by John Shirley
Ussa ‘Xellus and his mate, Sooln, had traveled to the Creck colony, to recruit new followers into the resistance. Creck, named after ‘Crecka, the Sangheili who’d discovered it a generation earlier, was in the Baelion system—the seventy-sixth of designated worlds explored by Sangheili. It was now a Covenant mining colony, operated, largely underground, by Sangheili. A few translucent meteorite-scarred colony domes rose above the rugged, methane-choked surface of the planet. They were the tips of the colony’s iceberg. On the other side of the mountains that brooded over the domes was a great sea of half-frozen hydrogen cyanide; there were said to be simple lifeforms, like great swimming worms, surfacing from time to time in that opaque ocean of toxin.
But the Sangheili were here for the minerals and metals—the minerals to power their ships and the metals to sheath the hulls of those vessels. They delved deep into Creck, following mammoth crystalline veins down, with other shafts running to magma used to provide the base energy of their colony.
Ussa and Sooln were riding a lift up a shaft from one of those scorching power plants. They’d spent some time there, traveling in the guise of engineers pretending to check for heat-fatigued walls, and talking as discreetly as possible to those who toiled over the generators. A defector from Creck had told Ussa there was discontent here. Who wouldn’t feel ill used, working in the geological energy plant? The structure couldn’t be climate controlled efficiently—and the heat was unbearable.
But his primary contact, Muskem, had perished the day before Ussa arrived. Muskem had inexplicably fallen into a throbbing pit of magma, where he was instantly incinerated. Ussa had a strong intuition, after speaking with a supervising officer, that someone had arranged the unfortunate accident.
Ussa almost hadn’t come to Creck at all. It seemed foolishly risky. But there was another, too, who’d contacted Ussa. A Sangheili who called himself ‘Quillick, which was an ancient word, from Sanghelios, for “small hunter,” a little animal known to catch mammals for farmers. Clearly it was this Sangheili’s code name. ‘Quillick’s communication was folded in with Muskem’s: There is a place where much can be found to help you. It is a world no one knows. But I know . . . I fought beside your uncle at Tarjak, under the stone trees . . .
What could this mean? Was this the fantasy of some eccentric? But the remark about Tarjak and the stone trees referred to a story his uncle had told him—one his uncle was reluctant to tell. Covenant agents were unlikely to know about Tarjak and the stone trees—the gallery built of petrifactions, a long-extinct forest. There a small but vicious battle, clan against clan, had gone on for several bloody cycles.
The note had promised a place where much can be found to help you. It is a world no one knows. Ussa had been intrigued enough to take the risk of visiting the colony at Creck.
He had little hope in finding this ‘Quillick now, and it was difficult to know who else to contact here. No sane Sangheili would talk openly of joining the resistance to the Covenant—and few would talk even secretly. The Writ of Union is written, was the phrase Ussa had heard so many times that he wanted to scream when it was repeated to him. It cannot be unwritten.
Now Ussa repeated the trite point to his mate, but his voice was bitter. “The Writ of Union is written—it cannot be unwritten. This was said over and over. Someone has gotten to these Sangheili.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“To hear them all repeating the same declaration—they have been told to do so. And every Sangheili I spoke with appeared miserable. They knew they were being dishonorable cowards.”
Sooln tapped one of her mandibles thoughtfully. “What else can they do? It’s not as if there is some clear enemy of Sanghelios left to fight. If that were the case, they would be there in the heart of battle. But this is the Council of City States—it is Sanghelios itself, threatening them. Yet they know we should not be surrendering to the San’Shyuum.”
“And Muskem was our contact for finding ‘Quillick. Our visit here could be a waste of time.”
The lift hummed on for a few moments, getting cooler almost by the second as it left the zone of active volcanism. Then Ussa looked fondly at Sooln—compact, perhaps a bit uppity and bold for a female Sangheili, but also delicate and petite . . . or so it seemed to Ussa. Her mind was quicker and more analytical than his, he knew; she had a genius for science that he lacked. “Sooln, perhaps you’re speaking this way about the Writ of Union to please me. Perhaps you wish, for the sake of our lives together, that I would accept the Covenant . . .”
