by Various
“In case you did not come alone,” the Minister of Preparation said. He waved a hand, and the insectoid creatures lowered their guns. “Where is the Half-Jaw?”
“Alive and not far behind me. We should get to the bunker, charge the ring . . .” The Prelate took a step toward the Minister, and as he did, Preparation drew back his throne. The move betrayed the subtle shimmer of the throne’s energy shield.
“Careful, Tem’Bhetek,” the Minister said. The Yanme’e’s feelers twitched, and their glowing eyes darted to the Minister’s fingers, watching for a signal. But Preparation’s hands remained still in the sleeves of his threadbare robe. “The device is . . . unstable,” the Minister continued. “It will not survive another firing.” The Prelate saw that the crack along the ring’s upper arc was much longer now; the circuits embedded in the rent had burned away, leaving a blackened cavity in the marble. “I cannot risk its destruction—not until we transport it to its final destination.”
“What do you mean?” the Prelate asked. To a certain extent, he was just keeping the conversation going, trying to work out a way to get the answers he wanted without rousing the Minister’s suspicion. But now he was truly curious. “Transport the ring to where?”
The Minister cocked his head to one side. He looked genuinely puzzled and disappointed that Tem hadn’t already guessed. “To Sanghelios, of course.”
Tem’Bhetek drew a long, slow breath. For him, revenge against the Half-Jaw had always been the end. He had really never considered what else the Minister might have planned. But now, after a few moments’ thought, Tem discerned Boru’a’Neem’s next step. “Shadow of Intent . . . You’re going to use its reactors to charge the ring.”
“Spear of Light was a noble ship and served its purpose well. But it was never strong enough to make it past Sanghelios’s defenses or to provide power to the ring.” The Minister stroked the fleshy wattle hanging from his chin. “I have been testing the device at only a fraction of its power. Even if we were to increase the pulse by twenty percent, that would be more than enough to wipe all sentient life from Sanghelios and its moons. We shall annihilate the Sangheili home system and set back their species for ages to come!”
“Surely whoever was on board Shadow of Intent would also perish in the pulse,” Tem said. “Who did you have in mind?”
“My finest Prelate, of course. But I have the distinct feeling he is not as . . . committed as he once was.”
“As I was when you told me my family was dead?”
The Minister pursed his lips. “So. We have come back around to that.”
Just then, two red lights flashed on the Prelate’s visor, his motion-tracker alerting him to a pair of hostile contacts nearing the installation. A similar warning flashed on the arm of the Minister’s throne.
“I’m afraid we do not have time for questions,” the Minister said.
“I have only one.”
“Do you want to know the truth, or what I knew you needed to hear?”
With that, the Prelate had his answer. His heart ached. Oh, Yalar, forgive me . . .
But he still needed to hear it. “Why lie to me, Boru’a’Neem?”
“Because I needed your anger—I needed your blind rage to see this through.”
“You took my family from me.”
Preparation slammed his fist on his throne. “You never would have had a family if not for me!” The wrinkled folds of skin on the Minister’s neck pulsed with his contempt. “I have listened to you endlessly mourn those two small deaths, but you have no idea how much value was lost! My Sacred Promissory held more priceless relics—more Forerunner wealth—than any other vault in the Covenant!” The Minister’s limbs trembled, and his voice was shrill. “You lost a wife and child? I lost everything!”
The Minister’s words hit the Prelate harder than any wounds he’d ever received in battle. Under this verbal assault, his enhancements had triggered automatically, and his body was tensed to defend itself. But now the galvanizing rage that always accompanied these preparations was gone.
The Prelate felt empty, and his voice was hollow. “I did everything you asked of me. I saved your life,” he said.
“There were not many San’Shyuum who could match your skills or your devotion—and now perhaps there are none.” The Minister flared the sleeves of his robe and settled his arms softly on his throne. “But we are not the only ones who escaped the Holy City, and there will be many, full of rage or hungry for glory, who will gladly take your place.” All the artifice dropped from the Minister’s voice; his words were flat and final. “I don’t need you anymore.”
