Broken Circle (6 page)

He stood on a natural balcony of stone, overlooking the Sangheili clans as they milled below, his followers doing tasks he had given out mostly just to keep them busy. There was a pervasive restlessness among them, and many times the clansfolk glanced up at him, as if wondering if he'd brought them here only to meet some ghastly end.

The Sangheili had evolved in tropical wetlands, and their instincts rebelled against extended stays in these dark, natural amphitheaters. The coldly reverberant spaces, the clamminess whenever one strayed from the bubbling pools, the shadowy reaches of the place that seemed resistant to their lamps—perhaps resistant because of the thick mist from the sulfurous springs—all this made any normal Sangheili look about the encampment with distaste and mistrust. But Ussa had led his people here, remembering that in ancient times the clans had often taken shelter in deep places under the mountains of Sanghelios.

Having retreated here, Ussa had ordered the subterranean approach from the north closed with plasma beams—melting
the rock to seal it off as quietly as possible. The caverns were vast and labyrinthine, but Ussa knew that the Covenant authorities might well have guessed his general whereabouts; if they chanced upon the southern entrance within the dead volcano, all would be lost.

Ernicka the Scar-Maker approached Ussa, grimly gnashing his teeth—which indicated that the news was not good.

“Great Leader,” Ernicka rumbled, “the listeners have detected new perturbations. The searchers are probing the sealed passages. They seem to know where we are.”

“It is soon for them to know that,” Ussa observed, watching the silvery mist undulate, a low, hot fog churning in the lamplight over the milling clans. “What does that suggest to you?”

“Perhaps we were not as careful in our relocation as we had hoped?”

“That is a possibility. Another is . . .” He looked about them—no one was nearby. But he gestured for Ernicka to follow him to one side, close against the wall. There was a good deal of noise from the clans, and the sounds of springs; now that they had moved away from the ramp, no one should be able to overhear them. But even so, Ussa lowered his voice and Ernicka could just barely catch his words. “Another possibility is there are spies among us, with some means of transmitting messages.”

“How shall we deal with this?” Ernicka whispered urgently.

“I'm pondering that.”

“It would be a hard thing to interrogate our clansmen . . .”

“Yes—and which ones would we interrogate? Where are the suspects? Everyone? We have no time for such matters. And I would not lose the loyalty of innocents by torturing them—or their clanfellows.”

“Then what are we to do?”

Ussa paused for a moment, thinking, and then asked, “How close are we to having the transports loaded and fueled?”

Ernicka scratched thoughtfully at a battle scar on his chest. “All three are nearly prepared—indeed we could go now, leaving some supplies behind. But—we cannot go with spies aboard.”

“We might be able to bring at least one of our hypothetical spies out into the open. Perhaps there is only one, after all. That's more than enough. Ernicka, if we leave quickly, taking everyone with us, we can see to it that no one reveals where we're headed. Only three of us know the route. The San'Shyuum aren't aware of it; those loyal to the Covenant among the Sangheili also do not know of it. The spies will not be given a chance to transmit from our destination . . . if any of them survive what I plan now.”

“And what is the plan, Ussa?”

He leaned close to Ernicka and whispered something. Then he added, “Stay within a few paces of me. Defend my back.”

Then Ussa turned to the crowds below the natural stone balcony and held up his arms, calling out in a carrying, resonant voice, “Clansfolk! I speak to all!” His words echoed from the stalactites jutting from the curved ceiling; below, mist-blurred faces turned toward him, their murmuring now silenced, all listening raptly as he went on. “Males! Gather up the armaments and convey them to the transports! Females! Those of you brooding eggs, take them up in your arms and do likewise!

“We will go quickly! I have a means with which to strike at those loyal to the Covenant! I will strike at the high clans who would force us to crawl for the San'Shyuum! Then we will take to the skies; we will conceal ourselves in the dark places of the galaxy, and we will create a new Sanghelios! We will restore the pride
of our people! We alone will embody its pride! We alone will fight for its pride! Clansfolk—do your hearts beat with mine?”

The final invocation had a ritual response, as ancient as sunlight warming eggs.

And the response was given.

