Broken Circle (17 page)

He must go on with it.

“Yes,” Mken said. “We will go to Crellum and retrieve the females. May the spirit of the Great Journey protect us. Now—tell the Huragok to get us out of here. The air is growing stale.”

Vil translated the command, and the Huragok opened the wall. Moonlight and some cool air reached them from the passageway back to the meadow. A nocturnal flyer gave a trilling cry, somewhere distant.

They watched and listened. There was nothing else—no sign of Stoics outside, no enemy at all. The camouflaging wall had worked. Unconsciously, Mken hugged the Luminary a little closer. “Good. Let's get on with this. Back to the dropship.”

“And then to the corvette, Your Eminence? To store these relics?”

Mken was tempted. However . . .

“No—there's no time. We have the rest of our mission to complete. And the Stoics will not expect us to go to Crellum. Or so I hope.”

What remained of the grotto expedition returned to the dropship without incident, though with every step along the trail, Mken expected an attack from the darkness.

As they arrived at the dropship, he saw that clouds had gathered, swept in on a soft east wind, and the moon was rising to join them.

Vil saluted Trok ‘Tanghil as they approached, but Trok was gawping at the Luminary clasped to Mken's chest. “Is that . . . ?”

“It is what it should be,” said Mken briskly. “That is all you need to know. Everyone board the dropship. Get ready to take off!”

Trok blinked. “Certainly, but—should we wait for the captain, Your Eminence, and the Ranger Loquen?”

Mken hesitated, wondering if he should trust Trok with the full truth. But it was better to say too little instead of too much. “The captain was killed by the Stoic primitives. And the Ranger, the one called Loquen, ran into the forest. We believe he is likely dead.”

Trok scratched at his broken mandible. He seemed to have difficulty comprehending. “He
ran
? You mean—he was trying to flank the enemy?”

“No. He panicked.”

Trok appeared confounded. “He was impulsive, but I've never known him to be dishonorable!”

Mken waved away the subject. “We have no time for this discussion. We must be off for Crellum.”

“Just as you say, Great Prophet, but”—Trok peered at the dark undergrowth—“do you think you were followed?”

“Have you any indication the
Vengeful Vitality
was discovered?”

“Our stealth field seems to have worked so far, O Prophet.”

“Then probably we're safe for the moment. They found some of us—they didn't discover the others. Or so I conjecture. Trok, can you pilot the
Vengeful Vitality
when the time comes?”

“Indeed, I can. I am not the expert that Vervum is . . . or was.”

“You will act as captain, then, when the time comes. Hurry!”

Vil ‘Kthamee helped Mleer store the turret in the dropship's armaments locker. At the opposite bulkhead Mken was placing the base of the Purifying Vision in a relic storage cabinet, and then eased the Luminary in beside it. He fastened the protective webbing around the device, and then locked it away.

Vil hurried aft, made sure the Huragok had its tentacles firmly clinging to its wall grips, then went forward to his assigned place.

As he got strapped into his seat, Vil looked around, taking stock.

There were six Sangheili left, and all were at their stations as the dropship rose humming into the air, Trok piloting up front.

“Trok!” Inner Conviction called. “Take us up—we'll travel as high as we can.”

They ascended steeply. Vil watched through a port as the small vessel rose above the thin cloud cover. Now, silvered by the light of Plaon, Janjur Qom's moon, the clouds looked like a shining field of snow.

Vil wondered if Loquen had been captured by the Stoics. The San'Shyuum now inhabiting Janjur Qom were said to be more savage than those on High Charity. They would be quick to torture, he supposed.

Loquen might not be as resilient as everyone supposed. After all, he had fled into the jungle, when most Sangheili would have chosen to fight to the death. What would Loquen tell them if he were caught and came under the knife? Did he know enough to give the Stoics the location of High Charity? Would they even understand his speech?

The Dreadnought could be moved, even now—but with High Charity only partly completed, it might very well be vulnerable, if somehow the Stoics possessed the means.

Then another thought struck Vil: Suppose he himself was taken by the Stoics? What would he tell them under duress?

Nothing.
He, Vil ‘Kthamee, would not be taken alive. Not if he could choose. If by some mischance they'd struck him unconscious, and he found himself captured, he would never reveal anything, come what may.

But Loquen? Vil knew that a habitual display of fierceness could camouflage fear. He suspected that Loquen, if still alive, could not be trusted.

The Refuge: An Uncharted Shield World

850 BCE

The Age of Reconciliation

T
ersa and Lnur were in Ussa's Garden, on the eco level of the shield world. She had a hand in the crook of his right arm, an ancient way for a female to walk with a male, an informal courting that carried with it as yet no commitment. But even this casual touch made Tersa's nostrils flare; he couldn't keep from occasionally daydreaming about her . . .

What would it be like to raise childlings within the steel womb of the Refuge? Would they never see a true sky?

The artificial sun within the shield world illuminated the small trees, the rugged stone outcroppings, the flowing water, the light safely refracted and filtered by translucent energy fields so there was no dangerous radiation or glare. Overhead, the icicle shapes of the cryptic devices jutting from the distant metal concave ceiling gleamed dully; shadows crisscrossed oddly here and there, random stripes across the garden area. Something rustled softly in the brush.

