Broken Circle

by John Shirley

  “Or perhaps allowed to fight to the death, in an arena. It is heard of, I believe, on Sanghelios.”

  Ussa simply could not trust the other San’Shyuum—even if, perhaps, this one was sincere. “When you first put the proposition to me, you said, ‘I will attempt to obtain permission.’ Cunning to put it that way! You and I know you would be unlikely to obtain such permission. I foresee my people would be exterminated, if I . . . allowed myself to be captured, as you offered.”

  “I am not a Hierarch, but I am not without influence. I would do everything in my power to see that your people were not harmed.”

  “The Covenant on Sanghelios would regard them as a security risk. They would not allow that. I know my own people—or those who used to be my people. Every last one of us would be executed. And the San’Shyuum would probably make the same calculation.”

  Now it was Mken’s turn to hesitate. He shifted in his antigrav chair and admitted, “I cannot disagree with your logic. But . . . anyone can be persuaded.”

  “I am afraid I cannot trust my people to yours. Or even to my own kind on Sanghelios.”

  “If you do not surrender, you will all perish. Your best hope is to trust me.”

  “I cannot actually speak for all of my people—I think most would submit to returning to Sanghelios if I asked them to. I am not at all certain I need to do so. I am dubious, Mken, that you can destroy us so handily, unless you are also willing to destroy the greatest repository of sacred relics you have ever encountered.”

  Once more Mken paused, tugging thoughtfully on a wattle. “For all we know, there are no relics within that shell. It could be largely empty.”

  “I think you know better—because you cannot have risen on high without some understanding of the Forerunners.”

  “No one,” Mken averred, “truly understands the Forerunners. To suppose we understand them is tantamount to heresy.”

  Ussa leaned forward in his kaidon’s throne and pointed a finger at Mken. “I tell you that this place is alive with Forerunner secrets. And that is a warning! If you do not retreat . . . if you press an attack on us . . . we will destroy all that is here! And who will be to blame? Ultimately, that would fall upon the Prophet of Inner Conviction!”

  The San’Shyuum made a soft sound that was like the gurgling of a narrow stream. Perhaps it was amusement . . . or disdain. “It may be so, Ussa. But would you, who rebelled to protect the Sangheili way with sacred artifacts, actually possess the conviction to destroy them?”

  “Is that why you suppose we rebelled? We acted as such because the Sangheili must not surrender to the San’Shyuum—and the Covenant is based on foolishness. The Great Journey. Where is your proof of this Journey, for anyone but the Forerunners? We hold these relics to be precious and sacred, but we use them ourselves in this very world. It is the freedom, the independence of our people that we fight for, Mken!”

  Mken appeared shaken by this blasphemous mockery. But he decided this was no time to engage in theological argument. “If it’s freedom you fight for, then let your people fight for it back on Sanghelios. You will die knowing they have a chance to be free there.”

  “Now, Mken, you are misleading me. You have as much as admitted you can guarantee no such thing. No, I think that we will not bargain with you.”

  Mken paused, then said: “I will say something now, and I care not who hears this. Why do you think I speak to you this way, Ussa ‘Xellus? I will tell you truly—it is because I admire you. You have always found your own path, following your own heartfelt beliefs. You have fought bravely; you have evaded us with cunning, with forethought and wisdom. You have greatness! I wish we could have that same greatness in the Covenant. You are greater, in your way, than any San’Shyuum I know. I would not lie to such as you.”

  Ussa was taken aback. But like Mken, he could not easily judge the sincerity of another sentient species. By their actions you will know them was an ancient Sangheili precept. He could not know if this San’Shyuum was being forthright until he could prove it. He must assume Mken’s protestations of admiration were just manipulative guile.

  “I cannot trust you, whatever savory words you use, Mken. I tell you that if you attack us, and we believe we cannot win the battle . . . we will win, nevertheless. Even though it means our own destruction—this world and all that is in it . . . even as we destroy ourselves!”

  “I cannot simply remove the fleet, Ussa. The Hierarchs have commanded me to take you prisoner for judgment—or destroy you. I am bound to the Covenant. Supposing you are capable of such a deed . . . no, it is unthinkable. There must be an alternative.”

