Broken Circle (33 page)

“Yes . . .” Zo's throat seemed so suddenly dry, like the soil of a desert planet. “O Prophet, I was told you wanted to discuss something with me?”

“There are indications that you have a relationship with the Sangheili that is something more than what might be appropriate for your official capacity. In fact, you were witnessed with these
Sangheili in the Hanging Gardens, and they are now numbered among the heretics. It seemed, to my eyes, that you were having an intimate conversation with them.” He gestured to the whirring globes overhead—the drones watching them. “These probes were stationed outside the Hanging Gardens. Just close enough to catch a glimpse of those you talked to, those now guilty of sedition. Torg ‘Gransamee is dead—and G'torik will soon be confirmed dead as well. And for good reason. When I summoned you to my chambers, I imparted some troubling information to you about the Elites. I revealed facts I knew you might pass on, and I did it quite intentionally. It didn't matter if that information leaked out; in fact, we wanted it to. And when we sent probes to watch G'Torik, later, we heard him repeat much of what I told you. Just as I supposed he would. And here you are. We knew, then, you are all too closely allied with these dissidents.”

“Really . . . a misunderstanding, merely, Your Eminence.”

“Don't take me for a fool. Oh, and there are other rumors coming from the Ring. You are aware of the Supreme Commander of the Fleet of Particular Justice, now shamed for his loss of Alpha Halo?”

“I am. It is Thel ‘Vadamee,” Zo replied. “But that is all I know.”

“You must know, then, that he was given the mantle of the Arbiter by the High Prophets of Truth and Mercy, tasked with the acquisition of the Sacred Icon. Early reports indicated that his life was claimed at the Repository of Fate, the site the Forerunners referred to as the Library. That he died battling the parasite deep in the Ring's quarantine zone and failed at retrieving the Icon.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Zo asked.

“Some reports from the surface of Delta Halo indicate that the
Arbiter has . . . reappeared. That he's somehow come back from the dead.”

Zo didn't know what to make of this. What was Exquisite suggesting? “Back from the dead? Hard to believe, Your Eminence.”

“The Arbiter was seen leading a resurgence of Elites on the Ring, making war against our Brutes as they faithfully shored up our plans to activate Halo. So, you see my chain of thought and my concern? It may very well be that you are privy to information about the actions of the Arbiter, given that you fraternize with those who oppose us. We wish to know his whereabouts, what his forces are, and where your friend G'torik might be, if he lives.”

Zo Resken looked through the window, where Duru was quivering in pain. “I don't know anything about the . . . the Arbiter.”

“You are lying to me. There is much you know that you keep concealed.”

“I am telling the truth, I know nothing of his return or this resurgence you speak of! I know only that he was believed dead . . .”

“Really? Watch.”

Exquisite's fingers flickered over the controls, and Duru's right leg, from the knee down, was crushed by the sudden influx of high gravity. Sangheili blood spurted out a remarkably long distance, forced by the high pressure. The gravitational force went back up Duru's leg to just above the knee, so that a bubble of blood appeared in his thigh, and then burst.

Zo turned away, sickened. “My Prophet . . . I am loyal to the Covenant . . .”

“Are you, now? Watch again.” When Zo hesitated, Exquisite shouted, “I said
watch
!”

Zo made himself look . . . and saw that the gravitational refinement device was now crushing Duru's lower half . . . from the knees, upward, inch by inch. Slowly.

Duru's scream now penetrated the window quite clearly.

“For the sake of the High Ones, please . . .” Zo breathed. “Enough of this. End his life!”

But Exquisite took his time, using the gravitational force of a giant planet, focused on a small area, and crushed Duru bit by bit until his innards spewed out his mouth and . . .

Zo, retching, could not continue to watch this savagery. The remaining Sangheili in the gravitation room with Duru tried to keep an honorable level of dignity. But when their eyes strayed to what was left of Duru, the horror contracted their faces, made their eyes bulge, their mouths drop.

“Now,” Exquisite said. “That is what happens to traitors. Traitors to the Covenant, and to the Writ of Union. You should feel no pity for those who would sacrifice our ways at this late hour, when we're on the very edge of the Great Journey's consummation. Now . . . Melchus—push that young one, Tilik ‘Bornisamee, forward . . .”