With a twitch of his fingers, Preparation signaled the Yanme’e to open fire. The chamber filled with plasma bolts and needlelike explosive shards, all directed at the Prelate. But even though Tem’Bhetek was in motion before these lethal rounds were in the air, he was not the first thing to reach the Minister’s throne.
An energy lance arced over the Prelate’s head and struck the Minister’s shield, dead center. The shield knocked the lance aside, but then wavered and collapsed. Immediately after, two carbine bursts cooked past the Prelate, hitting the Minister between his right shoulder and the base of his neck.
Then the Prelate ran into a wall of Yanme’e fire impossible to dodge. His own shields fell. He felt one plasma bolt boil into his thigh and a needle hit below his ribs and then explode out his back. As he tumbled toward the ring, Tem saw the Minister accelerate backward in his throne and into the bunker lift, frantically clasping his wound as pale-red blood pumped through his fingers. Boru’a’Neem locked eyes with the Prelate one last time. Then the saw-toothed door to the lift closed and the Minister was gone.
“Leave him!” Rtas shouted as the Scion sprinted for the Prelate. “Kill those Yanme’e!”
The Half-Jaw shot one Drone out of the air, and as it dropped, the Scion slid onto her knees, scooped up its plasma pistol, and came up firing. By the time the two Sangheili had made it to the ring, the greasy remains of seven more Yanme’e were smeared on the floor or dripping down the walls. Some of the Drones had retreated to the bunker lift, where they found cover behind its door frame, which protruded out from the chamber wall. More were buzzing in the highest reaches of the chamber, leaping back and forth between the support beams, trying to find the best angles for their shots.
Crouching beside the Scion at the base of the ring, Rtas eyed the ammunition counter on his carbine. “I have ten rounds left!”
The Scion inspected her pistol. “Less than a quarter charge!”
“Get your lance! I’ll cover you!”
As the Scion leapt into the open, Rtas briefly considered the onyx relic pressed against his back. It was shocking to be so close to a Halo ring again. And while it would have been easy to mistake its small scale for a lack of power, the Half-Jaw knew from the conversation he had just overheard between the Minister and the Prelate: If I fail, and they bring this infernal ring aboard my ship, Sanghelios will be lost!
Rtas stood and fired past the Scion, braining two Yanme’e who had just stuck their heads out from behind the door frame. Then he aimed upward, killing the first of a trio of Drones swooping down for an attack. The two other Yanme’e scattered, and the Half-Jaw and the Scion, now with lance in hand, ducked back behind the ring.
“The Minister of Preparation is through that door!” Rtas said as angry shots from the dozen or so remaining Yanme’e sizzled overhead.
The Scion took a quick glance over the lower arc of the ring. “There’s a control panel. On the left side of the frame!”
Neither of them had any idea if they would be able to manipulate the Forerunner door controls; undoubtedly the Minister had locked the door from the other side. But both Sangheili knew they were now sitting right beside the very device that had nearly wiped their minds clean. And if the Minister was preparing to unleash another wave . . .
“Stay close!” Rtas activated his energy blade. “Don’t stop until we make it to the door!”
Tul ‘Juran nodded as she gave her lance a shake. The tips of the weapon crackled diamond bright.
Then, together, they stepped out from behind the ring.
The two Sangheili were blurs of glittering light as they whirled their blades around themselves, deflecting the Yanme’e’s fire. They cut apart a group of Drones that dove from above and made it halfway to the grav-lift door when the ring suddenly powered on behind them with a deep, almost inaudible hum that shook their skulls inside their helmets—a terrifying sensation that stopped them in their tracks. Rtas and Tul ‘Juran braced against each other, back to back, growing panic limiting their urges to either fight or flight. Neither seemed ideal.
