by John Shirley
“I have a code to get through the inner wall,” Tul called as Zo buckled himself into a seat behind him. “Let us hope they haven’t . . .”
The little vessel approached and the inner wall opened, allowing it to pass neatly through an atmospheric barrier. They were through, and still alive.
“But now what?” Zo asked.
“We have some allies . . . who by now have heard about the treacherous massacre of our Councilors,” G’torik said. “They are waiting for us. But we must leave this area quickly. Despite everything, it won’t be long before Truth finds out that Exquisite Devotion is dead—and realizes what we’ve done.”
Up ahead, a vessel loomed. Was it High Charity security? Zo’s mouth went dry at the thought.
But he saw it was a moderately small fleet supply ship, not a warship, and an air lock was opening for them. Tul slid them cleanly through its air lock entry.
Only seconds after the air lock closed, the supply ship was on its way through slipspace, heading to a little-known, half-forgotten corner of the galaxy.
CHAPTER 19
* * *
The Refuge, the Ussan Colony
Primary Refuge
2552 CE
The Age of Reclamation
Bal’Tol was standing in the doorway of the Blood Sickness Isolation Ward, inspecting the empty facility, depressed by how much it looked like a jail, and thinking of his beloved Limtee. As his mate, she would have produced eggs and childlings, and she would have been at his side, wisely counseling him. But she had died alone in her quarters, even as he’d badgered the bio repairers and pored through the old medical records, trying to find a cure. She’d locked herself away so that she wouldn’t have to go through the final stage of the disease where anyone could see it. And when it had become unbearable, she had used a sharp edge on her neck, taking her own life. But it wasn’t true suicide; that was dishonorable. It was the Blood Sickness that had driven her to it, Bal’Tol knew—it was the Blood Sickness that had killed her.
The colony had rounded the sun thirteen times since the day he’d found Limtee’s decaying body on her cot, her tender flesh glued to the surface by dried purple-blue blood.
He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. Then he forced himself to look once more at the crude metal cages they’d built around beds and a few small amenities, down the long room.
“Great Kaidon . . .”
Bal’Tol turned to see Qerspa ‘Tel, the biological repairer. Truly an overblown title for such a dusty, ineffective windbag. Qerspa wore the blue uniform of a biorep, its color symbolizing the blood of Sangheili.
“You should be resting,” Qerspa said. “Your wound is not yet healed.”
“I feel better, moving about. Is this facility the best we can do, Qerspa? If we could give them individual rooms . . . these are like cages for animals.”
“We had little time for anything better—and no room, Great Kaidon. You asked for it to be produced quickly and . . . this is the best we could do. But in time, we will have better facilities.”
Bal’Tol growled to himself. Then he said, “Start bringing the sick ones from the lockups to this facility. It will be somewhat better.” He walked into the hallway and Qerspa hurried to catch up with him. “Qerspa, are you certain this disease is not communicable? That it doesn’t spread by infection, one to the next?”
“We have done many experiments. We cannot locate an antigen. We are certain of this, Great Kaidon.”
“So, then, it is genetic. Or poison of some kind. Or both.”
“Both? We have supposed the Blood Sickness to be an inherited trait. Some mutation. How could it be both?”
“I don’t know—we understand it so little. Some could have a genetic sensitivity to a toxin in the environs, some unknown agent. C’tenz has surmised as much.”
“Phh! That young one’s guessing, with no knowledge to back it up.”
“Perhaps. But he’s surprisingly learned, and you should let him tell you his theory . . .” Thinking of C’tenz, Bal’Tol realized it was time to meet his young second-in-command on the eco level.
He hurried on. Four patrollers, bristling with extra weapons since the war with ‘Kinsa’s followers had begun, met him as he and Qerspa emerged from the hallway and onto the main promenade. Bal’Tol turned to Qerspa. “Back to work with you. We might end this war once we end this disease. Order what resources you need—of those we have.”
“My Kaidon, many of the resources we need are in Section Five. The chemicals processor is there. And that is under control of ‘Kinsa.”
“Yes.” Bal’Tol’s Sangheili controlled Primary, Sections Six through Fifteen. Two, Three, Four, and Five had been taken over by ‘Kinsa. But that included the prized Hall of Godminds, and much needed equipment and supplies storage. “Do what you can with what you have—and we will get Section Five back soon. Fairly soon.”
He turned away and led his protectors to the lift that would take him to the eco level and his meeting with C’tenz. He was fairly sure of what C’tenz would tell him. More breakdowns in the agricultural supply pipes. And the equipment to keep agricultural supply in good repair would be found in the ‘Kinsa-controlled sections.
The deterioration, the general entropic breakdown of the Refuge, was being accelerated by this war . . .
War? Nothing but skirmishes, and only a few of those. It was difficult to enter the air lock of any section that didn’t permit one’s vessel there.
What a pitiful war it had been so far. But it would have to be joined, and fully—or the whole colony would perish. He was simply waiting for the best strategy.
At the moment, Bal’Tol had come up with only one possibility. He could destroy the sections that housed the rebels from the outside. He had more ships, more firepower, more men than ‘Kinsa. But besides the loss of vital equipment, there were many hundreds of innocents in those sections to consider. Massacring them was no real solution.
