by John Shirley
“Perhaps that was why he pushed for doing this so quickly. We have no choice. And we have a chance, despite that there are no rules here—his adherents may buckle if he dies.”
The champion was the first to leap into space, but the others followed almost immediately, pushing off and twisting, angling, swinging one another about in practiced moves that would get them where they wanted. The stretch-lines pulled taut between floor and ceiling, passed through the space of the room here and there, to be used as additional propellant bases.
I’ll have to take on ‘Kinsa’s champion, Bal’Tol thought, because he is coming right for me. Kill him. Then get to C’tenz and free him. And kill ‘Kinsa if I get the chance . . .
Bal’Tol positioned himself to push off from the wall, but Z’nick had already launched himself on a trajectory to intersect V’urm.
Cursing under his breath, Bal’Tol pushed off, his stomach whirling as he rocketed through zero gravity, thinking he would end up overshooting V’urm. But V’urm was already engaging with Z’nick, slashing with one hand, crunching with the spiked fist of the other, cracking Z’nick in the helmet so that he spun in the air. Z’nick tumbled and rolled to slide out of reach, avoiding the slash that would have disemboweled him if it had connected.
Then Bal’Tol was there, but awkwardly positioned, and could only passingly clout V’urm with his cudgel, making the floatfight hero’s helmet ring and knocking him out of reach.
Flying past, Bal’Tol glimpsed V’urm grabbing a stretch-line, spinning on it, coming back.
Bal’Tol suddenly felt an instinctive warning, and turned to see a mec-missile coming at him. He twisted left, so the arrowlike bolt of metal slashed by, scraping along his neck.
He saw ‘Kinsa in the distance cranking another mec-missile into place. So the bolt that nearly skewered his throat had come from ‘Kinsa.
Bal’Tol grabbed a stretch-line and spun, so that the next bolt missed as well. One of ‘Kinsa’s followers was there, suddenly, roaring as he flew at Bal’Tol, slashing with a burnblade. Bal’Tol blocked it hard with his own blade, and the impact knocked his adversary askew, giving Bal’Tol a chance to bring the cudgel into play. He smashed it underhand into his enemy’s knee and felt bone shatter. Shrieking and bent double with pain, he was within reach of Bal’Tol, who then stabbed his blade into his mouth.
Another bolt flashed past Bal’Tol, reminding him that ‘Kinsa was somewhere on the perimeters. If he could find ‘Kinsa and kill him, then this savage fight for the colony might come to some resolution.
His view of ‘Kinsa was blocked by a cluster of three Sangheili—two of Bal’Tol’s patrollers and a very large adherent, all tangled up with one another as they struggled.
Airborne puddles of purplish Sangheili blood were spreading in the zero-grav environment. Three patrollers floated by limply, clearly dead. One was almost decapitated, his head just hanging on to his neck by a strip of skin.
Bal’Tol pushed off from a stretch-line, and rocketed over the cluster of three fighters. One of his own was dead and the other was being choked in the spiked grip of the large follower, who was luridly webbed with the marks of Blood Sickness. Bal’Tol was well positioned above the strangler, and stabbed down hard on the back of the enemy’s exposed neck, severing the spine. The impact stopped Bal’Tol, making him wrench about in space as he tried to hold on to his weapon, so that he was swung through a floating cloud of Sangheili blood. He had to spit some from his mouth, and lost his grip on the wet, slick sword hilt.
He came out of the blood cloud, straightening up in midair, still floating with momentum.
Perhaps now is the time to get to C’tenz, set him free . . .
Blood and struggling fighters blocked his view of C’tenz. Find him!
Then Bal’tol saw V’urm coming toward him, one mandible half broken off, fresh wounds making his face almost unrecognizable. Bal’Tol could only see that one eye glaring out of a mask of purple gore.
Beyond him floated the body of Z’nick.
V’urm was flying at Bal’Tol head-on, body stretched out behind him, quartermoon blade sweeping up, roaring out a battle cry: “Death to the false kaidon! Long live ‘Kinsa!”
Bal’Tol swam in the air to one side, brought his knees up, and kicked at V’urm.