Melchus forced Tilik ‘Bornisamee toward the unrecognizable remains of Duru. Tilik's relation cried out, begging to be taken instead—Zo could tell by his gestures, his face.

Tilik's uncle snarled in rage and turned to Melchus, crouching to lunge at him—and was knocked flat on his back with a stun-wave from the hammer Melchus carried.

Tilik stepped defiantly forward, closed his eyes, and waited for death with as much dignity as he could muster.

“Now, Clarity,” said Exquisite. “I would like to believe your loyalty, but the company you keep leaves much to be desired. Still . . . perhaps you can change my mind. Come, stand beside me
and activate the device yourself. Prove yourself loyal to me—and then I will consider if you can perhaps be trusted.”

Zo gaped at him. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“I cannot. That is . . . not . . . my . . .” Zo couldn't think clearly. Couldn't come up with an argument. “You can't expect me to do so.”

“You, Prophet of Clarity. You
will
do as I request.”

Zo moved his antigrav chair closer, closer, feeling that Tilik was watching him through the window.

“You see? The magenta key? Press there. There is no alternative for you, Clarity. Or you will surely be the next one in that room. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Zo, almost whispering.

Zo's hand hovered over the controls. He thought,
It's a cruel universe. Just go along with it. He'll kill them anyway. Survive. You don't want to die that way. Exquisite Devotion will take extra time killing you . . .

But after a long moment Zo said, “I . . . cannot. I am sorry, Prophet. It is unjust. It is not what the Great Ones would want of us. These Sangheili were faithful servants of the Covenant and . . . I simply cannot.”

“Then you will follow them. You will perish in agony just as they have.”

Zo's own voice already sounded dead to his ears. “Yes. I understand.”

“Do you indeed?” Exquisite seemed genuinely surprised. “You are reconciled to your fate and would accept death now, along with the traitors?”

Reconciled? Hardly. But resigned. “I accept it.”

“Very well, then.” Exquisite tapped the controls himself, and, taking his time, proceeded to murder Tilik.

Zo felt dizzy, as if he might fall out of his chair. Then, after what seemed an eternity, he heard, quite distantly, Exquisite say, “Guards, take this
former
Prophet of Clarity, while I finish with these Councilors. We will not only then see what he knows, but witness how a treacherous Prophet faces such a death—I daresay it will almost be a privilege for him.”

High Charity

Trial Court for Tools of Conquest

Gravitational Refinement

2552 CE

The Age of Reclamation

T
rying not to think of the unspeakable death that awaited him, Zo Resken, escorted by guards, propelled his antigrav chair down the corridor that led to the rear entry of the gravity refinement chamber. Before him strode a helmeted Jiralhanae, contemptuously walking with his back to Zo—who was now without a weapon. Behind him, close enough to breathe down Zo's neck, was another Jiralhanae; he could smell the rank odor of the Brute, hear his armor clanking. Just two to escort him to his death—a measure of how little the Prophet of Exquisite Devotion now respected Zo Resken.

With a kind of rueful despair, Zo decided that Exquisite was correct. Zo was as physically weak as most modern San'Shyuum—he had no hope of breaking free from these two powerful guards. His chair was weak, too; at other times he might have attempted to use its antigrav fields to wrest a weapon free, or to lift him over the thugs. But the ceiling was too low here, and the gravitational fields of the chair had already been compromised by the damage
done to it. He had just enough mobile power to keep up with the Jiralhanae.

The blue metal door was but a little way up ahead. Another locked door stood to its right—perhaps an entrance to another cell, where some other grotesque killing machine could be tested. But no—he saw a holosign on it that read, in San'Shyuum lettering, Energy Conduit Access.

Zo forced himself to consider the records hidden in his chair. Could he use them, perhaps, to bargain with the Prophet of Exquisite Devotion? In his most recent study of Mken ‘Scre'ah'ben's writings, it appeared that the Refuge, the Forerunner world taken hold of by Ussa ‘Xellus's forces long ago, did not simply detonate and vanish as the histories told, but evidence of its survival remained. Could the site still be there, with all its many relics? And perhaps the descendants of the ancient Ussans as well? The prospect, Zo thought, might entice Exquisite Devotion, and ultimately the High Prophet of Truth. Would they see value in such a record now as they began to finalize their efforts of consummating the Great Journey? Perhaps not, but there might be just enough that Exquisite would see fit to spare his life.

