by John Shirley
There had been only a little more than four hundred Ussans who’d come here centuries earlier; their descendants now numbered 3,210. Primary Section had almost four hundred Sangheili living there. The other sections ranged in population from one hundred to just under two hundred. The colony’s sections—odd geometrical shapes formed of cuboids and rectangular segments and the occasional cone—had once been connected, unified by the stone of a planetoid and the cohesion of Forerunner engineering. The Disassembly process initiated long ago had taken everything apart—exactly as the Forerunners had hoped it would—and scattered the sections throughout the asteroid belt. The asteroids were camouflage, a hiding place from the ancient threat older than the Covenant, and later from the Covenant itself.
But to Bal’Tol, now the separated sections of colony seemed to symbolize individual Sangheili going through life in their own chaotic orbits, trying to find centeredness, their self-awareness, stability, functionality, harmony . . . orbital grace. The method was said to have come from a prisoner from a far planet who had stumbled on their colony long ago. The meditation had been handed down for numerous generations and taught to Bal’Tol by his uncle, N’Zursa ‘Xellus, the previous kaidon.
And at N’Zursa’s death, Bal’Tol had become kaidon. He had taken the oath—he, too, could allow no contact with other sentient species. No others had ever found their way into the colony. If they did, they would be imprisoned or, more wisely, immediately executed.
Who knew? Perhaps those few contacts had caused the Blood Sickness. The blight had taken his Limtee. Bal’Tol himself had found her, his intended mate, dead in her sleeping chamber . . .
Bal’Tol sighed. The memory of Limtee’s passing disrupted his meditation. He could now not return to an unblemished contemplative state.
Instead, he would go and consult C’tenz to see if there was a report on the ‘Greftus Faction.
If there was a rebellion, a rebirth of the Way of ‘Greftus, then Bal’Tol had another oath to fulfill. The rebellion must be ruthlessly put down.
Bal’Tol stood, stretched, and went broodingly through the door, out into the corridor. He nodded to a pair of guards, who saluted him as he passed, and then fell in behind him, as per security protocol.
As he walked to the Hall of Strategy, Bal’Tol noted a certain unevenness in the distribution of artificial gravity in this outer edge of the Primary Refuge. One had to step carefully. He must have the repair team examine the graviton generators. They did not understand the underlying principles well enough to create new ones; they were merely able to sometimes repair individual parts, and there was a diminishing store of spares, to be found in some places. Some of the Refuge sections had been deserted, and their parts could easily be cannibalized. The ‘Greftus Faction had been right about one thing: the colony was giving way to entropy, as all things must in time. Thousands of solar cycles had passed since the Disassembly. Ussa ‘Xellus’s account of it, now difficult to read due to the ancient dialect it was written in, seemed to imply that the colony’s sections had once been part of a great sphere, created by the near-mythical Forerunners, who had constructed it as the last of a series of protective worlds. They had made the Refuge distinct from the others—hidden within the sphere had been a new reordering, an altered blueprint for survival, should its destruction as a sphere become necessary. But the constant gravitational stress as the sections spun through the camouflaging asteroid belt, the inner exertion of artificial gravity, the exposure of section panels to solar radiation, as well as simple alloy fatigue, had gradually weakened parts of what had once seemed almost indestructible. Without repair, the sections would fall apart, and the colony would perish.
It would seem that even the Forerunners were not infallible.
The ‘Greftus Faction, named after the long-dead rebel leader from the Fifth Section of the Refuge, ‘Insa ‘Greftus, had cried apocalypse when the decay had become evident, had declared that the Forgotten Gods, as they called them—supposed entities channeled psychically by ‘Greftus—wanted the Sangheili to depart the colony. Ancient ships still survived in the Primary Section. Why not use one to explore and find the fabled homeworld Sanghelios? The Forgotten Gods supposedly told ‘Greftus of the way back to that ancient place, which some thought of as purely mythological.
Bal’Tol’s uncle N’Zursa had dismissed all ‘Greftus’s claims as the ravings of a Sangheili addled with the Blood Sickness. It was known that the Blood Sick were subject to madness, to hallucinations and paranoia.
