by John Shirley
“Cresanda,” Mken said in relief as she came into the front room of their living quarters. She wore a blossom-filigreed antigrav belt over her robe; she rarely used a chair. Mken was standing by his own antigrav chair, one hand on it, breathing hard. He’d been doing knee bends, holding on to the chair—he was still thinking about how weak he’d felt, physically, in the gravitational field of the San’Shyuum homeworld.
Cresanda looked at him wryly. “You have been exercising again.” She took off her wrap and hung it on a peg. She had worn her maternal wrap, not because she was pregnant—there was a special shawl for that—but because as a wedded San’Shyuum female guiding young unmarried females, she had a proper appearance to keep up. She’d been assigned to help the young, would-be brides from Janjur Qom in adjusting to their new life on High Charity.
Mken slipped into his chair and puffed out his cheeks. “Enough for today. How are the new females, Lilumna and the others?”
“They’ve resigned themselves to staying—and marrying here.”
“ ‘Resigned themselves’ sounds less than enthusiastic.”
“There is a certain homesickness. But they’re also excited, and quite bedazzled by this place.”
“Have they met anyone?”
“They’ve only been here a handful of days, my darling.” She came to stand near him, putting her arm around his neck. “Of course, they have possible suitors—but have only seen them on the promenade. That kind of thing. They were a bit appalled by the physical aspect of some of our males. I take it the Janjur Qom males are rather burlier and straighter in posture. But they enjoy the courtesy, the gentleness of the males they’ve met. I think it will be all right.”
“Hmm. If Excellent has his way, some laboratory form of procreation might be considered.”
“His ideas are always in repugnantly bad taste.”
“Yes. I find his latest one regarding me to be especially in bad taste.”
“Are they really going to make you lead that expedition? You’ve only been back so short a time—you nearly got killed twice on the last one. And that was the homeworld!”
“Oddly enough, the homeworld is one of the most dangerous places I’ve ever visited. But yes—it has just been confirmed. Excellent has convinced the other Hierarchs I am to be the Prophet in charge of the expedition because, as he says, I ‘allowed Ussa ‘Xellus to get away’ long ago and now I must atone. He is hoping I’ll get killed out there. He knows I suspect he was behind Vervum’s attempt to assassinate me. That is—he was behind R’Noh’s little plot. One puppeteer puppeteering another. Yes, Cresanda.” He sighed. “You see, a certain Sangheili, one Salus ‘Crolon, has been captured in a vessel associated with Ussa ‘Xellus. He has gallantly offered to show us where this mysterious Forerunner world lies—not that we need his help. The information is in that vessel’s records. But ‘Crolon may be useful yet . . .”
“You are going to this place?’
“I am—when we assemble the fleet. Very soon, with a sizable force. And I am going to have to confront Ussa ‘Xellus once more . . .”
CHAPTER 14
* * *
The Refuge: An Uncharted Shield World
Strategy Hall
850 BCE
The Age of Reconciliation
Ussa ‘Xellus found his mate, Sooln, with Enduring Bias on the eco level. The Flying Voice was floating just above Sooln, listening to her as she pointed at the stream. He didn’t ask what they were doing there, or what they were talking about. It didn’t matter anymore.
“Ussa!” she said, as she jumped over the stream to join them. She looked closely at him as he walked up. “Is something wrong?”
“I am very much afraid, Sooln, that the choice has been taken from us. It is too late to leave the Refuge. It seems that Salus ‘Crolon has indeed approached the Covenant—or was caught by them. The Covenant fleet is here. It is in orbit around this very planetoid.”
“That is grave news,” Enduring Bias allowed. “But then again, it presents some interesting possibilities.”
“I am afraid the possibilities might be altogether too interesting,” Ussa said, looking at the curved metal-colored sky, at the jutting structures like stylized stalactites that seemed to emanate a barely visible inner light.
“How curious to have gotten used to this strange place,” Sooln remarked. “But I have missed Sanghelios. Perhaps this is our chance to go back there.”
