Broken Circle (3 page)

Who were the San'Shyuum to be here in this vessel, Mken wondered, who were the San'Shyuum to roost here like a flock of
the bony-winged
rakscraja
that dwelled in the vine-choked trees of ancient Janjur Qom?

But here they were, full of officious self-importance, as they awaited the Sangheili treaty commission.

With Mken at the table were Qurlom, the San'Shyuum Minister of Relative Reconciliation, and GuJo'n, the Minister of Kindly Subjection. War had given GuJo'n, the chief diplomat, little to do until recently—his job had been only a sinecure, purely theoretical. Now as he unconsciously braided the tufts on one of his wattles, he seemed puffed with an exaggerated sense of his renewed status. His new scarlet robe was splendidly sewn in golden thread to represent interlinked star systems. Rather a pretentious garment, in Mken's opinion. But he rippled his three-fingered hand in the traditional sign of
Esteemed colleagues, let us begin
, and GuJo'n returned the gesture with a magisterial accent.

Qurlom, the elderly former Hierarch, was more pragmatic, and simply began with “The inscription on the Writ of Union is not quite dry, and already the naysayers, the doubters, the heretics begin to arise.” Qurlom was quite serious about the Great Journey; indeed, he was such a true believer that he didn't waste effort on any ritual, like the social sort, that wasn't religious in nature. He always launched into the work at hand. “Something must be done.” Qurlom wore a white robe with a platinum five-spiked fluted mantle; his robe bore a simple design: seven circles interlinked in circular chain—the seven Holy Rings.

“I've heard such rumors of sedition,” Mken admitted. “There are Sangheili who resist our new Covenant. But it is predictable—a flutter here and there, soon gone in all probability . . . once we make a few examples.”

“No!” Qurlom writhed his long, wrinkled neck for emphasis.
His wattles shook angrily and his antigrav chair wobbled. “Do not make light of this heresy, Inner Conviction!”

“I would certainly never make light of heresy,” Mken said calmly.

“Perhaps these doubters among the Sangheili do not regard it as a religious matter, but as a cultural one,” suggested GuJo'n smoothly, making an elaborate gesture that meant
I do not contradict you.

Qurlom snorted. “Ah, but you
do
contradict me, GuJo'n. There is no doubt they are heretics.”

“My understanding,” said GuJo'n, “is that the Sangheili object to surrender of
any
sort—that it is counter to their ethos to ally themselves with their conquerors. They object to subjugation . . . but they can adapt to it, in time.”

“And you truly believe this? I have documentation suggesting that the leader of these heretics, this Ussa ‘Xellus, does not just
object
to the Writ of Union. He
acts
!”

Mken remembered the Planet of Blue and Red from several solar cycles earlier, when he had been a mere High Lord. Ussa ‘Xellus had escaped the planet and gone on to fight, with characteristic craftiness, in many ensuing battles against the San'Shyuum, on other worlds.

His voice almost a growl, Qurlom went on. “This Ussa ‘Xellus declares, and I quote . . .” He touched the arm of his chair, summoning a holoscreen that flickered into definition in the air over the table, and read out the text unscrolling there. “ ‘This Great Journey—what is it? Just another surrender, from what I can tell! Did the Forerunners truly summon us to sublimation, in the shadow of these Rings? Or is that an excuse on the part of the San'Shyuum to exterminate us? It is a murky pond in which no Sangheili would dare bathe!' ”

“Very inflammatory indeed,” GuJo'n allowed. “Who provided this quote? Perhaps some profiteer?”

“Again you rebuke me, GuJo'n,” Qurlom snapped. “You imply my information is fallacious.”

“I am merely curious as to intelligence sources.”

“And I would like to know as well, Qurlom,” Mken put in gently.

“My intelligence source is the Sangheili themselves,” Qurlom replied. “Those who committed to the Writ of Union have no notion of being made fools of—they are quietly providing surveillance of all dissenters for us.”

Mken gave a hand sign of approval. “You've been thorough, Qurlom—I am happy to see it.”

“So then, Prophet of Inner Conviction”—Qurlom gave Mken's spiritual title a fillip of irony—“what shall we do about it?”

“Ideally, it should be something taken care of by the Sangheili,” said GuJo'n.

“Yes,” Mken agreed. “Then let us have the Commission here . . . and I see they have just arrived. We will bring this up with them.”

By the time the Commission arrived, the keyship had turned in space, the enormous, towering Dreadnought structure ever so slowly rotating as it coursed its orbit. And now as the Sangheili filed in, Mken could see the skeleton of new construction through the viewing wall. Destined to become a kind of shell around the former Dreadnought, the mobile capital city dubbed High Charity was being manufactured by robotic and Covenant workers, all toiling on the rocky base, long ago ripped from the homeworld of Janjur Qom. A force field kept in the atmosphere needed by the workers, and held the void and detritus of space at bay. It was already a habitat. Someday it would be far more.

In time, High Charity itself would become an interstellar vessel, as well as the new, traveling center of San'Shyuum power. Thus far High Charity was only a living sketch of its potential, the semiglobular shape catching the starlight as the city gradually accreted. Fairly soon, the former Dreadnought would complete its decommissioning as a weapon and fulfill the terms of the Writ of Union; it would be set upon an anointed altar in High Charity, permanently attached. It had once been the most dreaded weapon in the known galaxy—now it was a symbol of disarmament, at least among the members of the Covenant.

And yet the Covenant still had teeth.

Mken looked over the visiting Commission. They consisted of two Sangheili, Commanders Viyo ‘Griot and Loro ‘Onkiyo. Behind them were two Honor Guards—the San'Shyuum referred to the Sangheili as “Elites,” in part to acquiesce to their appetite for honorifics, but also to adequately express the Sangheili's uncategorical expertise in combat. In turn, the Elites generally noted the San'Shyuum as “Prophets,” though only a few actually held such formal stations.

