Broken Circle

by John Shirley

  “Oh you scamper-sneak!” she chided, returning tease for teasing.

  “There is something, lately, that has me . . . yearn for you. Of course I always feel that way. But lately . . . to be close to you . . . is all I can think of!”

  “You? You’re not one who thinks of such things at length. You’re more likely pondering classic art or planning the great doings of the species. You don’t fool me a bit, Mken. Still, there might be a reason . . . perhaps.”

  He drew back and, so breathless he could scarcely speak, looked into her large green-brown eyes. “And that is . . . ?”

  “Yes—” Her eyes glittered with inner excitement. “The time of Reproductive Yielding.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly. It is upon me! And, as you and I are not on the Roll of Celibates, and as our people are in tragic need of offspring, of continuation . . . I suggest that when the mood strikes us this evening, we look to the possibility of generating a new San’Shyuum life . . .” She looked away shyly. “But perhaps that convergence is not of interest to you. And we can wait many cycles for another such opportunity. And perhaps I will quietly prepare your tea, your protein mashes, and we will speak of the progress of High Charity’s construction, or perhaps a new color gloss on the throne of ease . . .”

  “Don’t tantalize me!” He twined Cresanda again, his neck snaking half about hers. “And don’t mock me either. You know that I want nothing more than making a child with you. Still . . .”

  She drew back and looked at him gravely. “Still . . . what?”

  “There are . . . considerations.” He lowered his voice, though he regularly made sure that no surveillance mechanisms had been planted in his home. “You know that there were . . . were issues, with respect to my clearance from the Roll of Celibates.”

  “And?” Cresanda signed: What of it? “You took care of that long ago.”

  “Yes. I saw to it I was not disapproved—it would have been unfair.” There were so few San’Shyuum—at least in space—and because there was a tendency to genetic blight among them, it was difficult to stay off the Roll of Celibates, the list designating those who were not approved for reproduction. “But there were questions, and I was nearly on the Roll. And R’Noh Custo is aware of this. And . . . there is a new Ministry.”

  “Pfft! It seems as if there’s always a new one.”

  “So I remarked to old Qurlom. But the latest addition is called the Ministry of Anticipatory Security. And R’Noh is now its appointed Minister.”

  “Anticipatory Security—what does it do?”

  Mken snorted. “I suspect it deals with security matters by anticipating them. That way, R’Noh and perhaps his sponsor, Excellent Redolence, can condemn whoever they like . . . because they anticipate that person will be a danger to High Charity.”

  “What? Such a Ministry could not long remain. It’s madly unjust! People won’t stand for it!”

  “I suspect you’re right—in time it will be undone. But in the meantime . . . we could run a risk by openly reproducing. R’Noh is not friendly to me. If he finds out about a pregnancy . . . and he inevitably will . . . it could lead to some dark treachery on his part. Used against both of us.”

  Cresanda looked at the floor. “I see. Then . . . we will speak only of construction and color glosses. And nothing more.”

  He clasped her hands in his. “Cresanda! Please do not mistake me! I could not keep from you. But . . . I just wanted you to know. That there is risk. I wanted to be fair to you . . . and—”

  She put a hand on his lips. “Mken, it’s always a risk to start a family. Everything joyous is a risk. Only in fear is complete safety. And then one lives in its jaws forevermore. You and I will not live that way.”

  And then she came closer, and entwined with Cresanda, Mken felt he had truly come home.

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  The Refuge: An Uncharted Forerunner Shield World

  850 BCE

  The Age of Reconciliation

  There are two choices only, in fact,” said Salus ‘Crolon, adjusting a dial on his scancam. “That is what I believe. Either Ussa is the true prophet of us all, the leader who will take us across a great wilderness to the promised land, or—he is simply wrong, and he has led us from our home to an alien world . . . for no real purpose. Of course, I would never espouse the second interpretation of the facts. No! I would not have the nerve to question our leader, our kaidon! But . . . some would say . . .”