  “I offer you this, then. If you withdraw, we will hand over relics from this world—wonder after wonder, courtesy of the Forerunners. We will give them to you one at a time. A few every circuit of this world around the sun.”

  Mken seemed to ponder. At last he said, “I do not think the Hierarchs would accept such an arrangement. They would feel that the entire Covenant was stymied by a small group of rebels. If word got out . . . no, it could not be borne. And then I could not persuade them to trust you. Nor could the Sangheili.”

  “So we’ve come to the end, then. We cannot trust you, and you cannot trust us.”

  “That is how it seems. And yet I do trust you, Ussa. You radiate integrity. It is the others who would not share that trust. I must ask you a final time—surrender, for the sake of your people.”

  Ussa gnashed his mandibles. “My people would end up tortured and executed in the hands of the Covenant! I am done discussing this. It is hopeless. You cannot strike at this world without destroying countless sacred relics. If you try to invade it . . . we will destroy it. And all of the invaders along with it. Bias! End this transmission!”

  And the holograph switched off. Mken ‘Scre’ah’ben vanished—and Ussa ‘Xellus never saw him again.

  Covenant Carrier Pledge of Holiness

  In Orbit Around the Refuge, a Formerly Uncharted Shield World

  850 BCE

  The Age of Reconciliation

  “Were you careful to use the stealth fields, Trok?” Mken asked. They were in the command center of the Pledge of Holiness, above and behind the vessel’s bridge—a wide, low-ceilinged room, a half circle lined by displays and holoprojectors. Several communications officers stood at their stations, awaiting orders and dutifully observing screens holding information that they didn’t quite comprehend—the world before them was eerily mysterious.

  “We did, Your Eminence,” said Trok ‘Tanghil, glancing at Vil ‘Kthamee, who stood behind Mken. “However, we seemed to be tracked the entire way. The intelligence construct utilized by Ussa ‘Xellus may be using Forerunner technology to see past our stealth fields. Even so, we have landed three hundred Sangheili, and six Sentinels, with a hundred Sangheili and two Sentinels each at three points . . . here, here, and here . . .” He pointed at the schematic of what was known of this world, provided by scans and, to some extent, Salus ‘Crolon’s limited knowledge. “We found entry where he suggested we might—but it worries me that we were not attacked upon our arrival . . .”

  “Yes. It’s worrisome. And where is that wretch Salus ‘Crolon?”

  “He has gone along to guide the troops at Point One. He was quite reluctant to make the journey.”

  “No doubt.” Mken cleared his throat and pondered. “If they’re tracking us, you may be assured they’re waiting for their moment. The right ground for assault. The Covenant will be met by the rebel troops—”

  “Look!” Trok pointed at the three-dimensional image, where red circles pulsed and expanded. “It’s begun! Contact with the enemy! ‘Tskelk, what is the report from Point One?”

  ‘Tskelk, the Sangheili communications officer on Mken’s right, seemed to be communing with his holodisplay. After a few moments he said, “There is stiff resistance at Entry Point One. It seems there is an ambush! I’m not sure from this report if—”

  “Enough,” ordered Mken. “I want to hear it�
��and see if we have a visual signal.”

  “It shall be done, Your Eminence.”

  The transmitted image quickly appeared, bleary from motion, an uneven three-dimensional view apparently shot from someone’s helmet. Mken could see plasma rifles flickering out jets of energy, burnblades flaring and slashing on the perimeters. “They waited till we broke through the shell and then came at us from three sides!” said a Sangheili breathlessly.

  Mken saw Salus ‘Crolon then, running toward the camera. “They’re coming for me! They’ve seen me! We must pull back to a safer vantage! Quickly—!”

  Then three Ussan Sangheili converged on ‘Crolon—they wore the colors of Ussa on their chests; evidently it was an image of the shield world beside Sanghelios. They wielded their burnblades, hacking him into steaming, smoking pieces.

  “So much for Salus ‘Crolon,” Trok muttered.

