by John Shirley
And he had his own ambitions.
High Charity
The Palace of the Hierarchs
2552 CE
The Age of Reclamation
Seated in his antigrav chair in the entryway of the private reception chamber, the Prophet of Clarity was nervous—soon he would have to deal with the Brute chieftain Tartarus—while at his back, in the room behind the Hierarchs’ private reception hall, was the High Prophet of Truth himself.
He was still shaken by the report of Regret’s death. At the very least, it confirmed his intuition of the ruthlessness of Ord Casto, the High Prophet of Truth, if certain mounting suspicions proved true.
If Truth was ruthless, then he was also clinically careful. Truth, like most Prophets, was almost superstitiously confident in technology, and Zo had supposed him unlikely to suspect anyone had tampered with his chair’s communicator. But there was a chance that assumption was wrong. Truth might be careful enough to sweep for surveillance.
Zo had felt a certain resentment, relegated to his new station. He was looking for information, something he could use to advance his own agenda. Why should he not someday be a Hierarch? Knowledge could be power. And Zo had certain technological skills—he had begun his career as a communications officer, after all, and had that very morning used his expertise to secretly implant a share-input directive into the communicator within Truth’s chair. Properly triggered, it would silently switch on, transmitting Truth’s conversations, both in person and remotely, directly to and only to Zo. If Truth learned that the Prophet of Clarity was secretly eavesdropping, he would likely have him killed. He might use his throne’s weaponry to do it personally. But if clear evidence of infidelity to the Covenant’s millennia-old promise were to be discovered, it might provide Zo with distinct opportunities. Then again, with Regret’s untimely departure, it might simply be wiser for him to posture for that vacancy. In light of Delta Halo’s discovery and the near certain end to the humans’ resistance once the Covenant crushed Earth, it would seem that the Great Journey was finally upon them and such political ambitions were, at best, petty and even sinful. Nevertheless, what was done was done.
Clarity tried to imagine how he might deny responsibility if the implant was found, but doubted he would be believed. It now struck him that he had taken an incredible risk.
Zo remained nervous about Tartarus’s impending arrival.
At first, Clarity had been engaged here as a kind of buffering subaltern between Truth and the Minor Prophet of Stewardship, who had been for a time given control of the Fleet of Particular Justice’s military assets. The destruction of Alpha Halo would claim the Stewardship’s life, as well as most of the others, and Zo would live with the shame they all felt over what had taken place.
But lately, Clarity had become little more than a doorkeeper. And most of the visitors entering these days seemed to be Jiralhanae.
Zo glanced around to see that everything was in order. The translucent floors were burnished; the drapery, with the image of a circle within which was the continental tracery of Oth Sonin, the homeworld of Jiralhanae, was hung to one side of the dais where Truth received visitors. The drapery was a sop, really, an honorific banner to make high Jiralhanae feel important when they visited.
It seemed superfluous—the arrogant, violent Tartarus forever radiated a sense of his own importance. He showed a rote respect for all the Prophets, but seemed to regard himself as not only Jiralhanae chieftain, but chief among all Covenant soldiers. It was the High Prophet of Truth who had elevated Tartarus to head the Jiralhanae forces within the Covenant, and so Tartarus showed special deference to Truth. But to Zo, the chieftain seemed to be barely holding himself back from using his enormous gravity hammer, the legendary Fist of Rukt, on lesser Covenant. Tartarus seemed a true believer in the Covenant’s mission—especially in his own elevation to the Great Journey. And only that unquestioning belief kept his hammer in check.
Hearing a whirring sound, Zo spun his chair about and was only slightly relieved to see it was the High Prophet of Truth, throne humming as he approached from the corridor. Ord Casto was in his full regalia, his antigrav throne, his high fluted gold collar, his golden helmet. His heavy-lidded, wide-set eyes looked critically at Zo as he approached.
Truth turned to him, cocking his head as he asked brightly, “Ah, Clarity—I trust you have been exact in your protocol? Only to serve as a reminder, it is best that we say nothing of these meetings with Tartarus; as you are well aware, petty jealousies sometimes simmer in the Covenant. One doesn’t want to encourage them.”