She clamped her mandibles in amusement. “I believe as you do. I do not trust the San’Shyuum. Their vision of a Great Journey is fantasy.”
“I fear that I should not have brought you. Do you believe anyone has detected us? The death of our contact concerns me . . .”
“I haven’t noticed any drones following us; I haven’t seen any spies lurking about watching us. There was that elder Sangheili yesterday, but—he never spoke to us . . .”
“What elder Sangheili?”
“You failed to notice him? He followed us from the mines, back toward the spaceport. But he was slow, weary, scarred . . . He could not keep up. I thought perhaps he wanted to join us, but when I looked back again, he was gone. He seemed too feeble to be a Covenant operative.”
Ussa growled softly to himself. “We shall soon know, one way or the other. Because—”
But he broke off then, as they’d reached the colony’s residence level. The lift doors opened and the two stepped onto the darkened street, between the stubby, utilitarian buildings, and walked together toward the spaceport, where their ship waited. Ussa was careful not to hurry as they walked by two sharp-eyed guards on patrol, though he’d have liked nothing more than to pick up his stride. He wondered if Ernicka the Scar-Maker was keeping order in the caverns back on Sanghelios. Perhaps they had already been found, and routed. But surely he would have received a communiqué if there had been an attack . . .
He wondered, too, if he and Sooln were still safe in this place. He’d brought his mate because she had access to engineer’s documentation—she was able to create a suitable cover identity for them. She knew the proper terminology on visits to the mines and power plants. But suppose their disguise had been penetrated? He might very well have led her to a tragic end here.
Still, they crossed the square without incident. The two edged through a crowd of sullen-looking Sangheili, dusty miners coming off work shifts, and then scurried between two processing structures to the port.
They were permitted past the gate guards, a young Sangheili scarcely glancing up at them from his talkscreen, and headed to their spacecraft.
The Clan’s Blade, a blue-and-red vessel shaped like a dart and just large enough for a handful of travelers, was fueled and prepped for departure. Ussa ‘Xellus confirmed this remotely through his wrist interface. But as he approached the hatch, he noted someone step out of the shadows.
It was an ancient Sangheili in a much-repaired subcommander’s uniform. Most of the teeth were missing from his jaws, and one of his eyes had long ago been scarred over.
“You . . . This is the one who was following us yesterday!” Sooln exclaimed.
Ussa reached for his pistol, and then saw the old warrior raise his arms in the air. His left hand was missing.
“Do not fire on me, brethren, until you have at least spoken to me,” he croaked. “I have no weapon.”
This one makes Ernicka look young, Ussa thought.
“Who are you, old warrior?”
“I am ‘Crecka,” said the elder Sangheili simply.
Ussa snorted. “Nonsense.”
“I am he. I may also be known to you by another name: ‘Quillick.”
“You are ‘Quillick?”
“Yes—and I need to speak to you alone. Inside.”
“And how do we know you’re not just some cunning old assassin?”
“You would have been under arrest by now, if they were aware of your identity here—not targeted by
an assassin. You are too important to simply assassinate, Ussa ‘Xellus. Please, you may search me for arms and then permit me into your ship, if you choose, and I will tell you why I am here.”
Ussa grunted. But he did search the old one for hidden weapons and found nothing. And, too, there was something inexplicably trustworthy in this Sangheili. “Come in, if you must. But we are leaving the planet very shortly. It will not take us long to get proper clearance. I will only give you a few moments.”
The three were soon in the tiny bridge of the craft, Ussa in his pilot’s seat, Sooln checking systems beside him. But Ussa had his seat turned toward the old warrior, who stood on the deck behind the control panel, his maimed arms folded over his chest.
“Make it quick,” Ussa told him. His hand was not far from that pistol as he spoke.
“I am who I said I was. I have been watching for you—Muskem and I expected you. But I wasn’t sure if you yourself were being watched. I was reluctant to speak.”
“Speak now. We are alone.”