There were no Forgotten Gods, N’Zursa declared, and ‘Greftus did not know the way to Sanghelios. One day, perhaps, the path to the homeworld would be discovered—but until then, the colony must remain intact. The Refuge must tend its farms in the eco levels; it must cleanse its atmospheric filters; it must engage in such battle competitions as were decreed in the Combat Section; it must enhance travel between the various sections of the Refuge so that proper breeding could take place. Abandoning the colony was not an option. And so declaring, N’Zursa had sent guards to seize ‘Greftus, had him ejected from an air lock into the void, in the manner of execution long favored by Ussan kaidons wishing to make an example of someone.
As punishment for your Failure of Clan Integrity, we submit you to the outer emptiness . . .
And so ‘Greftus had died, flailing for air as he floated away, in sight of all Ussans who chose to witness.
Now it might be that he, Bal’Tol, must himself submit someone into the outer emptiness. He had ordered imprisonment before; he had ordered assaults on a band of criminals. But he had never ordered a public execution via air lock. It wasn’t an honorable way to die.
Passing through the plaza outside the Hall of Strategy, Bal’Tol came upon the Homage to Enduring Bias. The remains of the machine, also called the Flying Voice, had been secured in a sphere of glass, where they floated, unlit, evincing no intelligence. It had remained thus for centuries. The glass was reverently cleaned every cycle, and the repairers peered at the remains of Enduring Bias, hoping that perhaps there might be a sign of life. Because Ussa ‘Xellus, in his writings, had declared, Though the Forerunner construct Enduring Bias has fallen silent, never assume that it will not speak again. It was damaged when the Primary Section was struck by a comet fragment, but it may be that it is slowly repairing itself inwardly. It may someday come to life to give voice once more . . .
“My Kaidon,” said C’tenz, coming from the Hall of Strategy. Bal’Tol saw the tension in C’tenz’s hands—he had a way of clasping them in front of him when he was concerned about something. But C’tenz was a strong, intellectually vital Sangheili who had more responsibility than a youngling normally did. He wore ancient leather battle armor nearly everywhere, and one of the still-functioning burnblades in a scabbard on his hip. Bal’Tol knew of the whisperings that C’tenz must be his own offspring, because of the young Sangheili’s quick elevation to second-in-command, but in truth, it was not so.
C’tenz glanced about and spoke in a lowered voice. “I was reluctant to interrupt your meditation but . . . I was just coming to find you. A new group of the ‘Greftus Faction has been confirmed. And some of its members seem to have passed recently into the second phase.”
Bal’Tol grunted acknowledgment. The phases of the Blood Sickness were simple. First there was a period of disorientation and malaise, easily misdiagnosed. Then the Blood Sick became querulous, paranoid, and prone to long, wildly inarticulate speeches, punctuated by howls of fury. ‘Greftus had been deep in the second phase when he had gathered a considerable following, and was just into the third, most violent phase when he was arrested—he had murdered two patrollers as he was taken prisoner.
“It’s curious,” C’tenz said. “The pattern these Blood Sick fall into, when they are near one another. With everyone else, they’re either quarrelsome or imperious. But with one another they seem to silently choose a leader—there are five of them, at least, who have clustered around this ‘Kinsa. That is the only name he gives,
but our records suggest he is Oska ‘Meln. He claims to be sharing his body with the spirit of ‘Greftus, who advises him in all things.”
“How a rational Sangheili can believe such a thing . . .”
“Superstition is rife on the colony. And you know what Tirk says.”
“Indeed. All too well.” Tirk ‘Surb was the head of Refuge Security, a descendant of the legendary Ernicka the Scar-Maker. “He grows more conservative and backward-looking by each cycle. I suppose he asserts we have not enough religious fervor?”
“Essentially, that is his litany.”
“We certainly have more than enough religion.” All Ussans were summoned to Intonement once a section turn. “But nothing is enough for Tirk. Still, call him here and we’ll investigate this ‘Kinsa. And as for the Blood Sickness, we must prune away the infection wherever we find it.”
He felt strange, as he said it.