Meanwhile, the Yanme’e were just as unnerved as the two Sangheili. All the Drones that remained were now clawing at the door, ignoring the Forerunner control panel and its pulsing glyphs. Rtas scowled. If they don’t know how to open it, how will we? At the same time, what chance did they have to outrun this Halo ring? The Half-Jaw could feel the Scion’s body shudder as the relic’s rising wave pulsed against her mind—could feel his own thoughts start to slip.
Why else would I imagine someone . . . singing?
But then Rtas recognized the voice, and he knew the song was real.
During the firefight, the Prelate had dragged himself to the shaft beside the ring that led down to the installation’s power systems. Resting with his back against the low wall that circled the shaft, the Prelate was now staring at the spot on the floor before the ring where his Sangheili prisoners had once stood.
As the Prelate gently sang lilting San’Shyuum verses Rtas didn’t understand, he slowly unfastened his anti-grav belt and wrapped it around a satchel of plasma grenades that he had recovered from the corpse of a nearby Yanme’e. When this explosive bundle was gathered in his lap, the Prelate ceased his song. He laughed ruefully and coughed: “Why not sing at a time like this . . .” Then he rose partway up the wall and looked directly at the Half-Jaw.
“The spear was always in my back,” the Prelate said. Arm shaking, he held his bundle out over the shaft. “I wish I’d felt it sooner.”
Rtas had a vague idea what the Prelate meant, but the pulse from the ring was overwhelming now, and he was losing the ability to think, let alone speak, clearly. He gave the Prelate a grateful nod and grabbed the Scion by the shoulder. Then they activated their thrusters and raced away from the ring.
Tem’Bhetek waited until the Half-Jaw and female Sangheili were out of the test chamber before he dropped his belt. The bundle clattered against the wall of the shaft, once, twice, and then continued its descent in silence. The Prelate slid down the barrier, leaving a smear of blood from the gaping hole in his armor, and settled, legs akimbo. He pulled his hands into his lap. Without a weapon to hold, they felt uncomfortably empty.
He closed his eyes and whispered: “This path. Where did it lead?”
“To me, my love . . .”
Slowly, the Prelate opened his eyes. Yalar stood before him, her thin yellow gown fluttering in the ring’s invisible waves.
“It led to us.”
Then there was a weight in Tem’s arms; a warm and fussy wriggling. He looked down and saw his child. “What is it?” he asked. “Boy or girl?”
His wife smiled. “Whatever you want it to be.”
The ring’s silhouette wavered as it began its final charging cycle. The Prelate felt his mind slipping . . . but he willed his enhancements into a final barricade.
Please, just a little more time . . .
Yalar glanced at the ring.
“It’s all a lie,” Tem said, choking back a sob. “It won’t take us anywhere.”
His baby laughed.
Yalar held out her hand. “How do you know for sure?”
Gritting his teeth, the Prelate rose. He took Yalar’s soft fingers in his armored glove. Then, wife in one arm and child in the other, he limped toward the ring.
Tem felt the floor shudder beneath his feet as his belt finally detonated far below. A hot wind roared at his back. He was close to the ring now, and his defenses were crumbling. But the strange thing was, as all the sensations of the real world began to fade, the ghosts in his arms seemed more real than ever.
“I’m frightened,” Tem said.
Yalar leaned close, kissed his neck, and whispered in his ear: “Into the light, forever free!”
In that moment, the Prelate remembered happiness, love, contentment—all the joys they shared before . . . and then he knew nothing else.
Shadow of Intent hung in high orbit above Duraan. Most of the carrier’s crew was on the planet, recovering from their wounds or simply enjoying the hospitality of the grateful settlers. Rtas ‘Vadum, however, was alone on the command deck, except for the flickering image of another Sangheili in the holo-tank. Tall and proud, but with a weariness in his shoulders not unlike that of the Half-Jaw, this Sangheili wore dark-gray, ornately carved armor that looked even older than his strong, serious face.
“. . . and then the installation exploded, before the ring had an opportunity to fire a second time,” Rtas was saying, adding the last details to what had been a long and extensive debrief. “We scanned every fragment. There was nothing to recover.”
“Then Sanghelios is safe,” the Arbiter said. “And all of us are in your debt.”