“I have spoken of it to no one, Your Eminence.”
“Not even his holiness, the High Prophet of Mercy?”
“Not even him, O High Prophet of Truth.”
Truth sat back in his throne. “Good.” He added lightly, “We need not trouble the High Prophet of Mercy with all these scheduling details and military logistics. So—the chieftain of the Jiralhanae will be here any moment, with Exquisite Devotion.”
“The Prophet of Exquisite Devotion?” He had heard nothing of Exquisite coming here. I’ra Be’Ar was a prominent High Councilor, was rumored to be in line to become a Hierarch someday. He was a crony of Truth’s, but it was curious that he should be here for a meeting along with Tartarus.
This was shaping up to be very unpleasant. First Tartarus, now Exquisite Devotion. There was something about that San’Shyuum that made Zo queasy whenever he encountered him. For a moment, Clarity wondered if Truth would be so brazen as to consider a replacement for Regret so soon after the High Prophet had been struck down. Ultimately, it was the Council’s decision, but Exquisite entertained many allegiances there among his own species.
“Yes. Exquisite will be here. Certain changes have been arranged. See that Tartarus has all the refreshment he desires—and offer the Prophet something made to his liking.”
“It is an honor to do your bidding, Your Eminence.”
“We all serve the Path together, according to our stations. We do have the Jiralhanae, ah, beverage on hand?”
“We do, Your Eminence.”
Jiralhanae typically drank a thick red noxious liquid that Truth kept entirely for the top-level Brutes—it was said to be toxic to other species. Probably, Zo thought acidly, Tartarus would have been just as happy to drink the blood of his enemies, fresh from their wounds.
“I shall be in the back chamber,” Truth said. “When they arrive, do not enter, simply signal his arrival first.” Truth cleared his throat. “Clarity, here is something else. Best if you treat Exquisite with the utmost respect.”
“Always, Your Eminence. Should I record the purpose of his visit?”
“No, do not record this cycle’s meetings at all. In confidence, my dear Clarity, Exquisite will be taking a critical new post in High Charity. The loss of the first Ring was an unspeakable tragedy, but finding the second Ring and the human homeworld, as well as the gateway to the Ark, can be nothing short of a sign from the gods. As we secure these sites and begin to initiate the culmination of the Path, all that we’ve worked for over the centuries, it will require a dramatic restructuring of our governance. For this reason, I will have no need of your administrative services here on High Charity any longer—I am transferring you to Exquisite’s authority, who will be overseeing much of the Holy City’s governance while the High Prophets and the High Council commit themselves to the holy task of commencing the Great Journey. Please do whatever he asks of you, without question.”
Zo felt a sickly giddiness at the thought of serving under Exquisite Devotion. From bad to worse, in only a few moments.
“Now, Clarity—stand by in case I need anything.”
“It would be an honor, Your Eminence.”
As a sort of afterthought, Truth said, “It is a great tragedy, the loss of the glorious High Prophet of Regret, is it not?”
“A tragedy that will stain our history, Your Eminence, even at such a sacred time as the culmination of the Journey.”<
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“Yes. Yes indeed. Though it grieves us, such must have been the payment for our final victory. Often sacrifice precedes salvation.”
Truth’s eyes flickered with something that might be a secret amusement, then floated his throne into the reception chamber.
Zo resumed his place in the doorway. He gnawed a knuckle, having difficulty accepting this sudden reassignment to the one Prophet he truly disliked. Wasn’t this a kind of demotion? Perhaps he should ask Truth if he had done something amiss; certainly he still needed some assistance. But one did not question the High Prophet’s decisions.
Zo heard a clomping sound, looked up to see the massive form of the white-bearded Tartarus striding along the columned hallway toward him, battle hammer propped on one shoulder. The hallway echoed with the heavy clop of the Jiralhanae’s two-toed boots as he strode past a series of Honor Guards stationed farther down. The Elites serving as Truth’s protectors had come to accept the Brute chief’s comings and goings. Though they held complete loyalty to the Hierarch, Zo sometimes considered whether or not they secretly wondered what the purpose was with the Jiralhanae, as he had.