“Tersa—at times I wonder if that solid-seeming metal up
there will simply break open all of a sudden, and Covenant ships will come for us. Could they have followed us here somehow?”

“I believe—
I have
to believe—that Ussa ‘Xellus took every precaution. He would have left no trail—and we are a long way from Sanghelios. No, this is precisely what we call it. Refuge.”

Privately, Tersa thought that there was no knowing for certain. He reckoned that the Covenant had a great many resources; the San'Shyuum were cunning, and the kaidons of the city states back on Sanghelios would never cease their search for the traitorous Ussa ‘Xellus. Separate clans, separate cities—that was permitted. But those who dared renounce Sanghelios forever went gratingly against the cultural grain.

But it was Tersa's instinct to at least attempt to protect Lnur from those worries.

As if an omen, a shadow fell over them—but it was just a passing robotic conveyance, flying quickly past overhead. It was gone in an instant, taking its shadow with it.

“Will we really be here for the rest of our lives, do you think?” she asked.

“I do not know. I would like to think we'd use this as a base—and when the time was right, make some kind of sally and perhaps harass the Covenant, or just some exploration in this star system. It would not be natural for Sangheili to have no possible adversary, nothing to test ourselves against.”

“I agree with you there—to just vegetate in here, studying, never pitting ourselves against anything . . . we'd degenerate.”

They walked on, following a stream that went down a slight slope. After a few thoughtful moments, Tersa said, “There are not that many of us here—we need to stay unified. But a Sangheili warrior must test himself against an enemy. It has occurred to me
that if we do not find enemies on the outside, we will find them here. We could become divided, factionalize—and that would be a volatile situation in a self-contained world such as this. It would be almost like a mutiny on a spacecraft. A high risk for everyone. The wrong kind of risk.”

“I have had the same thought—especially after that encounter with ‘Crolon. I've heard rumors about him, and a few others . . .”

He glanced at her. She was young, and occasionally he'd heard her engage in hearsay—he didn't want to encourage it. Hearsay could lead to the very thing that they'd been speaking of. It could be the seed of factionalism, division, mutiny, and ultimately the failure of the colony.

“I have no liking for ‘Crolon,” she went on ruefully. “The females in my clan have a strong protector-of-eggs tradition.” She glanced at him. “Very strong.”

“Yes? More than is . . . orthodox?”

She hesitated. “I will be direct with you, though it's taking a chance. Yes. More than is orthodox.” She then added with a certain defiance: “We believe females can become warriors. And more. But . . . it is not something we speak openly about—at least not with males.”

He felt an internal flutter, a mix of astonishment and admiration. What Lnur had said was heretical, but also brave. And “between his hearts,” as the Sangheili saying went, he knew she was right.

“Perhaps, hearing that,” she went on, a little louder as the sound of a waterfall increased from up ahead, “you would not want to walk with me anymore—perhaps you would not care to be seen with me at all. I wouldn't blame you. But . . . I wanted you to know.”

“I suppose I
did
know—the way you took to that burnblade. Lnur, I am honored you trusted me.”

She pursed her mandibles in a combination of amusement and appreciation. “You do know the right things to say, Tersa . . . at least to me.”

Hearing that, Tersa felt a subtle thrill of confirmation, a recognition of destiny perhaps, like an energy charge all about them . . .

They'd come to the edge of a small bluff overlooking a dale. The stream tumbled over the cliff, plunging just far enough down to make the waterfall sound louder.

Tersa then heard something penetrating the burring splash of the waterfall. Voices. ‘Crolon—and ‘Drem. And someone else.

He couldn't quite make out what they were saying. “Do you hear voices?”

“Yes. Is that . . . ‘Crolon?”

Tersa and Lnur looked at each other. Then in silent mutual agreement they eased closer to the edge of the bluff and looked over, toward the pool below.

There were four Sangheili gathered down there—‘Crolon, ‘Drem, Scorinn, and Gmezza the Limper. Scorinn was a female; Gmezza the Limper, so nicknamed because of an injury that had made his right leg a little shorter than the left, was her mate.

From here, the voices carried up the cliff side, though blurred by the sound of the falls. “. . . If we fail to take action, we will all die either way,” ‘Crolon was saying. The next phrase was partly obscured by the noise of the waterfall. Tersa heard only “. . . alternative, so far as . . .”

“But Scorinn and I—we would need proof. This idea that Ussa will commit a mass . . .” Tersa lost consistent track of Gmezza's voice then. “. . . hard to . . . cannot go about . . . we could all be executed . . .”

“What ‘Crolon says is true!” ‘Drem said insistently, his voice loud enough to cut through the waterfall's hiss and splash. “You notice Ussa rarely allows us to carry weapons. Why? And that flying construct is in on it! It wants to summon the San'Shyuum!”

“That doesn't make sense,” said Scorinn. “If Ussa plans what you say, why would he summon—”

“Silence, female, the males are speaking!” barked ‘Drem.

“ ‘Drem!” warned the Limper. “That is my mate—”

“Gmezza,” put in ‘Crolon. “Did I not hear you mention yesterday that this place was a mistake? I would hate to have to . . .”

“Look! Someone is up there, listening!” ‘Drem cried. “At the top of the waterfall!”