  Tersa ‘Gunok was feeling very uncomfortable, listening to ‘Crolon spout what could well be sedition. The older Sangheili’s rhetoric walked along the edge, never quite slipping over the border into outright treason. But it would be enough for many kaidon to behead him, and then dismember the body.

  Still, Tersa had been assigned to work with ‘Crolon, and he could not properly snub his work partner, especially as ‘Crolon was senior to Tersa. Together they were surveying the south side of the uncompleted Forerunner devices in the Storage Chamber under the secondary inner shell of the Refuge. Other Sangheili, thankfully out of earshot, surveyed the farther fringes of the four-acre collection of slightly wobbling tiers filled with mysterious objects. The vast chamber, with its arching metallic ceiling, contained thousands of Forerunner artifacts, relics, pieces of sacred devices, all stacked in blue stasis fields, devices that few but Ussa ‘Xellus and Sooln possibly understood. And it was doubtful, according to ‘Crolon, that even the kaidon and his mate would ever really be able to harness the secrets of all these mechanisms.

  Pondering Salus ‘Crolon’s mutterings, Tersa used the scancam to take a three-dimensional image of a cylindrical object that spun slowly in place in its stasis field, the whorl marks on its white, shiny skin seeming to react when Tersa came close, as if it were scanning Tersa even as he did likewise. And that was possible. Was this not a creation of the Forerunners? Would it not be mystically infused with their intelligence, their essence?

  What secrets vibrated within these relics?

  For ages, the Sangheili had believed that the Forerunner relics must be held in reverence, and not interfered with. Sangheili with a scientific bent, who covertly probed into them well past the point permitted, were inevitably put to death when their blasphemous inquiries came to light. But there were those who secretly studied the relics in hidden laboratories, delving into the cryptic interiors of the artifacts. Those few heretics had kept secret records, had shared their data in a kind of scientific underground, using codes, cryptograms.

  Then the San’Shyuum had come—had driven the Sangheili from their interstellar colonies, appropriating Forerunner relics, openly and blasphemously utilizing the artifacts for their own foul purposes, expunging many clansfolk, sending others scurrying like a squealing pack of fur grubs. There was no honor for the Sangheili in being driven back and further back—and the San’Shyuum were looming ever closer to Sanghelios.

  It was impossible to effectively fight the Dreadnought and the gut-boiling weaponry of the San’Shyuum’s Sentinels, so the underground movement of Sangheili scientists had emerged, confessing their sins, and declaring that the secret lore of the Forerunners was the only hope for the Sangheili. If they did not utilize at least some of these discoveries to create weapons, to build new and better and faster attack fleets, they would lose the war, and the San’Shyuum would locate Sanghelios, would overrun it, loot it, and then, doubtlessly, commit an act of genocide, destroying all Sangheili on the homeworld. Warriors would die without honor, executed with remotely fired weapons, never having the opportunity to face their adversaries in battle; females and even childlings, fresh from eggs, would be burned away by the Dreadnought like troublesome microorganisms.

  The Sangheili were desperate—and the underground of Sangheili scientists were allowed to live; their secrets were put to use. A great interstellar war, with attacks on the Dreadnought and its array of lesser vessels, rolled explosively across the galaxy. But though they succeeded in holding the line, the Sanghei
li fleet could not triumph—the Forerunner keyship was too powerful.

  Yet the Sangheili sometimes gained ground, and hemmed the San’Shyuum in with a cunning use of slipspace and hit-and-run tactics—they kept the ancient Dreadnought from effectively deploying its full arsenal.

  And so something akin to a stalemate was reached, though the San’Shyuum still had the edge with the keyship, the gigantic tripod in space pulsing with power.

  The Dreadnought couldn’t be everywhere at once. The San’Shyuum, its numbers few, needed an army. So Ussa ‘Xellus had explained it. And so they turned to the Sangheili, and negotiated the Writ of Union. And why? Ussa demanded, when he’d first fomented his rebellion. So that we might do the San’Shyuum’s bidding! So that we might be the serpent-necks’ enforcers! We now become lowly caste!

  But only a few of the clans listened to Ussa. The rest, fearful lest Sanghelios itself be utterly destroyed, had submitted to the Writ of Union.

