Broken Circle (13 page)

“Perhaps it is simply waiting,” ‘Drem said. “Perhaps it was waiting for more of us—for its little trap to be sprung.”

Tersa stared at him. “Trap?”

“Indeed. Who knows what these things are for?”

“I have a theory,” ‘Crolon put in. “I wonder if these vibrating shapes could be for testing souls! You have seen how reactive they are. They could be probing us. The Forerunners—the gods, the messengers of the cosmos—could be using them to decide which of us live or die. If we are worthy or unworthy. When they decide . . .” He clashed his mandibles in the Sangheili version of a resigned shrug.

‘Drem stepped back from the hovering geometrical figures—and then took another step back. “Those things can see . . . inside me? My soul?”

Tersa waved a hand, dismissing the idea. “That's ‘Crolon's theory. More likely they are part of the shield world's energy system. Or used in communications.”

“You are correct—they
are
used in communication!” said Enduring Bias, buzzing into the room.

The abrupt entry of Enduring Bias made ‘Drem hiss and snarl, startled. “The dark angel slips up behind us . . . !”

“What an interesting cultural tang there is in that appellation—
dark angel.
I hardly know what to say,” Enduring Bias remarked, turning to scan ‘Drem in curiosity.

“What is it doing to me?” he muttered, backing away. “I feel a tingle! An intrusion!”

“ ‘Drem, it is only scanning you,” ‘Crolon said. “It is the eye of the Forerunners—a sacred relic.”

“Relic, I am,” said the machine. “The relic of an earlier age. But I have never felt sacred.”

“You said I was correct about communications?” Tersa asked. Like youth of any race, he enjoyed being told he was right; it happened so rarely.

“Yes,” said Enduring Bias. “These are communication dispensers. It was once called the chamber of sensitive geometries. These shapes generate a quantum action-at-a-distance field enabling instantaneous communication through barriers within the shield world. Of course, one must know the key. The entry phrase. I have lost that, I'm afraid. But we hope to rediscover it. Some of my files are restorable.”

‘Drem stared at the shifting hovering shapes. “Communication . . . and it is everywhere? So in a way, it watches whatever we do?”

“It
is aware of you
, wherever you are on the planet, would be a more precise way of putting it.”

“I do not trust such a thing,” ‘Drem muttered. “Ussa has brought us here to live like that? It isn't right.”

“He doesn't even know how to use these devices,” Tersa said.

“So this machine says—but Sooln is Ussa's female. And she controls the machine.”

“She certainly does not!” Enduring Bias said. “I resent the implication. I have a much higher purpose. I am programmed and instructed to do my best to monitor and even to repair this shield world. We do need some Engineers here. The Huragok would be most welcome. You don't have any Huragok with you, do you?”

“Huragok? What are those?” ‘Crolon asked.

“You see their like in this reproduction,” Enduring Bias said, projecting an image of a strange hovering creature composed of billowing spheres and tentacles. But it looked familiar.

“I have never seen one,” said Tersa, “but in the wars, my uncle saw one when they raided a San'Shyuum ship. He told me about them . . . They are with the San'Shyuum now, fixing things.”

“Are they?” Enduring Bias asked, its single, electric-blue eye glowing with renewed interest. “The San'Shyuum. Sooln told me
of them. I believe them to be a race with certain ancient connections to my creators. The Huragok, now—they were taken from here, when the decision was made not to test this facility, but, sadly, no one consulted me. I need the Huragok. One could wish the San'Shyuum were the new occupants of this world, if indeed they have the Huragok handy . . .”

“What treachery is this?” ‘Drem sputtered. “The San'Shyuum are the enemy—and this construct wishes to work for them instead of the Sangheili!”

“I was merely expressing what I think could be characterized as a wistful observation,” Enduring Bias said.

“What does all that mean?” ‘Drem demanded.

“It means,” said ‘Crolon thoughtfully, looking at the machine, “Enduring Bias does in fact wish the San'Shyuum were here. And it works closely with Ussa . . .”

“No. He just wants their Engineers,” Tersa said, worried that some kind of rebellion was breaking out—and that he might be caught up in it. Or killed if he didn't take part. “He . . .”