But why should Exquisite Devotion bargain for what he could simply take?

Something must be done to save the records, which should have been left with someone trustworthy. Mken ‘Scre'ah'ben's writings, and his own . . . they were his treasures, his legacy, whether or not they had value to bargain . . .

Soon they would wrench him from the chair, strip him of his antigrav belt, force him into the gore-splashed room . . . and it would begin.

He could almost feel the crushing hand of extreme artificial gravitation on him now as they approached the door. He could
imagine his lower half flattening, bone and blood forced into his upper half. His skin rupturing, bursting. Exquisite would take his time and then . . .

The door to the right banged open, and Zo saw G'torik and two other Sangheili half crouched in the open doorway, beyond them a room clustered with pipes and glowing energy concentration cubes.

G'torik had an activated energy sword, and the other two were armed with plasma rifles. He knew one of the others—Crun ‘Brinsmee, an experienced commander. The Jiralhanae instantly reacted, the one in front swinging his spike rifle toward the ambushing Sangheili.

“Get down, Zo!” shouted Crun.

Zo threw himself onto the floor. His chair bobbled up a bit and he glimpsed, from the corner of his eye, something being thrown by Crun. A plasma grenade.

G'torik blocked the rounds from the spike rifle with his energy sword, and then struck hard at the Jiralhanae's throat, driving the charged blade deep, even as the other Sangheili fired at the rear Jiralhanae to keep him off balance.

There was a thud and a flash of light. A shock wave slapped Zo and he staggered, seeing G'torik stumble back, struck indirectly by the blast from the grenade. Something thick and purplish-red splattered over Zo. It took him a moment to realize it was Jiralhanae blood.

Zo got to his feet, switching on his antigrav belt, and looked around. The two Jiralhanae were dead on the floor of the narrow passageway, and he was relieved to see that G'torik was getting up. “Are you hurt, G'torik?”

“Nothing significant.”

“There was a battle—Exquisite told me . . . at the control center.”

“We exploited the signal being captured by his drones . . . and saw your little exchange with Exquisite. Yes—a battle, though it would be more accurate to call it an ambush. I was knocked off the balcony and . . . when I could, I stowed away aboard a Phantom and found my way here.”

“Enough chatter!” Crun growled. “Come with us! You will have to leave that chair, San'Shyuum—it won't fit where we need to go and we cannot linger. The Prophet will realize something has gone wrong soon enough!”

“They could have us under surveillance right now,” said the smaller Sangheili nervously. He peered down the hallway. Though he carried a rifle, he was dressed as an engineering officer, not a warrior. G'torik, meanwhile, had found new armor, Zo saw, and was recovering from his injuries. Crun wore the classic heavy armor, shiny silver and blue, of a commander.

“You, I do not know,” said Zo to the engineering officer.

Zo knelt by his antigrav chair and opened a panel on the back. He took a small black satchel from the niche hidden under the seat.

“My name is Tul 'Imjanamee,” said the small Sangheili. “I hope you are worth all this risk.”

“I promise you he is worth it,” G'torik said. “He is one of our only true San'Shyuum allies.”

“I will do anything I can for you,” Zo said, feeling giddy at this wrenching turn of events. “You have risked all for me. I now have more loyalty to the Sangheili than to any so-called Prophet on High Charity.”

Although I'll be sorry to leave the chair,
Zo thought, slipping through the door after the others.
It has served me well
. He slung the satchel over one shoulder. If he lost it, he'd never again have access to the writings of his ancestor.

Zo could immediately see the reason for leaving the chair behind, though. Fat, daunting pipes and energy conduits flowed in mazelike confusion around the room, criss-crossing the scuffed metal floor. He would have never gotten his chair through those spaces and over those obstacles. A Hierarch's antigrav throne could lift over most anything; some could even teleport in close quarters, and fire powerful energy projectiles. Zo's chair was third rate in comparison.