The Half-Jaw shook his head. “I did not do it alone.”
“No, of course not,” the Arbiter said. “The warriors who were with you at the ring—are they recovering?”
“Slowly but surely. The Blademaster was the worst, but even he is awake now and back to his usual bellowing.” Rtas stepped closer to the tank. “In fact, he wanted to speak with you. To discuss the revocation of certain naval codes . . . specifically those forbidding the enlistment of female crew.”
The Arbiter chuckled deep in his throat. “I hoped your voyage would be restful, but I never thought Vul ‘Soran would find it that relaxing.” Then, serious once more: “The time has come to change many of our old ways. This Scion is very welcome on your crew. I look forward to meeting her and honoring her. When will you leave Duraan?”
“Ten days, perhaps twenty,” Rtas said. “But we will not be returning to Sanghelios.”
The Half-Jaw thumbed the control panel in the railing around the holo-tank and transmitted an annotated report on Spear of Light’s navigational database. His officers had since completed a more thorough study and uncovered evidence of a rendezvous of San’Shyuum vessels after the fall of High Charity. It had been a sizable flotilla, enough to carry thousands of San’Shyuum. Although the details were fragmentary at best, there were slipspace signatures to follow, trajectories to track—the beginnings of a long hunt, for someone with the spirit to undertake it.
“High Charity . . .” the Arbiter said, when he’d finished reading the report. “So Preparation wasn’t the only snake who slithered out of that nest.”
“There will be others like him,” Rtas said. “Hiding, scheming.”
“Someone will have to stop them.” The Arbiter clasped his hands behind his back. “But it does not have to be you, Rtas ‘Vadum. Many shipmasters have given up their commands, returned to their keeps here to farm the land or fish the seas. Sanghelios needs wise leaders, now more than ever. I would never order you to leave Shadow of Intent. But know that if you do, no one will doubt your bravery or commitment.”
Rtas grasped the railing of the holo-tank. Through it, he could feel the distant rumble of the carrier’s reactors—the familiar rhythm of his ship. It would be difficult to give this up . . . but to be done with war entirely? To rest and let someone else carry on the fight?
The Arbiter’s offer was tempting, and the Half-Jaw almost took it. But then there was the matter of the Prelate’s final, selfless act.
“There will be some San’Shyuum who deserve the full measure of our fury,” Rtas said at last, “and others who will not. I would like the opportunity to try to sort one from the other, if I can.”
“And so you shall, then,” the Arbiter said. “I cannot think of anyone more qualified for such a vital mission.” He paused, clearly reluctant to sever the transmission. “I will expect regular reports.” And then, finally: “Until we meet again . . .”
“. . . In Urs’s everlasting light.” The Half-Jaw finished the traditional good-bye, and the holo-tank went blank.
As he stood there in Shadow of Intent’s armored heart, Rtas ‘Vadum thought:
Maybe, in the end, this was the best that any warrior could hope for. A chance to reconcile with your enemy, or, failing that, to fall in the pursuit of peace.
This thought energized Rtas, and for the first time in a long while, he did not dread the coming battles. Because although he wasn’t certain where this new voyage would take him or what dangers he might face along the way, Rtas could see more than one ending, and that gave him the will to start.
THE BALLAD OF HAMISH BEAMISH
* * *
* * *
FRANK O’CONNOR
A long time ago on a military ship
A boy signed on to a perilous trip
A would-be cadet
With a penchant for danger
He signed on for thrills
In a cryosleep manger
Corbulo’s the name
Of his life’s destination
A military school
With a fine reputation
An officer’s life
Was the life he had chosen
As he and his chums were cryonically frozen
And off into slipspace the young people headed
But a problem arose that starfarers have dreaded
The long sleep of storage
Was to be interrupted
By a technical flaw
And some code that corrupted
As the good ship Jamaica flew on through the night
The seal on his chamber grew a bit less than tight
The cryopod opened a decade too soon
And Hamish thawed out ’neath an alien moon