  The Covenant Elite transmitting the image was firing his weapon in hot blue flashes at the oncoming Sangheili rebels. He gasped his report as he fired. “There aren’t many of them, but they are aggressive and effect—” He didn’t finish, the slash of a burnblade cutting him off, the image winking out.

  “We can send another nine hundred troops, Your Eminence,” said Ernicka.

  “Yes, it’s better if—”

  Then another image appeared—it was Ussa ‘Xellus himself, with smoke rising around him, shouts in the background, a glowing rifle in his hands. “You! Prophet of Inner Conviction! Are you there? I cannot see you—but surely you see me!”

  “Yes, I see you!” declared Mken, intrigued. “Can you hear me?”

  “Your voice comes through faintly. I wish to tell you that I have anticipated you would send in overwhelming reinforcements. We have driven the Covenant back for the moment, but it cannot continue. For this reason, I am giving the order. This planetoid will be lost to you forever! No one who remains here will survive. I am giving your forces an opportunity to retreat—not to surrender. Take them aboard! Otherwise they will die. No more negotiations!”

  And then Ussa blinked out.

  All the Sangheili were staring at Mken, wondering what his order would be—and not daring to give advice.

  “Order our people to retreat, taking their wounded with them!” Mken said firmly. “Back into the landing vessels. Leave three Eyes to observe, and send us what information they can. Then prepare another six hundred troops for the second stage of the invasion . . .”

  “It will be as you command, Your Eminence,” said Trok.

  Trok conveyed the orders as Mken contemplated whether those additional troops would be needed. He suspected not. Somehow, all his research on Ussa ‘Xellus suggested the rebel leader was capable of unusual mercy for a Sangheili—the mark of a great sentient being. In fact, Ussa’s only real mistake was taking mercy too far, in tolerating Salus ‘Crolon when he must have known that Sangheili was a liability.

  Minutes passed—and then Trok announced, “The three troop movers are en route . . . No returning fire from the planet . . . that is surprising . . . they seem to be genuinely allowing the retreat . . .”

  “It is not surprising,” Mken murmured. “This is on Ussa’s orders.”

  The Eyes sent images from within the shield world where they, too, met with no resistance.

  But there was also no sign of Ussa’s people.

  On and on the Eyes searched, returning tantalizing images of Forerunner artifacts and relics. There was nothing except empty corridors, rooms filled with cryptic devices, and a great gardenlike open area where flying creatures unfamiliar to Mken flapped about.

  And then it happened. The walls seemed to shimmer . . . and melt. Waves of heat surged over the Eyes, and each remote device’s signal snuffed out. The image went black.

  “Show me the entire world,” Mken ordered. And as the image of the metal-sheathed planetoid appeared in three dimensions, floating above them, Mken said, “And order the fleet: general withdrawal, pull back, but stay within the system, at ready, facing the enemy. Make it a safe distance, whatever you judge that to be, Trok. But close enough that we can still view it.”

  The shield world dwindled, shrank to what seemed a quarter of its size as they drew back.

  Then the cracks showed.

  They were seams, really, glowing from within the planet, blue in some places, red in others. The curved, neatly fitted segments of which the Refuge was made were edging apart from one another, releasing fantastic shimmering energies in the gaps, light that stretched out from the cracking planetoid like the rippling skirts of an aurora. Molten metal gushed from the widening seams in the planet’s sheath, like reverse meteorites spat into space, and the planetoid shimmered in the release of heat energy.

  The molten metal soon became a bubbling cloud of minerals, metal droplets, and searing gas around the shield world—and beyond that, Mken assumed, the rebel Sangheili were dying or, more likely, already dead.

  “Oh, by the Journey,” Mken muttered. “He did it. He’s destroying all those lives—and all those relics. Gone.”

  As if it had heard him, the planetoid confirmed Mken’s lament—it exploded.

  The roiling fireball became an expanding, uneven fog of burning fragments, murky segments of planetoid that spun away into the void.

  “Nothing and no one could have survived that,” said Vil ‘Kthamee, his voice hoarse.

  “You are correct,” Mken said. “The relics—the rebels. All gone. Annihilated. And at what cost . . .”