Was it?
The Journey’s Sustenance, a Supply Ship for the Fleet of Blessed Veneration
Ussan System
2552 CE
The Age of Reclamation
The Journey’s Sustenance emerged from slipspace into a system unknown to Zo Resken—that is, at least to his personal experience. But he would find soon enough that he had in fact heard of it.
The hijacked supply ship had been intended to deliver a load of foodstuff and other goods to the Fleet of Blessed Veneration. The shipmaster was D’ero ‘S’budmee, a scowling, peevish, slightly bow-legged Elite who seemed to resent his own decision to defect, although he knew it was irrevocable. D’ero had been horrified and enraged by the reports of the Jiralhanae massacre of the High Councilors.
Everyone aboard, except perhaps the Huragok, was bereft of their old ranks and titles. Indeed, D’ero was now ‘S’bud, not ‘S’budmee, for he relieved himself of the honorific suffix now that he had abandoned the Covenant.
All who were aboard the Journey’s Sustenance were adrift, a handful of Sangheili and one San’Shyuum in orbit around a gas giant, pondering their next move.
Zo gazed out the viewport at the sun of the system rising beyond the planet’s horizon. They were adrift from all they’d known, all former attachments. The Covenant was all that most of these Sangheili had ever experienced. It was true that one or two of those onboard had come to their fleet directly from Sanghelios. They had known their homeworld, they had keeps and clans there. But even those Elites from Sanghelios had been caught in the unforgiving coils of the Covenant. Some even wondered what kind of convincing it would take for those still on Sanghelios to believe the treachery committed by Zo’s own people.
Now they were all in this together . . .
“Well, Prophet?” said D’ero, approaching with Tul. “Do you have any ideas as to where we go from here?”
“Why do you ask me?” Zo muttered. He could see a faint reflection of his face in the transparent port. The burn he’d gotten in the energy conduit room had mark
ed him, but not horribly, and the pain was now slight. “You ask me where we go because I am a ‘Prophet’? I have no authority over you now. I am a Prophet no more. I am but Zo Resken.”
“And have you no advice at all?” Tul asked. “You were closer to the heart of the Covenant than us.”
Zo tugged fretfully at a wattle. “I can only advise that since we have a ship full of delivered supplies, we can survive for a time—but I doubt that Elites like yourselves would simply want to flee while your brothers are still at war. With Truth headed to the Ark and the Icon being brought to Delta Halo, it is likely that we are at a tipping point. If they initiate the Great Journey, we will find out firsthand whether or not the Rings do what the prophecies seemed to have foretold. Still, I would have liked to speak with the Arbiter myself.”
“We have some information already,” said Tul. “Before we left, I received notice from Commander Rtas ‘Vadum, who is fighting alongside the Arbiter. Tartarus was stopped, he and his Brutes were slain, but the battle continues around Delta Halo.”
“This is the third vector of chaos,” Zo said with a sigh.
“What do you mean?” Tul asked.
“Something that the fabled Prophet of Inner Conviction wrote at the end of his life. He said that every civilization fights a perpetually losing battle with chaos; every society is always under siege, even when it seems at peace. And he said that there are vectors, fronts of chaos that penetrate a social order here and there. One comes, then two. And when there are three at once . . . then a society will crumble. The first two vectors of chaos afflicting the Covenant were the humans and the Flood. Now civil war is the third vector. The Prophet of Inner Conviction was correct in his theory: the Covenant will not survive.”
“Treacherous scum, the Covenant,” declared D’ero. “They do not deserve to survive! Those who have sided with the High Prophet of Truth, and with the Brutes—they deserve to crumble into dust and be forgotten.”
Zo winced. He knew there were many worthy San’Shyuum and Sangheili still on High Charity, though their fates were unknown. But he was not in a position to argue with the captain of the vessel that was at present his only salvation.
“This system,” Zo said, changing the subject. He waved a hand to encompass the sun in the distance, the planetary field. “What do you know about it?”
“Precious little,” growled D’ero. “I chose it because on the charts the system is a scarlet border. Not much is known about it. It is listed only as the Ussan system in our records. Named after some forgotten Sangheili.”
Zo knew what the scarlet border meant. Forbidden. “I wonder why it’s off-limits. Something embarrassing, no doubt, to the Prophets, or the . . .” His voice trailed off as it struck him. “Captain, did you say this was the Ussan system?”
“Yes. So it is.”
Could it be the one? Named after Ussa? Not so strange, then, that it would be forbidden—and it was sensible for D’ero to go to a system marked as such to elude the Covenant. They did well to hide out, for now, in a forbidden system. And what else was hidden here?
“Yes. This is destiny,” said Zo, one hand on the glass of the port as if trying to touch the solar system itself. Some of the gloom that had wrapped him since his arrest was at last lifting. “This is . . . a rare opportunity.”
“What?” Tul asked. “Why?”