Limtee.
“We will need to act quickly, Kaidon. We need to let people know that ‘Kinsa is no visionary—he is just a glib victim of the Sickness. What do we do with all those who fall sick?”
“We have discussed a place of isolation for the Blood Sick,” Bal’tol mused, thinking again of Limtee. “It should be attempted. Then we can redouble our efforts to find a cure.”
C’tenz gave a snort of skepticism. “Probably a hopeless effort. I’m very much afraid that the five latest of the afflicted must be put to death . . . That might quiet this lunacy.”
In his hearts, Bal’Tol knew it was not so simple. There were many who quietly sympathized with ‘Greftusian ideas. He did not wish to provoke an uprising.
There was a swelling tide of discontent accompanying the gradual breakdown of the colony. Bal’Tol knew their murmuring: Our colony is falling slowly apart. Where is our true home? Where is Sanghelios?
He wished he had an answer for them.
High Charity, near Delta Halo
The Office of the Prophet of Exquisite Devotion
2552 CE
The Age of Reclamation
“I prefer you to stand in my presence, Prophet of Clarity.” So declared the Prophet of Exquisite Devotion as Zo Resken glided into the office in his antigrav chair.
Zo was surprised. This was unusual protocol. “May I use my belt?”
“Yes.”
Zo switched on his belt and turned off the field of his chair, which settled to the floor. He then stood, trying his best to look respectful.
“You seem a little put off by the rule,” Exquisite said. His face reflected the usual false benevolence, but his voice betrayed his irritation. The High Councilor was sitting in his scaled-down throne, near the place where the wall-windows of his office cornered. Beyond the glass, mist from the Hanging Gardens separated rainbows from sunlight. Further out, seen filmily through the atmospheric shield, the glory of Delta Halo’s ever-winding silver band wheeled in a slow rotation; a sun hung like an eternal golden lamp in the black distance. “But you see, Prophet of Clarity, I outrank you considerably. Soon I shall outrank you even more. Standing before me shows respect. If we sit together, we are equals.”
“As you wish it, Your Eminence,” Zo said, gesturing, Obedience is my pleasure.
“So . . . I am telling you something in confidence because you will accompany me to a meeting of the High Council tomorrow, as my assistant. And you will find things are different. It suits me that you should show no surprise—and if anyone speaks of it, you should remark on the improvement.”
“How will things be different, High Councilor?” Gesturing If I may be allowed to respectfully ask.
“In the coming cycle, Tartarus will be made military chief of the Covenant. The Elites within the Honor Guard will be replaced by Jiralhanae. Don’t look so startled, Clarity. You should have seen this coming. The Jiralhanae are loyal to the High Prophet of Truth—and to myself—and most important, they are loyal to the Journey. The Elites have left us no recourse. As you know, the High Prophet of Regret is dead because of their incompetence. As you saw with your own eyes, the Supreme Commander of the Fleet of Particular Justice and his forces lost Alpha Halo to the humans. Elite failure mounted upon failure by their kind—they cannot be trusted. And there is more, evidence of dissidence among their ranks and uncertainty with regard to their allegiance. The remaining Hierarchs feel this activity cannot go without some reciprocity. The Sangheili will be used on the front lines of war. But they will be demoted.”
Very carefully modulating his voice, Zo said, “Do you not think there is a risk of a rebellion as a result?”
“There is no time for such a thing, when we are so close to the Path’s end—the Great Journey is nigh. But you need no further disclosure. Just do as I tell you. Now, go into that room, where you will find my requirement on the holodisplay. I am ordering a variety of necessary items. See that they are sent to me from the comptroller.”
“With pleasure, High Councilor.”
Zo went into the adjoining room, shaken, feeling Exquisite’s eyes on his back as he went. Why was he here? Just to make arrangements with a comptroller? Or was there another reason?
He had heard a rumor that very day, in the gravity lift. That Exquisite Devotion was, quite secretly, a kind of enforcer for the High Prophet of Truth—this was partly true, given what Truth had already disclosed to him.
Zo himself had no enforcers, no protection. Exquisite Devotion had two Brutes stationed outside the office—and even more allies, at least among San’Shyuum.