Where was Exquisite Devotion? Perhaps he wasn’t coming after all?
Tartarus stalked nearer, his silvery skull ruff wagging with each step; his albinoid skin threw back the light with a dull sheen; his sharp teeth seemed perpetually bared in a red mouth that stood out from his dead-white skin and the pale fur somewhat uncommon to Brutes under his heavy bandoliers. There was something about Jiralhanae, something primatelike, that made Zo consider they looked like more primitive though much larger versions of the humans.
Then Zo’s heart sank as he heard the querulous voice of the Prophet of Exquisite Devotion. “Tartarus! Do wait for me, if you please.”
Tartarus turned, and Exquisite’s antigrav chair accelerated to catch up with the Jiralhanae.
The ornate seat was a bit too much like a throne, Zo thought.
Twenty strides more and Tartarus was there, glaring down at Zo with intense eyes. “Greetings, Prophet of Clarity. The Hierarch is expecting me.”
“I will inform him that you and the High Councilor are here, Chieftain Tartarus,” said Zo mildly, gesturing, Much respect to you both.
“Yes, please do,” said Exquisite. His voice varied between a cranky purr and a whine, but his face was always frozen in a bilious look of enforced benevolence.
Zo turned his chair and floated over to the door in the wall behind the dais. He tapped on the door. He could have signaled Truth on a communicator, but this ancient practice was more in keeping with protocol. “Your Nobility? Your visitors have arrived.”
Truth’s voice came fuzzily through the door. “Very good, Clarity. Serve them in the meantime. I will come out in a few moments.”
Zo turned and saw that Tartarus and the Prophet had already come in. Exquisite had tented his hands and was gazing about him; the chieftain was standing stiffly in the midst of the mirror-walled chamber, scratching in his brushy ruff with one horny, four-fingered hand, the other still clasping the hammer. “I believe,” Tartarus rumbled, “that the High Prophet of Truth customarily keeps a refreshment for me?” He looked around impatiently for it, fingering his hammer.
Zo gestured, I comply with joy. “Certainly . . . And some tea for you, High Councilor?”
“If you please, a bit of the sea flower, with a touch of sky spice.”
Zo hurried to a cabinet near the entryway, found the proper bottle, poured the muskily odorous red fluid into the glass. He ordered the tea, with the proper herb and spice, and the refreshment panel hissed it instantly into the cup.
Zo returned, a drink in each hand. Tartarus snatched his and drank it down almost before Zo had come to a complete stop in front of him. Exquisite received his own cup with delicate aplomb.
“Exquisite Devotion,” called Truth as he floated his throne from the back room. “Tartarus, Chieftain of the Brutes.”
“High One!” Tartarus said gruffly, bowing deeply.
“Your Eminence,” said Exquisite, making the gesture of grand respect with his free hand.
“I see you both have found the refreshments. I, too, needed something to soothe my mind. A Sacred Ring destroyed, forever lost—were it not for Delta Halo and the gateway to the Ark, these would be considered grave times indeed! Leave us, Second Administrator—see to my messages. I would speak with the Chieftain in private.”
“It will be an honor, Your Eminence,” said Zo as he took the empty cup from Tartarus.
The High Prophet made an imperious gesture with his three-fingered hand and Tartarus straightened up and approached him.
Still sipping tea, Exquisite Devotion silently approached the dais.
Zo left the room, closing the door, and then went into his own small work alcove to one side. He hesitated. Should he activate the device he had planted? It was dangerous . . .
But he valued information and insight. It was in his nature to want to know, especially given the recent changes and the constant peril that seemed to saturate these times. And there was the possibility of putting the information to good use . . .
He put the Brute’s cup aside, reached to his collar, inputted the surveillance code, and listened. The device crisply responded. He turned the volume down low in case a guard walked by.
“Noble Hierarch, are we now ready to take action?” demanded Tartarus. “The Jiralhanae in my confidence are hungry for it—and I am impatient to set our plans into motion. The true consummation of the Great Ones must be near at hand.”
“I agree,” said Exquisite. “Time is of the essence now.”