“Because if I am right . . . and we must yet confirm it . . . this is the system to which the ancient Sangheili rebel Ussa ‘Xellus brought his people. D’ero is correct: this place is forgotten, by most. But as I’ve said, I have read Mken ‘Scre’ah’ben’s writings. I have the tale he told of coming here . . . and the extraordinary thing that happened, perhaps in this very system.”
“What happened?” D’ero asked irritably. “Tell us, for the Ring’s sake.”
“I will tell you what I know—but first you may as well know what I think our intention should be. We wait and listen, yes. But more than that. We will explore.”
“Here?” Tul said. “There can’t be much in this system of value, or it would already have been exploited by the Covenant . . .”
“Forbidden carries a heavy weight. The Covenant prefers to forget this system. But in fact, here could be thousands of Forerunner relics. Many will have been destroyed, in the wreckage of the extraordinary world that, if I am right, once orbited that sun you see, beyond the gas giant. And there might be something else . . . vestiges of the people who once resided here. Sangheili who long ago held the Prophets in disdain and might provide help in this time of need.”
Tul double-clacked mandibles to express doubt. “Should we not return to Delta Halo and aid the Arbiter?”
“Not every fight can be won,” Zo said, walking away from the port. “That is something Ussa ‘Xellus learned. And it is a painful lesson, I can assure you.”
CHAPTER 20
* * *
The Refuge, the Ussan Colony
Primary Refuge, Command Center
2553 CE
The Age of Reclamation
How long has it been?” C’tenz asked. He asked it rhetorically, because he knew full well.
“Half a solar orbit, at least,” Bal’Tol said gloomily.
How many days was that? Hundreds. It made Bal’Tol sick to contemplate the situation.
And he was also sickened by the break in the outer hull of Section Seven. He could see it on the monitors in the command center of Primary Section. Only two of the scout-eyes worked anymore. And one of them had found a breach in Seven—luckily the meteor had struck only an air-compression module, which was itself locked off from the other modules. A little atmosphere had been lost. But that meteor shouldn’t have been able to break through the hull at all. There were repellent fields around the colony’s hulls, only switched off when maintenance was done.
Now repellent fields were beginning to fail on some sections because they couldn’t access generator repair parts in Section Two. “We should have moved everything vital to Primary many cycles ago,” Bal’Tol said. “N’Zursa wanted to do it. But the other Section captains complained that it would leave them vulnerable, that it discounted them . . . it was all politics, really.”
“Those fields have to be repaired,” C’tenz said. “We’ll have to raid Two.”
“They’ll see us coming. Their air lock surveillance is perfectly intact there.”
“There are other ways to get in, Great Kaidon. It’s possible to locally cancel the repellent field. We could cut our way in, without serious depressurization inside.”
Bal’Tol turned dejectedly from the screens. “If we knew for a certainty what was going on inside Section Two . . . perhaps. But suppose we cut into an area where they’ve moved some of our people, the innocents? We could kill them all.”
“I have a system I think will reveal what’s in any section area, if I can get close enough. It is an adaptation of the old scancam system, with increased output. I have it ready for testing.”
“Have you? We must attempt it, then. C’tenz, we need to know what conditions are like for everyone in those sections. Are they sick? Have they resorted to cannibalism? Does ‘Kinsa torture those who resist him? We know nothing for certain.”
C’tenz made a rueful snorting sound. “You have been subsidizing them! They are not starving.”
“We have exchanged food for supplies—but suppose that ‘Kinsa and his followers are keeping the food for themselves?”
“They do have a protein synthesizer, which could feed everyone.”
“It requires a base to synthesize from. They must have come close to running out of the base materials.” Bal’Tol rubbed his eyes wearily. “I wonder how many Sangheili in those sections actually support ‘Kinsa. I would have expected someone to fight back against him.”
“There have been some bodies jettisoned from Five—you were informed of this.”
Bal’Tol grimaced. “Yes. Do you think they took up arms against ‘Kinsa?”
“It’s possible.”
“And . . . we had attempted defections. They’re short one vessel now.” Bal’Tol had been watching on these same monitors when the shuttle had been hit by the projectile. A silent explosion in space—and sixteen Ussans had been killed as the vessel turned inside out from the puncture. ‘Kinsa’s arms craftsmen had made crude, space-ready missiles that had done the job. And that made invasion from Bal’Tol’s sections all the more difficult. “If only I knew, C’tenz—I should try again to transmit a message to ‘Kinsa’s sections. Encourage our people to fight him.” There was a public address system he had used, before all this started, that transmitted from Primary Section to the others.
“I do not think there is any doubt that he has deactivated the transmission system—at least from outside signals. And, respectfully, Kaidon, words alone avail little.”
Ten cycles after ‘Kinsa took over, six Ussans had successfully escaped ‘Kinsa’s contingent. They reported harsh privation, worsening air quality, food rations cut to minimum, martial law, enforced worship of ‘Greftus, and ‘Kinsa himself. And there were more outbreaks of savagery from Blood Sickness.
It would be much worse by now.
“We will go, C’tenz. Organize a raiding party, and find the proper penetration point.”
“Respectfully, my Kaidon, you cannot go along. You are too vital to the well-being of the Refuge. It simply cannot be contemplated.”
“I want to see for myself how things are there.”