Sooln looked at him. He didn’t have to see it—he could feel her looking at him. He said, “Sooln—we’ll never live long enough to go back to Sanghelios.”
She came and took his hands in hers. “You mean—we will die here today? Or . . . tomorrow? The Covenant will—”
“I don’t know if we’ll die today, or tomorrow—or after many cycles. I just don’t think we’ll ever be able to go back to Sanghelios. My hope is . . . that the grandchildren or great-grandchildren of our people, here in the Refuge, will someday be able to go back there.”
“So—you’re going to activate the Disassembler? We’re not sure of the effects. Enduring Bias tells me that it hasn’t been tested . . .”
“That is correct!” chimed in Enduring Bias. “Which is why I advocate the experiment. Existence can be burdensome. Why not take a grand risk to see a world unfold?”
Ussa glanced up at the Flying Voice, thinking, What an odd, anomalous remark for the machine to make. Is it breaking down?
But aloud he said, “Let us speak to the Covenant fleet first, before we take an irreversible step, Sooln. Who knows? They may want to negotiate. Strange things happen sometimes . . .”
Covenant Carrier Pledge of Holiness
In Orbit Around the Refuge, a Formerly Uncharted Shield World
850 BCE
The Age of Reconciliation
Many day cycles later, the Prophet of Inner Conviction sat in the bridge of the Pledge of Holiness, gazing through the viewport. He was hunched in his antigrav chair, gazing out at the gray metal curve of the shield world, as described by Salus ‘Crolon during his intital interrogations; a thin film of trace atmosphere clinging to the planetoid gave off a sheen of reflected sunlight. “What else is of interest in this system?” he asked.
“Gas giants, sir, none so far exploited,” said Trok ‘Tanghil, acting captain of the vessel, as Mken didn’t trust anyone else at the moment. “Little of interest. There’s an extensive asteroid belt that might be mineable. It is so dense in places I chose to enter the system not in accordance with the usual trajectory, when we exited slipspace.”
“Vil ‘Kthamee,” Mken said, “you can research what else, if anything, is known about this star system. There will be time.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.” Vil, standing behind Mken, was now the Prophet of Inner Conviction’s personal bodyguard, his assistant, and his official translator for all interaction with Huragok. Such a rapid ascent through the ranks was not unheard of, but in this case, Mken had simply insisted on it.
Glancing at the holodisplay, Mken spotted the luminous ovals that indicated other ships in the Covenant fleet taking their places; in the holo, they looked like some of the minuscule insectoid creatures he’d seen on Janjur Qom. How odd.
He felt a stab of anguish when he thought of his homeworld, so full of treasures, and so lost to him. The Luminary—gone. Perhaps it was, after all, as Qurlom had suggested. They were not yet ready for the Luminary that showed the whereabouts of the Sacred Rings, and so it had been taken from them.
Leaning forward, Mken looked through the bridge’s viewport, and saw well to their right two of the Covenant’s fleet, looking more formidable in reality than flying insects. They were powerful, recently built warships. He sometimes thought it a pity that negotiations with the Sangheili had required the decommissioning of the Dreadnought as a vessel of war. Were these earlier times, Mken might have utilized the Dreadnought’s array of Sentinels, but nearly all of those had been destroyed during the war with the Sangheili. In fact, only a handful remained
on High Charity, now more relics for a museum than weapons. But then again, their original function was what the Sangheili were for now anyway.
Mleer, walking with an antigrav belt, escorted a Sangheili in, keeping a plasma pistol trained on the fellow. Looking ragged, the Sangheili had his hands clasped into restraints in front of him. To Mken he appeared shifty, worried, and calculating.
“Is this the one called Salus ‘Crolon?” Mken asked.
“Yes, it is he, Your Eminence,” said Mleer.
Salus ‘Crolon cringed in front of Mken, bowing again and again. “I am relieved at having been rescued by the Covenant from Ussa ‘Xellus, Your Eminence! I am honored, nay, blessed to be in your presence!”
“Enough of that rubbish,” Mken said. “I am wondering if we should use you to negotiate with Ussa ‘Xellus, since you know him so well. He is, I believe, the leader of these rebels?”