  Ussa, seeking a new homeworld for his followers in the wake of his own country’s destruction at the hands of the Covenant, had since found the uncharted shield world and led them all in delving into the secrets of the Forerunners, hidden technologies that they would use to escape the predation of those who had sold out to the Covenant, which would one day make possible a restoration of true Sangheili honor.

  That was how Tersa understood it, how he had fervently believed. But here was ‘Crolon, chattering on, casually sowing doubt. Salus ‘Crolon no longer voiced these doubts within the hearing of Ussa or Sooln or Ernicka the Scar-Maker. But on the outskirts of their new, small colony, ‘Crolon relentlessly asked his corrosive questions.

  “I merely mean, we can wonder at these conundrums,” ‘Crolon was saying lightly, as he turned his scancam to a new artifact, a floating pyramid as high as two Sangheili, intricately figured on each of its faces. The scanning camera hummed, and the holographic image of the interior and exterior of the pyramid was projected in blue and green light overhead for a moment, confirming its scan. “Either Ussa is right—or we are all lost. There is no middle ground.” ‘Crolon now glanced around to see if anyone else was listening. He clearly knew he was treading dangerous ground. “And suppose he is wrong? Will we not perish here, away from our homeworld, in a place we can never understand? Perhaps this world is a Forerunner temple! Perhaps we are defiling it by our very presence here!”

  Tersa squirmed inwardly upon hearing this. He was a youth, and he knew his place; he was expected to give ‘Crolon respect. But it was all he could do to refrain from a shouting argument. He took a deep breath, clasped his lateral jaws together firmly for a moment, to show smiling patience, and murmured, “ ‘Crolon . . . it is as Ussa said, we have crossed the Great Torrent. There is no turning back. We are committed. I believe we are rightly committed. There is nothing but shame in submitting to the Covenant. And truly that is our only other choice. What do you think would happen to us if we returned to Sanghelios? We’d be put to death for siding against the Writ of Union.”

  “Oh, I am just speculating on all this for the sake of discussion,” ‘Crolon replied mildly. “Though—there might be another way. A deal could be struck, perhaps . . .”

  “With whom? That sounds like treachery . . . !”

  “Keep your voice down, fool of a childling—you’ll have Ernicka after us both! I did not mean it that way. I am one who thinks logically and methodically, who looks at all sides of a dilemma.”

  “I see no dilemma here. I see only the path we’ve taken. Of all Sangheili, only we are honorable now.”

  “Oh certainly, but . . . well, it was just a thought or two, nothing more. I hope I can count on you for discretion, my boy.” He cleared his throat and spoke more loudly. “Ah! Here comes the Scar-Maker! Greetings, Ernicka!”

  “You two,” Ernicka the Scar-Maker rumbled as he went striding by, “are doing far more chattering than scanning. Ussa and Sooln must decipher these devices—we will need them! Set to work!” As if for emphasis, he had one hand on the hilt of a burnblade, sheathed on his hip.

  “You are shiningly correct as always, Ernicka,” ‘Crolon said, exuding humility as he turned to the work at hand.

  Tersa kept his head down and said nothing. He went back to his task, thinking that with any luck he would not be appointed to work with ‘Crolon tomorrow. But Tersa felt as if in listening to ‘Crolon he’d ingested a subtle poison. What if they were sullying this sacred place? What if Ussa ‘Xellus was simply a misguided fanatic who’d led them into the hollow heart of an enigmatic world where they would wither away, where they would die blighted with Ussa’s growing insanity?

  By the Forerunners and all that was holy—what if Salus ‘Crolon was right?

  High Charity

  850 BCE

  The Age of Reconciliation

  Mken was in his private study, hunched over grainy holograms of ancient Forerunner sculpture. Some of the artifacts were not true sculpture, perhaps, but devices that only looked like works of art. It was often hard to tell.

  He caused the image to rotate, taking in its curves and hollows, its sweeping volutes. The shape seemed to suggest evolution, galactic spirals, a tower of swirling shapes all writhing together . . .