“It will be soon,” Truth assured them. “Events crowd upon us. The High Prophet of Regret has been murdered, and by the Demon responsible for the destruction of the Sacred Ring, no less. This blasphemous assault demanded conclusive action, and the site was purged by our ships, though the Demon’s fate remains in question. Our plans will proceed. But secrecy, for now, is still a requisite.”
“I speak only the words you permit me, High One,” rumbled the Jiralhanae.
“My discretion is well known to you, Your Eminence,” said Exquisite.
“Yes. One must be careful. Matters are in flux. Regret is gone . . .” Truth seemed to muse over the realization. “Quite gone . . .”
Truth, Zo noted, sounded impassive about Regret’s death—and was there even a touch of glee? Had not Truth and Regret, alongside the High Prophet of Mercy, served together as the triumvirate of Hierarchs?
Despite his feelings about all that had occurred in the wake of the Fleet of Sacred Consecration’s demise, Zo himself had some sadness at the loss of Regret—as the former Vice Minister of Tranquility, Regret had treated Zo well.
Perhaps G’torik had been right, and Truth had abandoned Regret as punishment.
“And who failed to protect Regret, High One?” sneered Tartarus. “Is it not clearly the Elites?”
“An Honor Guard made up of Elites, as you well know, was there to protect him. This regrettable death has opened the door for us all, however. Already the forces around the human world have been . . . changed; the Brutes now control those fleets, and the Elites suspect nothing at all. Their myopic focus on this newly discovered Ring has blinded them to our movements regarding the human homeworld, Earth.”
“What comes next will not have the same effect—it will open their eyes,” Exquisite pointed out.
“No matter. Our plans will be put into action, and the Jiralhanae will have their rightful place. But let us say no more here, even this place . . .”
Zo gnawed again on a bony knuckle. Did Truth suspect Zo of eavesdropping? Perhaps it hadn’t gone that far. But it seemed suspicion was in the air. And if Truth acted on that suspicion, Zo might be exposed. Perhaps he might undergo torture. Certainly death.
Zo sat back, expelling a long breath. His hands were shaking on the arms of the chair and he clasped them for steadiness, as what he’d overheard now began to sink in.
The High Prophet of Truth had been highly secretive of late. And now he was discussing what sounded like a kind of decisive action with Tartarus and Exquisite Devotion. A change of the Covenant guard? Such a thing was unheard of. The Sangheili had always served as the iron fist of the Covenant; that arrangement was the very foundation of the Writ of Union. This proposed new order was clearly something Truth had not wanted the other Hierarchs to know about, nor the Council.
And now one of those Hierarchs was gone.
Zo had often observed Truth’s well-veiled impatience when the other two in the triumvirate thwarted his wishes. It could be that the High Prophet of Truth reckoned the Covenant could be governed by only one Hierarch. But why now? Why at the end of all things, and the consummation of the Journey?
And whom would Truth sacrifice so that he could reach that goal?
Quite possibly, whomever he had to, and in any way he could.
The Refuge, the Ussan Colony
Primary Refuge
2552 CE
The Age of Reclamation
Bal’Tol ‘Xellus, leader of Sangheili Ussans, sat in his oval meditation chamber, gazing out through the viewport at the asteroid belt, with its dull gray metallic fragments of the ancient Ussan colony. The view was enhanced by magnification nodes impregnated in the glass—usually the asteroid belt was not dense enough to see with the naked eye. Bal’Tol watched as gigantic chunks of stone and ice slowly spun in their endless danceline, an orbital circling of the system’s sun, broken moons, shattered planetoids, fragmented comets, an unruly belt yet overall in a perfect ellipse around the sun. It signified chaos within order.
At intervals in the asteroid belt were intact sections of his colony, most of them not turning in place at all, though they followed the curving trail of the belt’s orbit. All but a few were kept from spinning by stabilizers. But like the asteroids, the colony sections were part of the dance of chaos, which found unitary equanimity in orbital grace. Counting Primary and Combat Section, there were fifteen areas to the Refuge—fourteen that were intact enough to be occupied—the largest being Primary Section.