“He is, Your Eminence, their leader—their dictator, in fact. He has absolute power over them. I am afraid that it might be . . . counterproductive for me to act as negotiator. He already knows that I was a great supporter of the holy and sacred Covenant, that I believed with all my being in the Great Journey. That I fled his new world in the hopes of rejoining with the Covenant. So I do not believe he is likely to negotiate through me. I can demand his surrender for you, if you like—I would rather enjoy that, but—”
“Yes, yes, I understand. Perhaps you can tell me what use you are to me, then? During our interrogations, you referred to numerous Forerunner artifacts down below . . . relics of all kinds. Indeed it looks as if the entire world before us is a relic.”
“It very nearly is, Your Eminence,” ‘Crolon said, looking out the viewport. “Ussa ‘Xellus and his mate, Sooln, kept their intimate knowledge of the workings of the Refuge’s mechanisms to themselves—or rather between themselves and that diabolic intelligence they have made a deal with who—”
‘Crolon broke off then. Perhaps it had occurred to him that what he was referring to was in fact a sacred relic itself.
“What diabolic intelligence is that?” Mken asked.
“I . . . the thing is not innately diabolic. But . . . under the influence of Sooln and Ussa, it has become, I suspect, blighted, desecrated, misdirected. It is known as Enduring Bias. It is a construct that watches everyone, is forever watching . . . and never ceases.” His mandibles gnashed bitterly.
Mken snorted. “If you are such a great supporter of the Covenant, how did you end up with Ussa ‘Xellus in the first place?”
“I was attempting to act as an agent for the Covenant, Your Eminence!”
“Yes, I am aware you made that claim. But Qurlom and the others examined our records. None of the Covenant on Sanghelios was able to confirm you were an agent. Indeed, our only agent appears to have met an unfortunate end.”
“Records are sloppily kept on Sanghelios,” ‘Crolon said. “I am faithful to the Covenant.”
Mken turned to Vil ‘Kthamee. “You’re a Sangheili, and I daresay a good judge of character. What do you think?”
“I think he is a liar, Your Eminence.”
Mken looked inquiringly at Trok ‘Tanghil.
“I agree with Vil ‘Kthamee,” Trok said simply. “This traitor speaks so much only because he hopes to dazzle with words.”
“I, however, am less than dazzled,” Mken said. “Mleer, keep this Sangheili under lock and key, in the corridor. You need not watch him yourself; get some underguards to do it. Report what you’ve heard here to sentry overwatch and let them keep an eye on him.”
This was an exquisitely difficult situation. If he destroyed the shield world, he was eradicating a sacred relic—and all other possible relics it might contain. But if he invaded instead, they could be here for a good long time, fighting their way through a strange environment, confronted by an enemy that knew this place now very well.
Perhaps they could be persuaded to surrender.
But from what he knew firsthand of Ussa ‘Xellus, Mken strongly doubted it.
Ussa ‘Xellus was in the designated Strategy Hall, standing beside his kaidon’s chair and, in fact, quite aptly talking with Ernicka the Scar-Maker about strategy—when Enduring Bias flew rapidly into the room. The living device zipped into the capacious hall so quickly Ussa thought it might crash into the back wall.
But the Flying Voice came to a neat stop in midair and reported, “Ussa ‘Xellus—I am receiving a transmission for you. It is from the fleet in orbit around the world you now call the Refuge.”
“What kind of transmission?”
“It is an instantaneous holographic image with sound; if you respond, the sender will see and hear you.”
Ernicka growled at this. “You are about to transmit images from within this facility to the enemy?” He drew his sidearm, as if considering firing on the Flying Voice. “Can those fools ‘Drem and ‘Crolon have been right about this construct, Ussa?”
“Oh?” Enduring Bias sounded puzzled. “I assure you that I have not revealed any information that would put you at a tactical disadvantage or threaten this installation.”
Sooln was striding in. “Enduring Bias is telling the truth. He will not betray us.”