“With your hearts do ours thunder!” they cried out, in ragged but deeply felt unison. For Sangheili, with their binary vascular systems, each had two hearts working in tandem.

“Then I come to walk among you, and I will help you prepare for the journey! I will use my own hands to work beside you!”

Cries of joy and mutters of trepidation arose then, but already Ussa ‘Xellus was descending the ramp of stone from the balcony to the floor of the cavern. He smelled the happy reek of small offspring running about their brooders; he heard more cries of “With your hearts do our hearts thunder!” He heard exclamations of awe as he strode into the crowd—for some ironically regarded him as a kind of prophet as well, a divine being.

The throng parted for Ussa; he was aware of Ernicka, as per orders, a few steps behind him, watching warily.

Ussa stopped at a warmer for brood eggs, lifted an egg up himself, and placed it gently in a carrier—though this was normally a female's work, a great leader sometimes did it as a sign of love for his people. A general murmur of approbation followed. The applause of clashing jaws followed, and he walked on, patting the unhelmeted, scaly head of a Sangheili childling; stopping to closely examine a plasma launcher being prepped for transport; lifting a crate of dried meat onto an autodray. All around him, not to be outdone by their leader, his adherents busied themselves, frantically packing up.

“Great Leader!” called a lanky, helmetless male, carefully
setting a box filled with burnblades on another dirty, scarred old autodray. The Sangheili kept one hand on the open box of swords as he turned to Ussa, ducking his head in respect. “May I inquire . . . ?”

Ussa recognized him: a known weapons dealer. “Yes, Vertikus, anyone may inquire of me. What do you wish to know?”

“On the world to which we go . . . how will we bring new weapons there? We have some here—these are genuine Qikost swords. Their blades are ever fine and true. But can we learn to make such in this new world? Is it so far that we cannot find a way to send a secret delegation from there to Qikost?”

“You wish to know if it is near or far from Sanghelios?” Ussa asked, glancing at the box of murderous burnblades. They were forged of metal, heated from within for extra destructive power. “It is indeed far—but I will not tell you, or anyone, where it lies. I will guide us all there. I will say only that we must go there immediately, for I take an action that cannot be reversed. This cannot wait.”

Vertikus made a resigned hissing sound, the equivalent of a Sangheili sigh, and then blurrily fast, he snatched a sword from the crate. Slashing viciously at Ussa's throat, he snarled, “Truly
this
cannot wait!”

But Ernicka the Scar-Maker was suddenly there, leaping in front of Ussa, his own burnblade intersecting Vertikus's weapon, so that red sparks spat at the contact. Ernicka's weapon stopped the would-be assassin's sword the width of a childling's tooth from Ussa's exposed throat; Ussa could actually feel the heat of Vertikus's burnblade lightly scorching his flesh.

Larger and vastly more experienced, Ernicka forced Vertikus back with a single powerful thrust, so that the would-be assassin staggered and fell to the ground.

Other Sangheili rushed in, tearing the sword hilt from the traitor's grasp.

“Fools!” Vertikus shouted, scrambling to his feet. “Ussa will lead you into damnation! The Covenant is our only hope for redemption!”

He tried to run, but the crowd closed in around him.

“Wait!” Ussa called. “We need to interrogate him! He might have knowledge of—”

Jaws flashed, talons slashed, purple Sangheili blood spurted, and Vertikus—attacked by ten at once—was already torn to gouting shreds.

“It is too late, Ussa,” Ernicka said, sheathing his sword. “But you cannot blame them.”

“No, I cannot. So be it. Have the traitor's body disposed. Load up the transports. We will depart before the Covenant knows we are gone.”

“You spoke of an action to be taken? Do you intend to strike before we go, or . . . ?”

Ussa made a rachitic sound that expressed dry irony. “No. That was merely to draw out the spy.”

“You took a terrible chance, Ussa, walking among them all so boldly.”

“I have great trust in you, Scar-Maker. I knew you would protect me.”

“I wish, Ussa, that we could strike at the Covenant's slaves before we go—I am ready if you order it.”