  “Your Eminence, fragments of the planet are spinning our way, highly volatile,” said ‘Tskelk. “I’m getting reports of significant collision hazard from across the fleet!”

  “Tell them to take evasive action,” said Mken.

  Mken went to the bridge, to consult with the undercaptain. But the fleet was undamaged. The shield world was in smoldering fragments, joining the nearby asteroid belt.

  Viewing the monitors, as they searched the area after the planetary blast had culminated, Mken noticed that dozens of large, distinctive metal-cored shapes were distributed through the area. Mken half expected to find escape craft, at least some sign of life. Surely Ussa ‘Xellus would have prepared something. Had he really sacrificed himself—and all his people—for the sake of honor? They must have come to their senses—they must be there, somewhere.

  But he saw no trace of conscious movement. Fragments spun, flame jetted as gases burned away from the ruptured planetoid. Were those incandescent specks the Sangheili burning up, their lives being extinguished?

  He couldn’t be sure. But the fragments of the planetoid glowed with a radiation that suggested no life was possible here.

  Still . . . they might not be as lifeless as they seemed. The metal-edged sections within the burning debris seemed to edge toward the safer emptiness of space. Their movement subtly—ever so subtly—suggested sprawling but organized trajectories. Perhaps . . .

  “Sir?” asked Trok ‘Tanghil, coming to stand beside him. “Shall we continue the survey?”

  Perhaps it was a rational decision. Perhaps it was not. But Mken made it in an instant.

  “No. Order the fleet to return to High Charity. I shall prepare my report. I expect it will not be well received—especially by Excellent Redolence. But Ussa ‘Xellus is gone. That is the important thing.”

  He turned away, and wondered at that himself. If his suspicion was right—was he now engaging in treason?

  But he had no real proof.

  So perhaps it was better to let the broken circle spin onward, untouched, into the space beyond their view.

  If Ussa ‘Xellus was still alive, the Covenant would likely never hear from him again.

  And Mken had a life to live. He had Cresanda to return to, after all. Why, then, court trouble?

  Within the Broken Circle

  Strategy Hall

  850 BCE

  The freight movers were not comfortable but they did their job: they kept Ussa ‘Xellus and Sooln and Tersa and Lnur and the others stabl
e within the largest section of the disassembled shield world. The walls rotated sickeningly around them; wind, driven by the turning of the segments, blew and skirled past. The lights blinked, going on and off, but valiantly shining most of the time. Ernicka the Scar-Maker, looking quite ill, clutched at the side of the shallow box shape of the freight mover. Dozens of other freight movers carried hundreds of other Ussans nearby.

  Enduring Bias hovered overhead, chattering happily to itself about how well the experiment was going, positive results, and status reports chirped in the strange tongue of the Forerunners. All dangerous radiation released was redirected outward, away from the Sangheili.

  “Great Ussa, we live yet!” Tersa said, as if surprised. He was clinging to the side of the freight mover nearby.

  “You find that surprising?” Ussa asked. But he was rather nauseated and wished the whirling and jolting of their section of the disassembled shield world would slow and stop, as per plan. “Bias! How much longer will we have to endure this much motion?”

  “Until the fleet is gone—then I will give the command for stabilization fields,” the Flying Voice responded.

  “How much of the Refuge did we lose?” Lnur asked.

  “A fair amount,” answered Enduring Bias. “But all according to the design of the Forerunners. They were concerned to design a place that could elude the Flood even if some of the parasite survived the Great Purification.”

  “Have you restored some parts of your memory?” Sooln asked. “That sounds like new information.”

  “What does?” asked Enduring curiously.

  “What you said about . . . the Flood? What’s that?”

  “Did I say something about the Flood? Oh dear. I’ve been having these intervals, these lapses—jolts of lost history spurting up and then breaking apart . . . I wonder how much longer I can last . . .”

  “We need you,” Ussa reminded the Flying Voice. “We need you to set things in proper orbit. To sketch in the circle so that it’s distributed around the sun, within the asteroid belt. So the Covenant can never find us . . . and so we can travel between the segments. We will make a new colony, as the Forerunners foresaw . . . and we will need you for that.”