Broken Circle (7 page)

“I assure you, we will find him,” Commander ‘Griot said fervently. “He has blighted all Sangheili. He has called us . . .” Again, ‘Griot hesitated. “
Cowards
. The greatest insult known to our people. Unimaginable.”

“It is he who is the coward,” soothed Mken. “He has fled with his retinue, has left his homeworld and hidden himself away! There is nothing heroic about those deeds.”

But privately Mken suspected that this was no act of cowardice. Ussa ‘Xellus was, as ‘Griot had said, unusual. His motives were all but inscrutable. But cowardice? No.

In all probability, the traitorous Sangheili had some grand scheme in mind.

And at this moment, the Prophet of Inner Conviction was inwardly convinced of only one thing: that when they all learned of the true purpose of this endgame, it would be a dreadful knowledge indeed.

An Uncharted Forerunner Shield World

850 BCE

The Age of Reconciliation

“Great Ussa ‘Xellus, I do not challenge your leadership! The clans have accepted you. Who am I to challenge a kaidon?”

Ussa said wryly, “You are ‘Crolon. You have always been ‘Crolon, and you will be what you have always been. A pain in my side.”

Salus ‘Crolon closed his jaws firmly—the Sangheili variant of a smile. But he didn't keep them shut for long. “As the ancient saying goes,
Only a coward is always soothing.
But Great Ussa . . . where are we now? We have come to a stranger place than all strange places. At least the caverns you led us into were on Sanghelios. But this is far from our world.”

Ernicka the Scar-Maker shot a dark look of suspicion at ‘Crolon.

Ussa murmured aside to Ernicka, “Do not jump to conclusions about him. No need to mistake an annoying personality for a treasonous one.”

Ussa had seen many good warriors killed alongside the genuine traitors back on Sanghelios. The average kaidon had a short way with those who were disloyal, typically by separating their heads from their necks. But sometimes there was more impulse than judgment in an execution. To slay a true enemy—now,
that
was honorable. Technically, ‘Crolon was a warrior, like all male Sangheili. To destroy a soldier out of pique was wasteful.

So Ussa remained calm, and glanced around at their environment. “Yes, ‘Crolon, it's true, this place is strange to the Sangheili. And yet I believe it was intended for us—or for those who feel as we do.”

They were deep underground, but not in a cavern—they were under the outer shell of the shield world his followers now called the Refuge.

Nearby was the Tomb of ‘Crecka, a simple half dome of metal, inscribed with the late warrior's name. The elder had passed on within a short period of arriving for the second and last time on the shield world. He had been walking in the natural garden of the eco level, and had lain down . . . and simply not awakened. Ussa intended a grander monument for the old Sangheili one day, for it was he who had made this refuge possible for Ussa's adherents.

But perhaps the entire shield world was truly his monument. The artificial world was sheathed in metal, like ‘Crecka's tomb—or rather it was sheathed in what appeared to be a spherical, all-metal exterior. What it was truly composed of, what the Forerunners had forged, remained a mystery. Within the shell was a hollowed-out planetoid, the rocky surface lifeseeded to create a tolerable habitation for occupation, complete with plant life, hills and valleys and streams, edifices of unknown purpose that could be used for habitation, and most important, a breathable atmosphere. Artificial sunlight beamed down from the concave shell that surrounded the world—in the distance, giant stalactite-like formations projected downward, like inversions of the towering city constructs of Sanghelios. Some of these structures seemed to be related to the shield world's power distribution.

Below the inner crust of stone, soil, and water was another layer of artificial world, housing the inner workings of this ancient sanctuary: atmosphere generation, power conduits, maintenance. Parts of it seemed unfinished—and indeed Ussa was convinced that this shield world had not been completed by the Forerunners. He had a strong suspicion it was a new model, with new capabilities—and
never quite tested. He intended to test those capabilities, if it was possible, when the time came.

It would be dangerous. The results would either destroy all his people—or save them. He reckoned the chances for either outcome were just about even.