But he did have something that Exquisite didn’t have . . . friends among the Sangheili.
They might help him if he needed it. And if he gave them something first.
A warning. And one he was risking his life to give.
CHAPTER 16
* * *
High Charity
Chancel of Recovery
2552 CE
The Age of Reclamation
Zo Resken, the Prophet of Clarity, scarcely noticed the herbal vapors pervading the warm fog around him in the Chancel of Recovery. The hemispherical room was located within a majestic tower at the center of the Holy City. He was waiting for someone, and was nervous about meeting him here. Sangheili were generally never found near a San’Shyuum healing facility, and certainly not within it. It was frowned on by both species—and the herbs were not cultivated for Sangheili biology. The improbable meeting place meant few would suspect him of sharing information with a Sangheili here. Zo had made certain he had this small chamber reserved.
The herbs vaporized here were all gentle salves for San’Shyuum skin and lung tissues, nothing narcotic . . . though he’d almost wished he had some of that sort. Perhaps it was insane, appointing to meet G’torik ‘Klemmee here, with the possibility of the Prophet of Exquisite Devotion learning of the encounter.
Zo squinted through the blue-and-green fog, peering toward the entrance, coughing slightly as he waited. He wore a light robe and under it an antigrav belt, and affixed to the belt was a plasma pistol. As the door opened, rather suddenly, Zo nearly drew the weapon.
But it was G’torik, arriving alone and carefully closing the door behind him. The burly Sangheili commander pushed through the fog toward Zo, arms extended as if the healing murk was something solid to be moved out of the way. He coughed and blinked, clashing his mandibles to express chagrin. “Your Eminence, O Prophet of Clarity, you called and I have obeyed, but I wonder, with all that has happened, if it is wise . . .”
“Come,” Zo said. “If anyone approaches, you simply came in to check on my welfare. Say that I asked you to look in on me. We are at war, and the battle lines have never been so close to High Charity . . .”
Clarity took a deep breath of the fumes, focused his eyes on G’torik, and then continued.
“While we are alone, let us not be Your Eminence and Commander ‘Klemmee. We are merely Zo and G’torik.” He had just been reading his ancestor’s writings—Mken ‘Scre’ah’ben’s Untold History of the Rending—and had been struck by the info
rmal way that Mken had spoken to Ussa ‘Xellus in their private negotiation just before the destruction of the Refuge.
So many centuries had passed that much of the story of Mken, famed for having brought the Needful Maidens to High Charity from Janjur Qom and thus ensuring the healthy propagation of San’Shyuum, was smirched by uncertainty; records had been damaged and much of what was recorded could easily have been colored by poetic license. It all could be myth and nothing more.
But wiser historians like Zo Resken knew that much of the tale was true. Zo had strong substantiation, for he alone had discovered Mken’s writings placed in an environmentally protected chest hidden in the family storage vaults on High Charity, important writings lost for all those dusty millennia. There were ruminations from Mken that might be considered heretical, so Zo had worked hard to keep them a secret. As far as he knew, he was the only one aware of their lengthy and explosive disclosure.
“And it is as Zo to G’torik that I tell you,” Zo went on, “for some time now, the High Prophet of Truth has been . . . how shall I say this? He has been sharpening his knives. One of those ‘knives’ is the Prophet of Exquisite Devotion, to whom I am now practically enslaved. And now I fear that with the death of Regret, Truth is ready to make his move.”
G’torik made a growling sound in his throat. “What sort of move?”
“It is as I feared, but sooner than I had supposed. He plans to push the Elites aside. Starting with the Honor Guard. They will be completely replaced by the Brutes. He will take control of the Covenant’s military by way of the Jiralhanae . . . with Tartarus at its head, the Elites to become subservient to the Brutes.”
For a moment, G’torik was stunned to silence.
“How has he kept this quiet? The Jiralhanae are no hand at keeping secrets. They bristle with hostility, and are open about their hatred for the Elites . . . but this? How could the Hierarchs support such a move against the Sangheili? The Covenant would surely collapse!”