The old warrior rubbed thoughtfully at his scarred eye socket. “Many cycles ago, I was the last survivor of a vessel brought down by hostiles—we never knew what race it was. They did not speak a civilized tongue. All this was on the far side of the galaxy from here, in the System of Miasmic Giants. I managed to escape, piloting the ship through slipspace to another system—one chosen almost at random. It was the farthest I could reach. There I saw something most peculiar . . . a world made out of an alloy I’ve never seen.”
“You mean a space station of some kind.”
“No. A small planet. But encased entirely in metal. I had never seen the like. An artifact so large—it was beyond belief.”
“It is difficult for me to believe as well.”
“No doubt,” said ‘Crecka. “I had to see for myself. I landed on the outer hull, in a place that looked like it might have an entry point—and found a portal. I descended into the metal skin—and on a lower deck, a machine came floating out to greet me. It was a machine intelligence, built by the ancients! It had already sorted through my ship’s computer, with some kind of scanning device. I believe that’s how it was able to speak our language. It told me a few things; but it refused to divulge its origin. It had a name—Enduring Bias, it called itself. It had been left to oversee the planet—the ‘shield world,’ in truth is what it called this place—until its creators should return. It ordered that I should provide it with information about the Sangheili and make myself available for study. But I escaped. It was . . . confused; many of its systems no longer worked and it was not so difficult to get away. I managed to get into slipspace . . . and ended up here, near what is now called Creck. A scan told me there were valuable minerals here. I reported this world—but not the other. The other was full of relics, of things from the ancients. The Forerunners. I was afraid that Enduring Bias would kill anyone I sent. For so it had threatened, should I depart . . .”
“And you kept the secret of that place until now . . . with all those relics there?”
“I did. I was a warrior, not a scientist. I fought and was maimed in sixteen of the great Clan Battles on Sanghelios. The eye I lost fighting beside your uncle under the stone trees!”
Ussa nodded. “He mentioned someone called ‘Quillick—because he would scout out the enemy for them, the way a ‘Quillick would slink silently through the shadows.”
“It was I! But it is not my friendship for your uncle that brings me here. I know your cause. It is my cause, too. This world can be a refuge and a resource for your people—for our people. Away from the Covenant.”
Ussa pondered this. If the elderly warrior—who had fought beside Ussa’s own uncle—could be trusted, then he might be offering a key to something that could truly empower the rebellion against the Covenant. Again he wondered if this could be some kind of trick or trap—but then why go to these lengths? Old ‘Crecka was right: they could simply have arrested him. And few could know the tale of ‘Quillick and the stone trees.
Ussa’s hearts thudded with excitement as the possibilities glimmered in his imagination. But it could all be a trap—without ‘Crecka knowing. If the Covenant knew of the planetoid.
“Think back: you must have told someone about this metal planet. Someone—somewhere.”
“No! I was afraid I would be executed if I spoke of what I had seen. What I learned on the shield world—ah, I might well have been put to death for having entered the planetoid and communicating with the machine, which was heresy back then. That is no honorable way to die. But then . . . when you were in the mines, I was conversing with my son. He is an engineer here. And I overheard you speak, railing against the Covenant. I have heard something of Ussa ‘Xellus, and his mate. You fit the description. So I came here to help—because I have a wish to return to that world—and I believe it will offer a refuge for you and those who follow you. You and I . . . are of a like mind. We should never have surrendered to the San’Shyuum.”
The old warrior paused to cough into a mangled hand, and Ussa pondered again in silence. Could ‘Crecka simply be senile, addled by war, imagining things? But the ancient Sangheili had a character that rang true, like the well-seasoned metal of a sword forged on Qikost. And he truly had fought beside his uncle. Ussa could not help but believe the tale, as fantastic as it was.
Sooln spoke up then. “Such a place, a world that is one great Forerunner relic—it should not fall into the hands of the Covenant. We should at least see if it is real, Ussa. What have we to lose? He is right—it could be our chance! Think of the potential of such a place!”
“You believe it is real, then?”
“We have to see for ourselves. We must take the chance. We have so few prospects for the cause . . .”