“Know that this world is a Forerunner creation,” Ussa went on. “And thus it is sacred. But it was intended by the Forerunners as a refuge, and we will use it exactly in that manner. We have enormous tasks to carry out. It will take a long time—many cycles—and it will demand tireless efforts from all of us. We will live here upon this surface. But most of the work will take place below, on the inner shells, in the artificial galleries below.”

“But Great Ussa,” ‘Crolon said, keeping his tone respectful and mild, but his words insistent. “We are woefully unprepared to function as part of . . . this great machine you have brought us to. We do not know what we're doing here! These Forerunner artifacts, much of the apparatus we see—it is a mystery to us. We have known Forerunner works—we have discerned the function of some of them.” Sangheili had taken up retroengineering the Forerunner technology in earnest in the latter part of the war with the San'Shyuum. “But this . . .”

“Your attitude, ‘Crolon,” Ussa sharply replied, “is what kept us in the dark shadow of the San'Shyuum to begin with. It was Sangheili like you who were reluctant to delve more deeply into the meaning of the Forerunner devices. But we learned that what is sacred can be also useful—and perhaps even more sacred as a result. We nearly fought the San'Shyuum to a standstill, using what we'd learned. If not for the cowardice of those who surrendered to the Covenant . . . But that is why we are here.”

“Yes, Kaidon,” ‘Crolon said, almost whining, ducking his head in superficial submission. “Your will is law. Still, as this world's
mechanisms are entirely new to us, there could be great danger in meddling with them. Dare we—”

“ ‘Crolon!” Ernicka growled. “Ussa is one who sees the world from the sky!” Ernicka was invoking an ancient Sangheili expression referring to a being capable of mastering many arts, a person of genius and vision. “He studied this place with Sooln ‘Xellus, long before we came here! This is not his first visit! He knows all the apparatus well!”

That, of course, Ussa reflected, was not really true. He understood some of the Forerunners' great creation, but there was a great deal more to learn, along with his loyal adherents. It could take an epoch to puzzle it all out, if ever. But he had also found the artificial intelligence, Enduring Bias, which was able to explain what he needed to know most—once it had decided that explanations, at least some of them, somehow connected to its own purposes.

Sooln had a particular fascination with Enduring Bias, and engaged the Flying Voice, as some Sangheili called it, in long interrogatory conversations. Most of the Sangheili here respected Sooln, but being female, she did not evoke full confidence; the Sangheili patriarchy was naturally unwilling to trust a female with the most critical leadership matters. But Sooln had undeniable technical gifts and Ussa had learned to defer to her.

Before ‘Crolon could grumble about Sooln not knowing her place, Ussa spoke up, making his voice boom over the crowd. “Clansfolk! You have trusted me thus far! I have taken you from one world to another! You must trust me here—we have crossed the Great Torrent!” The Great Torrent was a mythical fiercely rushing river that once crossed could never be passed through again. “We cannot turn back! I believe we are safe here—the Covenant does not know of this world! It is an uncharted place and
they are not likely to find it! If they approach, we will have ample warning. We will survive! We have food, water, air, and most of all, hope! Rejoice with me in this . . . and remember that true Sangheili are always prepared for self-sacrifice! This is our
keep
now! Our home! Yes—and it is Sanghelios! Because wherever we go . . .
there
also is Sanghelios!”

And his followers raised their arms in the air, clacked their mandibles, and roared in response.

High Charity

850 BCE

The Age of Reconciliation

“I must tell you that High Charity now has a new Ministry, Mken,” Qurlom was saying, his voice low. “And a new Minister to go with it.”

“Not another one . . .”

“Oh yes! And it's one to take special note of.”

They were descending on a purple-violet antigravity beam, their chairs side by side. In a short time they'd reach the Compartments of Comfort, the residential facilities used by High Lord Prophets.

Down they went, Mken gazing fixedly upward. Though Mken had long ago grown accustomed to the gravity lifts, he had always been a trifle uncomfortable with heights, and chose never to look down while using the device—since there was nothing under his feet but light and the long, long tube enclosing the lift area.

A new Ministry . . .