V’urm grabbed at the kicking foot and used it to pull Bal’Tol close. “An amateur’s move!” he sneered. He swung his blade at Bal’Tol’s neck. The kaidon writhed back, so the quartermoon struck a glancing blow but rang resoundingly on Bal’Tol’s helmet. A spike of pain lanced through his skull. Anomalous lights danced in Bal’Tol’s eyes, nausea swept through him, and his hearing seemed to twist itself in a knot of unintelligibility. He struggled to get into a fighting position, to strike his enemy with his cudgel, but V’urm was positioned over Bal’Tol, quartermoon blade set to rip through the kaidon’s neck. V’urm leered in triumph.
A bolt of red light from somewhere behind Bal’Tol seared into V’urm’s face, and instantly charred it to a crisp.
CHAPTER 22
* * *
The Refuge, the Ussan Colony
Combat Section
2553 CE
The Age of Reclamation
A hole as large as Bal’Tol’s hand was burned through V’urm’s face—a tunnel of blackened flesh, right through the middle of his head and out the other side.
The dead floatfighter then drifted by, entering a cloud of blood, and seemed to turn languidly in it, as if bathing.
I’m having strange thoughts. And then Bal’Tol considered, more to the point: Who killed V’urm, and how did they do it?
“Greetings, Kaidon of the Refuge,” said a lilting voice, vaguely male in tone.
He felt himself grasped by invisible hands—a tugfield of some kind, turning him around. He saw that the other surviving fighters were all pushed back against the walls. Gawking, staring at the thing that held Bal’Tol in place.
The legendary Enduring Bias was hovering before Bal’Tol, almost in reach, glass lenses glowing, whirring with machine health. The AI was in perfect control of its position, seeming at ease in zero gravity.
“Am I dreaming?” Bal’Tol wondered aloud.
“As to that, I cannot testify,” said Enduring Bias. “You were struck a good blow on the head. Your helmet was damaged. Thus you could be concussed, and subject to hallucinations from brain injury. However, I can attest that I am quite objectively real.”
“You are truly here?”
“Yes. I am restored and fully functional. More than once I requested that Sooln acquire a Huragok. But she was never successful. Then I suffered damage when we were struck by the comet fragment, and for centuries, I was quiescent. I was sometimes able to listen, as much time passed. Now the Huragok has come at last, and I can proceed with my duties once more. I am frankly grateful to the visitors from Sanghelios and High Charity.”
“Sanghelios . . . It exists? It is real?” Bal’Tol felt queasy, and not quite himself. The whirling blood, the bodies, all seemed to blur together.
“Yes. I have never been to Sanghelios, but I think we can reasonably infer that it is objectively real. High Charity is real, or at least was real according to their testimony.”
“High Charity? I don’t know . . . that place . . .” The room was swirling around him. He blinked hard and tried to focus. The swirling receded. And then he heard a shout of warning. Was that Xelq’s voice? Bal’Tol looked around—and saw that ‘Kinsa was aiming his mec-missiler, and from not far away. He was aiming it not at the kaidon, but at Enduring Bias.
“No!” Bal’Tol shouted. “ ‘Kinsa, don’t! He is from the gods! It is—”
The bolt flew directly at Enduring Bias, and deflected in midair. The crude missile snapped, and its pieces spun away.
Then a bolt of burning red light jetted out from Enduring Bias, and struck ‘Kinsa in the chest, burning its way through his hearts.
‘Kinsa went limp and drifted off, trailing smoke and blood.
; He looked for C’tenz, and the priest who’d guarded him. The priest had fled—but someone was with C’tenz. Hard to see . . . V’ornik!
Yes. V’ornik was there, floating over to C’tenz, cutting him loose.
“C’tenz . . .” Bal’Tol muttered.
“My scan suggests the one identified as C’tenz will need medical attention,” Enduring Bias remarked. “He must be attended to immediately. And so must you. Please come with me.” Bal’Tol found himself towed gently through the air. “You have two very capable clanfellows in Xelq and V’ornik, Kaidon,” Enduring Bias went on as he flew ahead, Bal’Tol behind him with a tug field. “They cooperated when there was no logical alternative. That is precisely when one should engage in such a risk. Xelq, on V’ornik’s advice, allowed the San’Shyuum to enter—so interesting to meet him!—and three Sangheili, and the Huragok, from the outworld vessel, and it has been delightful to engage the services of the Huragok. So very talented. A beautifully bioengineered creature. It quickly restored me to working order. I knew Ussa ‘Xellus quite well, you know, and I am fairly certain of what he would want me to do now . . .”