  His understanding of the Forerunners identified them as beings who had maintained, for a time, organic, material form; they became somehow channelers of a divine inspiration that transformed them and made them suitable for the Great Journey to a higher realm, through the agency of the seven Rings. The Rings, set about the galaxy in spiritually significant positions, had been designed to summon sublime spiritual energies that burned away falsehood and freed the soul to speed rapidly to the heart of the godhead.

  The San’Shyuum believed the Forerunners had deliberately left their traces across the galaxy as signposts, pieces of a holy conundrum that once solved would allow other races with enough faith to walk the path of the Great Journey, eventually joining the Forerunners.

  But if the Forerunners were like avatars of God—then who ultimately was that God? Was there not some over-God, that all must submit to?

  There must be. And perhaps the end of the Great Journey was a glorious encounter with that ultimate deity.

  But again Mken was peppered by doubts about the Great Journey and the purpose of the Halo array, which the Forerunners had created. Did the description of the effect not sound like weapons? Were there not references—if they were translated correctly—that suggested that the energies were capable of great displays of power?

  But of course those references were murky at best. Probably mistranslated. And he’d never dared share them with other Prophets. Strictly speaking, he should have worked till he found nonheretical interpretations.

  The Holy Rings were most certainly real, though they had generated a mythos of their own among the San’Shyuum. Mken wondered if they still existed at all—if they were still out there in the galaxy, and somehow had remained intact?

  Could the San’Shyuum find them—and discover the true purpose of the Great Journey?

  And who am I to question the Great Journey? Am I a heretic to even wonder at it? I am but one small being, a speck in the universe. The Forerunners were at one with the purpose of the universe itself, were demigods whose powers of invention crossed from the realm of the natural into the supernatural—or so it appears. Who am I to question? And who am I at all? Am I the Prophet of Inner Conviction? Or am I just the San’Shyuum who once did the childish ripple dance with the others?

  “Prophet of Inner Conviction—are you there?”

  Mken sat up straight, startled, making his antigrav chair bobble slightly on its field.

  He looked up to see the screen above his work space blinking with an indicator of an incoming visual call, a verbal message resonating in the air.

  He flicked his fingers over the glowing holoswitches, summoning a response with the precision of ingrained habit, and the holographic image of R’Noh appeared before him. R’Noh wore a silver filigreed robe and a
high, branching copper-colored collar that was not like a Hierarch’s, but seemed suggestive of one, like a child’s mockup of a Hierarch’s headdress.

  R’Noh’s large dark eyes glittered with menace; his nostrils flared as if he were some distant, primitive San’Shyuum ancestor on a hunt and scenting his prey.

  “Ah! There you are, Inner Conviction!”

  “Yes, R’Noh, here I am. And here you are. Do please state your purpose. I’m engaged in study. Sacred study.”

  “But perhaps you can spare a minute or two?” Just a mild flavor of mockery in his words.

  Mken considered refusing. But why court trouble? There was R’Noh’s fresh posting to head an absurd, newly minted Ministry to consider. Anticipatory Security.

  “Certainly, R’Noh.”

  “Oh thank you, Inner Conviction. This will not take much of your time. There are a few matters—and it may be that one will be the solution to the problem presented by the other.”

  “And what problem would you bring to me, R’Noh?”

  “Ah, should I not be bringing them to you? You speak as if you imagine my status is the same as when we last met.”

  “No, no—Anticipatory Security. I heard that you were now a Minister. I should have conveyed congratulations before now. I only just heard. Felicitations. Now—what can I help you with?”

  Mken so badly wanted to flick R’Noh’s face away with a thumb stab at his holoswitch. As if crushing some insignificant chitinous crawler. The vile memories . . .

  But he gestured Happy to be of service.

  “Thank you, Inner Conviction—I will get right to it, then. You know how difficult, how time-consuming, how tiresome and embarrassing a genetic sorting can be. We don’t wish to impose one upon you. But we are automatically informed when anyone’s medical interface is consulted about pregnancy.”

  Mken blinked. “Indeed? And how long has that been the case?”