Mken glanced at Qurlom. The elderly San'Shyuum was hunched, gazing boldly down into the misty depths. “Ministries seem to proliferate,” Mken said. “Certainly faster than San'Shyuum.
Soon there will be more Ministries than there are members of our species.”

“You are pleased to be facetious, Mken, a bad habit of yours, but this is no matter for amusement. The Hierarchs have created the Ministry of Anticipatory Security. And the Minister . . . is your old friend R'Noh.” He made the gesture of irony to go with the word
friend
.

“No, truly? They chose R'Noh Custo?”

“Yes, it is he. You two have been at odds many and many a time. I thought you probably had not been told yet—and you should be warned.”

They reached the residence level, and drifted their chairs off the lift, heading down a translucent passage to the transverse corridor.

Impulsively, when they got to the place where they would part, Mken murmured, “Qurlom, thank you for letting me know. About the Ministry, I mean.”

Qurlom glanced around to see that they were alone, and tugged meditatively at one of his wattles. “I have myself been a Hierarch, as you know. The reason I stepped down was not as much a question of my health as I'd let on. Not health in that sense.”

Mken was surprised at this. “Then—what was it?”

“I felt something festering there, among the Hierarchs. Some . . . I do not say who . . . are more concerned with their ambition than with the Path to the Great Journey. You at least seem to have the Inner Conviction that led to your cognomen. I am happy to be able to give you a warning—but do not look to me for help with R'Noh. Just consider what this term ‘Anticipatory Security' might really mean . . .”

Qurlom gave the gesture of
Be well and be discreet,
and turned his chair to float off toward his living quarters.

Mken gazed after him, musing,
Yes, the phrase “Anticipatory Security” is quite unsettling.

The new Ministry could be a danger to High Charity if it were working not for the benefit of all San'Shyuum, but for one of the Hierarchs. In all likelihood the Hierarch behind the new Ministry was the simpering Prophet of Excellent Redolence—he humbly preferred to be called merely Excellent. He had chosen Prophet of Excellent Redolence as his regnal title, but Mken had known him as Quidd Klesto before his ascendance. Excellent was the master of subtle aggression, a great hinter of threats, of dire outcomes for those who crossed him. The threats, in good time, usually bore their poisonous fruit.

And yes, Mken had once crossed Excellent, had gone to the other two Hierarchs to have him overruled, in that regrettable matter of the plan to kidnap females from Janjur Qom.

Excellent had pretended to shrug the matter off, but he wasn't likely to forgive Mken—not ever.

Mken turned away, eager to put these concerns behind him. He badly wanted to be alone with his spouse, the graceful Cresanda . . . to feel her long neck twined around his, to savor her soft nuzzling of his wattles, her prehensile lips gently tugging at their fur.

His desire for such intimacies seemed increased lately, and he wondered if there were certain, quite specific hormones involved. Could it be . . . ?

Mken drifted to his residence's front door, sent the code from his chair to the door to unlock it, and passed into the understatedly incense-scented rooms. He felt a wave of relief when the door hissed shut behind him. Here, he could be himself.

The San'Shyuum Reformists, who'd stormed the Dreadnought, occupying it in preparation for using it as a method of escape, had
made secret forays to stock it with plants, wood, seeds, and other goods from Janjur Qom. After the Dreadnought took to the stars, an entire deck was adapted with special lights to grow stunted trees and plants for herbal teas and fresh food. The intricately carved screens that covered most of the walls in Mken's residence had been sculpted from wood grown on board. The stone fountain in one corner, tinkling softly to itself, was made of pieces of the rock drawn along behind the Dreadnought when it had lifted off from the homeworld. The green shaded lighting was an attempt to replicate the tint coming through high canopies of plants in the dense forests found in the lowlands of Janjur Qom.

Looking around with satisfaction, Mken eased out of his chair—he kept his relative physical firmness a secret from all San'Shyuum apart from Cresanda. He didn't need the antigrav chair, at least on High Charity, as much as the others did. He had been careless about it, several solar cycles ago with his Steward, and it had been one of the sources of the fellow's resentment. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the Steward had been killed on the Planet of Blue and Red.