Ussa paced the deck, and at last said, “It would be difficult to imagine the spies of Sanghelios contriving such a tale.” He turned to ‘Crecka. “Can you show us this world covered in metal—immediately?”
“I have the waymarkers. I’m ready to take you there. It will probably be my last journey anywhere. I’m dying, you see. But—I want to see those marvels again, one last time, and I want to help you. You are right: the Covenant is wrong. It is that simple.”
Their disguises had held up: departure from the spaceport was granted. Within a few minutes they were in orbit, burning their way into the slipspace aperture that was like a glowing wound in space-time.
They passed through and into slipspace, where time is not easily reckoned. There was opportunity to rest, eat, and hear stories from ‘Crecka about the Clan Battles of Sanghelios. By degrees, Ussa increasingly came to trust the old fellow.
But still—he could be on a fool’s mission. He had failed to recruit more converts, unless old ‘Quillick could be counted as such.
Perhaps this voyage was just a desperate stab in the darkness of space.
An Uncharted World
851 BCE
The Age of Reconciliation
They were in orbit over something extraordinary.
Ussa waited, his fingers hovering over the controls, ready to begin high-acceleration evasion maneuvers. He half expected defensive measures of some kind to be fired at them from the colossal sphere of silvery-gray alloy. But though there was a regular pulse of internal energy signatures from the shield world, as ‘Crecka called it, no attack was forthcoming.
“Come, let me show you the portal,” ‘Crecka told him. “It’s on the farther side . . . the only one I know of.”
They accelerated into a faster orbit and homed in on the coordinates. They descended, spiraling down carefully, Ussa still wondering the whole time if this was some kind of trap—but he was far too intrigued, too caught up in a sense of inexorable destiny to turn back now.
The metallic hide of the planet loomed, details defining through thin mists of a pseudo atmosphere. Seams showed; here and there curiously shaped antennas sprouted.
Ussa ‘Xellus shivered as the Clan’s Blade approached the rectangular object,
almost flush with the curved surface, which ‘Crecka identified as the portal. Ussa felt a superstitious fear as he settled the ship into the rectangle. Its outlines seemed to grow within themselves, walls rising up around the spacecraft, rather than from inside the planet.
In a few moments, a ceiling had formed over them—and the ship’s instruments soon showed pressurization and breathable air. There were no indications of dangerous microorganisms.
“Come along,” said ‘Crecka, looking almost excited. “Bring weapons—the intelligence has access to them. It may be annoyed with me. But it also may have been bluffing.”
“If it is still operating at all,” said Sooln.
“I may be along in my cycles, but not by that much,” said ‘Crecka. “I was not quite young when I found this place. But it is unbelievably ancient. You will see. How many times I have wanted to return. But I felt it unwise to come alone—and until now there was no one I trusted. And no great need. It is the cause—that is the need now . . .”
“Wisdom is the fruit of age,” Ussa said, quoting a Sangheili homily and briefly placing a hand on the elderly warrior’s shoulder.
Ussa and Sooln carried plasma rifles, ‘Crecka a pistol Ussa had given him. Together they emerged from the ship’s hatchway and descended the ramp to a flooring that was more than mere metal.
A door opened, as if beckoning to them. They passed through it, finding their way down a series of gently descending corridors, to a platform that overlooked an awe-inspiring sight: a world enclosed within a shell, like the tank that scientists sometimes kept small animals in, back on Sangehelios. But this “tank” was on an unthinkably gigantic scale—it could house a planetoid itself. Light shone from shafts in the ground below, and from panes in inverted structures projecting from the convex artificial ceiling; they were tapered formations like giant artificial stalactites.
Below the craggy remnants of some ancient planetoid, it bristled with plant life, gleamed with streams and waterfalls. Flying creatures he couldn’t clearly distinguish flapped through roseate mists, which thickened at the distant horizon. A mechanized transport flew past, just a sort of aeronautic wagon with what looked like pieces of machinery piled in the back. A freight mover of some kind. It was there, and suddenly gone.