“He? It's a he?” ‘Drem said. He sniffed. “It's a thing. A mere construct.”

“I have engaged a male tonality,” Enduring Bias said. “It seems to generate more respect among those of your culture, for reasons quite unknown to me. I hypothesize a classic patriarchal structure, with the expected attempts to suppress the—”

“What I'm trying to say,” Tersa interrupted, “is that Enduring Bias wants the Huragok here to repair things. To fix the machines.”

“And to do some repair on myself,” said Enduring Bias. “Yes. At this remove, as long as you do not damage this facility in any significant way, I am actually indifferent to the occupants. The creators
seem to have departed. I know not where. I have been out of the communication spiral. Out of the discussion. Out of the loop.”

“So—indifferent to occupants?” ‘Crolon scratched a mandible. “You would condone the San'Shyuum being here?”

“Absolutely, though only if it meant access to the Huragok . . .” Enduring Bias said, at last becoming aware of some need for politesse. “I do not reject the Sangheili. Indeed, the one called Sooln ‘Xellus has repaired some of my mechanism. And we have established a new rapport. After all, I've always been subject to the wishes of my programmers. And to some extent I have been reprogrammed.”

“Sooln has reprogrammed you—and you desire the San'Shyuum were here if it meant the Huragok as well?” ‘Crolon murmured. “I find that interesting.”

“That is mixing what does not need mixing,” Tersa said. And using an old Sangheili expression, he added, “It is mixing blood and oil.”

“I certainly hope so,” ‘Crolon said. “I would never question Ussa's decisions. I just take note of this and that and . . . wonder. But I am loyal to Ussa and Sooln and to this—what was it Ussa said this morning? This ‘mission of the new Sanghelios.' ”

“I shouldn't have left the old Sanghelios!” ‘Drem muttered. “This place seems more a trap than a refuge.” Then he looked darkly at Tersa. “You will not speak of what you have heard here, childling,” ‘Drem said.

Tersa ground his teeth. “I am young—but no childling.”

‘Drem snorted. “Really, now? You still have egg yolk on your neck.”

“Come, ‘Drem,” ‘Crolon said. “It is time for the evening meal.”

“It is swill—no real meat to it,” ‘Drem grumbled, following ‘Crolon out.

Tersa looked at Enduring Bias. “I hope you don't casually repeat what you have heard here. If you do, you could cause bloodshed.”

“That would be unsanitary,” Enduring Bias said. “Most disagreeable.”

With that, it flitted away. Tersa wondered if he should be the one to report the discussion—and if Ussa might misunderstand Tersa's part in what had been said.

Because it seemed to Tersa that subversion had taken place here. So far it was only words. But back on Sanghelios, Tersa had known words alone to cause more than one beheading.

Reskolah, Janjur Qom

850 BCE

The Age of Reconciliation

T
hey were concealed by the stealth field projected by the dropship, yet nothing was hidden from Mken; he could see the night-darkened world about them, gleaming in the starlight. Plaon, the old scarred moon, hadn't risen yet, but he could see creatures flapping in the sky; he could feel Janjur Qom's fragrant winds.

The Prophet of Inner Conviction felt a strange mix of buoyancy and oppression.

The air here seemed to speak to his most primal being. The smell of the vine-wreathed forest nearby—a botanical perfume, a mix of decay and new life that he'd never scented before—seemed impossibly familiar. His genetic makeup seemed to recognize it. Something deep in his brain responded, and it made him feel giddy, light-headed.

But the unmodified gravitational field of his homeworld was more than he could easily bear. High Charity had significantly lower gravity than this. He had overestimated the strength he'd
built up on the keyship. Janjur Qom was not particularly large or dense—it was “Janjur Qom Normal.” Unfortunately, Mken and his San'Shyuum peers from the Dreadnought were not Janjur Qom Normal. The Stoics here, or their descendants, would be stronger, more fit and muscular, more genetically diverse than Mken's own people. That made the locals particularly dangerous in a close engagement. Given the context, possibly even as dangerous as the Sangheili.