The Honor Guard stood in the background, heads bowed respectfully; the commission stood, too—only because they were not being offered seats, as that would imply equality with the San'Shyuum. They would remain standing for hours at a time, like mere petitioners. Mken could barely tell them apart—they both had the mandible-like, four-part jaws that clapped together as arthropodic mouth parts; the multiple rows of sharp teeth; the gray, saurian skin and serpentine eyes. Their massive arms and thighs were thick with fighting muscle, and these two wore gleaming silver cuirasses and helmets, adding to their bulk—but it was Mken's understanding that they were what passed for diplomatic corps types among their species. He noted that Viyo, on his right, was a
little taller, and his helmet, itself with three fins on it as if echoing Sangheili jaws, sported blue panels alternating with silver.

Viyo flexed his clawed, four-fingered hands as if looking for a weapon that wasn't there, glancing around uneasily. Mken doubted if the Sangheili had employed any true diplomats at all until the Writ of Union had been executed, and these two were clearly uncomfortable in their assigned roles.

Having concluded formalities, Mken asked, “Commissioner Viyo—what of the deployments? Are your troops en route?”

Mken hoped his chair's translation device was up-to-date—over time they'd obtained a more comprehensive understanding of the Sangheili language mostly through interrogating prisoners, and cooperation had been predicated on rather vicious torture, which was perhaps not the best way to learn a new tongue.

“The troops are en route, Great Prophet,” Viyo replied. “The vessels are doubly crowded with soldiers of many specialties. They will soon be arrayed in advance of all San'Shyuum expeditions—all discoveries of Forerunner artifacts from this time forward will be fiercely protected.”

“Just as it should be,” said Mken.

“But heed me,” Qurlom put in. “You speak glibly of Forerunner artifacts. These troops of yours—are they truly committed to protecting them? We must know: are they fully devoted to the Great Journey?”

“Indeed they are, Minister!” said Loro 'Onokiyo, with something that might be the genuine enthusiasm of a recent convert.

“The Great Journey is not merely a matter of being ready militarily,” Qurlom portentously asserted, “though that is of importance. But truly, those who seek the light of the seven Rings must be purified within, utterly convinced of the truth of the Prophets,
to the last vestige of their being, and willing to die for the cause without hesitation.”

“It is so, Minister. We are all ready to die for the Great Journey. Always have the Sangheili revered the Forerunners—and now we know at last just how to clearly hear the true word of the Forerunners and obey it. We are purified in the light of the Rings!”

Mken wondered, as he did every day, if he himself was purified within, if he himself was utterly convinced. He was the Prophet of Inner Conviction, because of the intrinsic purity he had once preached—he was hearing his own sermonizing echoed back. But increasingly, as he studied what could be gleaned from Forerunner machines and records, he wondered if the true purpose of the Halos was indeed a mass propulsion into a higher plane, a Great Journey to the paradise foreseen by the Prophets. It was true that the Rings seemed associated with a purification process—but what exactly had they purified, and how?

But he cut these heretical thoughts short.
Blasphemy. Prophet of Inner Conviction, indeed—what irony. Find your own Inner Conviction!

GuJo'n meanwhile signified satisfaction with the data on troop movements, using a gesture the Sangheili probably could not read, and added, “Very good—but what of this tale of sedition that's come to us? I speak of the one called Ussa ‘Xellus. He and his followers have been cited in accounts from your own spies.”

“Ussa ‘Xellus? That crawling fur grub cannot be called a true Sangheili!” retorted Viyo ‘Griot.

“Yet he is a highly effective military strategist,” Mken remarked. “One who should not be underestimated. I have seen it myself, long ago, on the Planet of Blue and Red.”

“Once he served Sanghelios, it is true,” Viyo admitted. “But no more. He rejects the Writ of Union—he claims it is shameful to join our strength with your own! Even to negotiate peace with the San'Shyuum is tantamount to surrender. When his sedition was first accounted, we entreated him and his people, as he was once a warrior like us. But he refused to listen to reason, and brought war to Sanghelios. Our own keeps responded with . . . less subtle means, subjecting the entire state of ‘Xellus to incredible firepower. We intended to cut off the root of treason at the source, but apparently many of his people survived. We suspect he now hides like a coward somewhere in the barrens near the south pole of Sanghelios. A little-known region called Nwari. We have not heard from our spies for some days—it may be that they have been compromised. But we have our assassins looking for Ussa ‘Xellus now. When they do find him, be assured, they will choose their moment . . . and they will kill him. His followers are drugged into madness by his word. It seems likely that with him gone, their cult will dissolve.”

“
Will
it dissolve?” Mken wondered aloud. “Have you never heard of martyrdom?”

A Sangheili Mining Colony on the Planet Creck

The Age of Reconciliation

The mission was a failure.

Ussa ‘Xellus and his mate, Sooln, had traveled to the Creck colony, to recruit new followers into the resistance. Creck, named after ‘Crecka, the Sangheili who'd discovered it a generation earlier, was in the Baelion system—the seventy-sixth of designated worlds explored by Sangheili. It was now a Covenant mining
colony, operated, largely underground, by Sangheili. A few translucent meteorite-scarred colony domes rose above the rugged, methane-choked surface of the planet. They were the tips of the colony's iceberg. On the other side of the mountains that brooded over the domes was a great sea of half-frozen hydrogen cyanide; there were said to be simple lifeforms, like great swimming worms, surfacing from time to time in that opaque ocean of toxin.

But the Sangheili were here for the minerals and metals—the minerals to power their ships and the metals to sheath the hulls of those vessels. They delved deep into Creck, following mammoth crystalline veins down, with other shafts running to magma used to provide the base energy of their colony.