“I am glad you are so very confident of that,” said Ussa dryly. “But I do believe we are forced to accept its word . . . for all the good the word of a machine may be.”
“Is my word not shown to be better than that of some Sangheili you know?” asked Enduring Bias.
“You make a good point,” said Ussa. He was tired, and fear for his clans squirmed painfully deep in his belly. But he did what he had to. He remained objective, and tried to see the next step before he had to take it.
“Enduring Bias has so much information about this world,” Sooln said, turning to Ernicka, “that he could have uploaded the entire schematic of the Refuge to the enemy already if he had wanted to.”
Ernicka grunted. “He . . . it . . . whatever the thing may be . . . I suppose we must continue to trust it.”
“Enduring Bias,” said Ussa, settling into his chair. “Enable the transmission. Theirs to me, mine to them. Show them only me, and nothing more.”
“What if they trace the signal?” Ernicka said. “They could fire directly upon you!”
“We are too deep underground for any efficient attack from orbit on one spot,” said Sooln. “If they want to attack us, they’ll have to either obliterate the entire planetoid—or invade it.”
“I will see to it that the transmission is sent from many places at once,” said Enduring Bias.
“So be it,” Ussa said.
Enduring Bias approached, hovered in front of Ussa ‘Xellus, angled its lenses downward, and projected a holographic image in front of him. Ussa saw a life-size image of a San’Shyuum in a golden, ornamental helmet. A Prophet, then. The San’Shyuum was sitting in an antigrav chair—not the kind used by a Hierarch. The San’Shyuum shifted his weight on the chair, and Ussa heard him speak.
“I am known as the Prophet of Inner Conviction,” said the San’Shyuum. “Can you see and hear me?”
“I see and hear you,” said Ussa.
“And I recognize you, Ussa ‘Xellus. Do you remember me?”
“I do not.”
“We did not meet directly—but we nevertheless encountered each other on the Planet of Red and Blue. We observed each other from afar, I believe.”
“Truly? Then you are . . . Mken ‘Scre’ah’ben?”
“I am known by that name as well. I am at this instant alone in my quarters of this vessel. I wished no one on my side to hear our conversation. I choose not to be concerned about who might be listening at your end. But since I am alone here, you need not call me Prophet of Inner Conviction or Your Eminence.”
“How generous of you.”
“It is hard to tell when a Sangheili is engaging in mockery. I cannot read their faces or voices as well as those of my own people. So if that was intended as mockery, it was wasted on me. If you like, you may simply
call me Mken—because I believe we must speak as two rational beings meeting face-to-face, both seriously and informally.”
“Very well. You may call me Ussa . . . but do not imagine informality means weakness. Let us move on to our colloquy.”
“Here is my offer, then, Ussa: if you and your people surrender, I will attempt to obtain permission to return all of your people, unharmed, to Sanghelios and have them repatriated there. You and your mate must surrender to judgment . . . and most likely execution. But your people, I trust, will be safe.”
Ussa hesitated. This was a better offer than he had expected. Your people, I trust, will be safe. Could he trust this San’Shyuum?
But it didn’t matter, really. He couldn’t surrender. That was the entire point.
“I took up this fight for several reasons, but chief among them, Mken, was that the Sangheili should never surrender.”
“But can the Sangheili . . . make peace? It must be possible! If you could not make peace, your species would have been destroyed long ago. There are thousands of Sangheili here, in this fleet, eager to see you punished—because you betrayed their peace, their solemn oath of the Writ of Union. Most of those who will see you in battle if I give the word are Sangheili.”
“They are not true Sangheili. We are—we can make peace, if it does not involve surrender. We can agree on mutual withdrawal, you and I, and we will go elsewhere. And there will be peace.”
“I cannot offer you that—we cannot withdraw. But I can promise that if you release your people from your control, and let them return to Sanghelios, I will use all of my considerable influence to see they are treated well, and released to resume their lives on the Sangheili homeworld. You will allow yourself to be captured—it need not be a symbolic surrender. You and your mate. And you will be subject to the justice of the Covenant.”
“And I will be executed.”