“In a way, we already strike at those fools. We have escaped them—and when they learn of our escape, that will strike hard at their confidence. We go to the shield world that ‘Crecka found. In time we'll use that world as a base to prepare a return to Sanghelios, rearmed and fortified by a new generation. It may be that
the Covenant will find us in time. But if they do, they will lose us again. We will grow, we will build a new population, and with it a new army. And one day we will destroy the Covenant. So it shall be, Ernicka. Now . . . let us inspect the transports. It is almost time to leave Sanghelios.”

“To leave our home forever—it makes me ache inside, Ussa.”

“We may return someday, or our children will. For now, Sanghelios is wherever we go, Ernicka. We are its true soul.”

Then, together, they went through the stone passages to the transports that lay a short distance away, waiting on the rocky floor within the cone of an extinct volcano.

From here, gazing up, one could see the sky—Ussa saw the moons of Sanghelios, and a cluster of stars beyond the volcanic mouth.

And somewhere up there, Ussa and his clansfolk would build a new world.

It was nameless, so far. And yet Ussa ‘Xellus had seen it, and he knew it would come cracking into being as surely as an egg hatched in the sun. The shell must break for new life to appear . . .

High Charity

Chamber of Decision

850 BCE

The Age of Reconciliation

O
ur assassin has failed. We suspect our spy was caught and executed. And it seems that Ussa ‘Xellus lives.”

Mken, the Prophet of Inner Conviction, could not discern if the Sangheili commander had an apologetic tone in his voice—the translation being maddeningly indeterminate at times—but his body language seemed to suggest it. He stood there with his long, split-jawed head bowed.

“So, where is he, then?” Mken said, and Qurlom beside him grunted acknowledgment.

Commander Viyo ‘Griot shifted his metal-sheathed boots, which clanked softly on the deck as if to proclaim his discomfort. “We have confirmed only that Ussa ‘Xellus has departed Sanghelios. A handful of his adherents, just six, lost heart and remained behind—they'd planned to follow him, but lost their nerve. They watched the ships depart and insisted that Ussa's intention of leaving the planet was clear. These disheartened ones
came crawling to us, full of remorse . . . which will of course do the traitors no good.”

“It's surprising that Ussa allowed them to stay behind alive,” Qurlom rumbled thoughtfully as he tapped the arm of his antigrav chair to produce a pungent tea. He inhaled the fragrant steam before sipping it—at Qurlom's age, his use of traditional medicines was intensive.

“Perhaps not so surprising,” Viyo remarked. “Ussa is unusual and paradoxical. On the one hand, he can be merciful, more than we are accustomed to; on the other, he insists on the traditional ethos:
strength is character
, as we say, and of course . . .” He seemed to hesitate, perhaps not wanting to be impolitic.

“Yes?” Mken prompted.

“And of course—
never surrender
.”

Viyo looked away, jaws spread grimacingly wide.

Mken was mildly amused. The San'Shyuum, and the Writ of Union itself, politely insisted that the Sangheili hadn't surrendered—they had, instead,
joyfully
chosen to throw in their lot with the San'Shyuum, had wisely chosen to set out on the Path that led to the Great Journey; they had experienced a species-wide spiritual epiphany, realizing that the Prophets of the San'Shyuum were correct all along.

But Mken knew that many Sangheili nursed a secret shame, the unspoken belief that it had been surrender, after all.

Qurlom slurped down the last of his tea, then asked, “So those who stayed behind were clear on Ussa's intention. What determines their clarity? What
is
his intention?”

“They claim he has found a world on which are many Forerunner relics—an uncharted world, Minister. Only he, his mate,
and his second-in-command know of its whereabouts, or anything more of its nature.”

“And no one else knows where this world lies?” Mken asked. “I find that preposterous.”

“Yet it would seem that way. So far—no one else,” ‘Griot confirmed. “Nor do we know what course they plotted. This was kept a secret. Ussa must have surmised that his clans were infiltrated.”

“They entered slipspace . . . and after that?”

“They seem to have changed course many times, and we were not able to trace them.”

“Still, we must continue to search,” Qurlom said. “This Ussa ‘Xellus is a vile and perfidious heretic. He must not be allowed to spread his poison.”