They hadn't wanted to drop straight down to the grotto. If the Stoics were monitoring them, it would give away one of the expedition's primary goals. And the Stoics must not learn why they were here, after all this time. So first they would see if they were being observed. Mken had chosen to approach the grotto circumspectly.

And this landing, some distance off from the first destination, gave Mken the time to get an intuitive grasp of Janjur Qom.

He had stepped away from the front ramp of the landed dropship, leaving his chair a few strides behind.

But here he felt like a toddling infant taking his first tentative steps. A notion came to him, that the homeworld itself was punishing him, and all his kind, for abandoning her. They had left their mother, Janjur Qom, and now she pressed the heavy hand of gravitation on them, to put them in their place.

Absurd. You're falling victim to a runaway imagination.

He glanced toward the Sangheili, like the young Ranger, Vil ‘Kthamee, who moved about with such ease as they patrolled the perimeters of the camp around the turret and mobile combat barriers.

“Gravitation is more than we're used to here,” grunted Captain Vervum, directing his own chair up to hover beside Mken. “I am surprised you trouble to leave your chair.”

Mken gestured,
It's a minor difficulty.
“This is our homeworld. I wanted to feel it, as San'Shyuum would, in ancient times. I am also a historian.”

“We are not here to study history,” Vervum said.

“You are using a disrespectful tone I do not care for, Captain,” said Mken.

“I meant no disrespect, O Prophet.”

Mken gestured
, I choose not to be offended.
“The artificial gravity of the keyship is dialed lower—substantially lower, actually. I have often wondered if it should be higher, raised by degrees, over a solar cycle or two till we strengthen our bodies.”

“Our limbs are not what they should be, trained or not, Your Eminence,” Vervum said, his tone more respectful. “That is one reason we are here. For the replenishment of fresh blood—for improved physical form in our offspring.”

“I have visited a number of worlds, most of them with lower gravity than this one. And I have found myself wondering if we should try harder to . . .”

But he decided not to go on. He had not forgotten that Vervum might well be an agent for R'Noh—and was quite likely an operative for the Ministry of Anticipatory Security. Mken didn't wish to say anything that could be willfully misconstrued as a heretical defiance of the Hierarchy.

Mken gestured
, I will speak of it another time.
But he didn't intend to do so.

A light spilled onto the mossy soil as the hatch of the dropship clicked open for them. “Almost time to head for our target,” Vervum observed.

Mken realized he'd been stubbornly standing here, legs aching from the planet's heaviness, when he really wanted to go back to
his chair—he'd been delaying out of sheer unconscious pridefulness, merely because Vervum was there.

He sighed, turned, and slogged back to his chair, sitting on it with a sigh of relief as the ambient gravity field reduced his body's burden to what it was used to.

Settling back, Mken glanced at the sky, half expecting to see some form of Stoic San'Shyuum overflight. The remote Eyes had revealed that the Stoics had advanced little technologically since the war. It was unclear why, though perhaps they felt further advancement, after the violent departure of the Dreadnought at the hands of Reformists—which they clearly viewed as blasphemy—might incur the wrath of the gods. Nevertheless, the Stoics possessed flying attack vehicles not terribly different from those at the time of the war a millennium ago. They were simple, using air compression and gas-igniting fuel to drive their vessels and fire their weapons. Mken wasn't at all sure the
Vengeful Vitality
's stealth field was impervious to detection. On the way here, he'd read the report on Stoic capabilities. They did possess some kind of reflector scanning to detect vessels entering their atmosphere. Once a remote Eye had been pursued by Stoic aircraft. And the Stoics were likely well aware that there were hostile species equipped with space travel in the galaxy—and they'd be watching for those hostiles. And for the possible return of the hated Reformists.

What would the Stoics do if they captured Mken? Simply put him to death? Or worse?

The thought of never seeing Cresanda again was already worse than death to Mken. She was to have his child—who had been conceived in a rare moment of profound biological intimacy, matching their emotional intimacy. Scarcely ever did the San'Shyuum
females become fertile now. Something so rare and precious . . . and he might never see the child. He sighed. He was more scholar than fighter. But here he was, on a planet full of enemies.