurlom pointed a long, arthritically warped finger at R’Noh. “Let this absurd new Ministry be eliminated—and its Minister demoted to a third administrative assistant in Sewage Treatment! If we cannot prove that he was behind the assassination attempt, we may yet infer it! Let him be sent to the hinterlands of the galaxy, to oversee a mine! And then we may have a modicum of justice!”

  “I . . . no!” R’Noh said. “I . . . it wasn’t . . .”

  “Silence!” Excellent Redolence had turned in his throne and was bellowing at R’Noh. “One word more and I will push for your execution! Clearly you have let your personal dislike for Inner Conviction blur your ministerial agenda! Go! And say no more!”

  Mken grunted to himself, hearing Excellent’s emphatic command to R’Noh to say no more. Clearly the Hierarch was trying to quiet R’Noh before the former Minister blurted something that implicated his true master.

  Shaking, R’Noh gawped up at Excellent, who glared back darkly, his body language silently radiating warning even as his fingers slid toward the controls of his throne’s cannon.

  R’Noh noticed the motion and turned away. He strode out of the Hall, muttering inaudibly.

  “Perhaps,” said Unity, “we should all view the Purifying Vision again.”

  “We should, High Prophet of Unity,” said Qurlom. “But something else has come up—we may have an indication where Ussa ‘Xellus might be. I have received intelligence that the traitor could well be on an uncharted world, and not just that: one of those formerly inhabited by the Forerunners.”

  “Intriguing—and dismaying!” cried Excellent Redolence. “Heresy! This despicable creature dares to defile the creation of the Forerunners!” He turned and gave Mken a look that was superficially sympathetic—but that look had levels, deep dark levels, within it. “We shall have to take it back. And I think I know just the San’Shyuum to restore order to the Covenant. My apologies that you will have to leave High Charity so soon after returning to it . . .”