“Ussa ‘Xellus . . .”
“Yes. I understand he is your ancestor. I am quite interested in learning the niceties of culture here. I have listened and heard a great deal, but I have many questions.”
They had reached the hatch to exit the floatfight chamber, and Bal’Tol saw someone blocking the way. ‘Kinsa’s priest.
But the priest abruptly stripped off his cuirass, threw it aside, and knelt—that is, he formed his body in a kneeling position, floating that way in zero gravity. “O messenger of Forerunner Sun and Moon! O Flying Voice! How many times did I walk beside your preserved form, supposing it an empty shell, not knowing you were but biding your time! I doubted and followed ‘Kinsa! Forgive me, O messenger of the gods! I cry out in contrition!”
“Certainly,” said Enduring Bias blithely. “You are quite forgiven, and you are thoroughly redeemed, if the kaidon wills it. Now, please move aside. I wish to get the kaidon to a place of medical assistance.”
The Refuge, the Ussan Colony
Section Five
2553 CE
The Age of Reclamation
They were in a decrepit but operational section-to-section shuttle, Zo Resken gazing out the front windows, as the craft silently approached the air lock. G’torik and Tul were back on the passenger deck with their armed escort, the Huragok, and amazingly, an Oracle, hailed as Enduring Bias.
Xelq was piloting, his motions smooth, in the seat to Zo’s left. He glanced at Zo—his eyes lingered on what was, to him, an alien form. “Zo Resken, I’m concerned that even Enduring Bias cannot find a way into Section Five.”
Infected by Xelq’s skepticism, Zo, too, doubted that the Oracle could relax the repellent shield and open the air lock to Section Five.
But gliding up to join them, Enduring Bias said, “I am integrated into the programming of this colony, even in its present form. Every system has a connected workaround, which I myself designed, that I can now implement. For example . . .”
The flickering shield over the air lock vanished; the doors unsealed and opened.
Muttering unintelligibly, but with a tone of wonder, Xelq flew the small craft neatly into its hangar. The doors closed behind them; the hangar repressurized.
“So what now?” Zo asked. “Isn’t it likely there are still these rebels you speak of, even with their leader dead? That some won’t want to give up the territory they’ve seized? I can assure you, there will be resistance.”
“Yes, that is likely,” said Xelq. “And there is some danger from the Blood Sick. But . . . we will send our patrollers out first, and the god messenger. We shall keep the Huragok in the shuttle until needed—why expose something so valuable to enemy fire?”
Something so valuable. What an understatement, Zo thought.
Enduring Bias was priceless—a living relic of the Forerunners. Who knew what secrets it nursed within its memory banks?
And the colony itself! Each section was a magnificent Forerunner artifact. Yes, it was timeworn, and blotted by use. The air was musky and coarse. The walls were often dingy. But within those scarred and smudged walls lay the intact submolecular machinations of the Forerunners. Doubtless there were numerous functions the Ussans knew nothing about—power and entelechy, energy and possibility secreted away, unused but intact, within those panels.
In many places, Zo thought, the Sangheili’s own innovations were a kind of technological crust over the Forerunners’ design—the control center with its monitors, the pressure suits, the eco-level agricultural systems, were all added on by the Ussans. But even the Ussans’ humble innovation was fascinating, tantalizing to Zo’s historian soul. This new, peculiar Sangheili subculture could generate a hundred scholarly treatises.
What would Zo’s ancestor, the Prophet of Inner Conviction, think, if he could have seen all this? He would likely rejoice—there were lifetimes of study to be had here. And Zo Resken had only one lifetime.
If only he had another San’Shyuum to share it with, children to pass it all on to. But he was alone.
The thought sent a pang through him, and he forced himself to focus on the problem at hand. They had to enter this section safely, put down any remaining resistance . . . and try to save this dying colony any way they could.
Minutes later—led by eight heavily armed patrollers, and Enduring Bias—Zo, G’torik, Tul, and Xelq crossed the open space of the small hangar and passed through two doors. There were only four rocket launchers still working in the entire colony. They were normally kept locked in a small armory, rarely ever opened. Bal’Tol had given permission for two launchers to be passed out, with nine rounds each. There were only known to be thirty shells left in all of the Refuge. Most Ussans had never seen these weapons.
The two armed Sangheili patrollers then entered the main corridor ahead of the Ussan column, and brought the launchers into play as mec-missiler bolts flew at them from recessed doorways—the missiles were burned away in midair by Enduring Bias.
Several irregular pulses missed the Ussans, fired from a rickety, antiquated plasma rifle.
The patrollers, eager to use their newfound weapons, fired back at the doorways with rocket launchers. Twin fireballs suddenly appeared and expanded, startling the patrollers themselves. The enemy was flung burning through the air, dead before falling to the deck.
The column, with Zo, G’torik, and Tul at the rear, continued down the corridor, picking their way over smoking corpses.
Living history, Zo thought. I am a vector of history here, large and small. It is unsettling, exhilarating, horrifying all at once.
“Are we making a record of what is happening here?” Zo asked, looking up at Enduring Bias.
“Yes, I am recording all that happens here,” said Enduring Bias. “As per instructions, I am transmitting it via the devices the colonists refer to as ‘godminds,’ sending the visual feed to all the colony spaces where living beings are found. They are now witnessing what happens as we proceed, so that they may modify their behavior accordingly.”
They reached the plaza outside the Hall of Godminds and entered the sculpture garden. Zo, for his part, was noticing the smell. The colony’s air had seemed rank to him, from the moment he’d set foot in it. It was particularly bad here. The reek of unwashed clothing and even raw sewage came from the clotted corners of the room. Scrawled on the walls were writings, which Zo could not read. The florid red lettering suggested angry denunciation.
Some of the sculptures had been knocked down, too, he saw. A pity—he would have enjoyed assessing their cultural history.
“What has happened here?” asked Enduring Bias. It hovered over a pile of rubble, on which there were two broken heads shaped from some dark synthetic material. The heads had taken a beating, but the Bias recognized them. “Why, that was an image of Ussa ‘Xellus, and his spouse, Sooln ‘Xellus. Someone has vandalized their images! Why, I
wonder . . .”
“Ussa ‘Xellus was a symbol of the ‘Xellus clan,” Zo said. “Bal’Tol is of that clan. So Ussa’s images were purged by the enemies of his clan. That, anyway, is my surmise.”
The advance patrollers stepped cautiously, the group going to the doorway of the Hall of Godminds—and were promptly met by weapons fire. Projectiles and burning, handmade grenades, steel bolts, and energy blasts all came their way.
Zo and his companions took cover behind the sculptures. An image of a floatfighter hero took several sizzling charges for Zo, and then the rocket launchers fired twice in response, with coughing sounds. The shells detonated to screams and cries of agonized rage.
“Cease fire here!” commanded Enduring Bias, in a voice suddenly taking on an unprecedented deep-toned authority. “You will damage the machinery! Leave this resolution to me!”
The intelligence construct glided through the door, its repellent field turning several missiles in midflight. Then it began its own offense, the heat beam choosing targets with exact analytical precision, so as not to damage the mechanisms underlying the forms of colored light that hummed in the Hall of Godminds.
There were short, abortive shrieks, then several voices pleading for mercy. “We did not know you!”
“Forgive me . . . forgive us!”
“Lay down your arms and surrender, and perhaps Bal’Tol will give you amnesty,” said Enduring Bias. “I shall recommend it. The decision, however, is solely his.”
But two unrepentants rushed out, howling, their faces riddled with pulsing networks of scarlet.
Enduring Bias exterminated them in less than a second.
“Now,” Enduring Bias said, as those who had surrendered filed out. “I suspect there will be little resistance hereafter. We must proceed to the protein synthesizer. I know what must be done there. Tul, I request that you go back to the shuttle, with appropriate protectors, and fetch the Huragok. It should be safe for the Engineer now. We will need its full assistance.”
The Refuge, the Ussan Colony