Broken Circle (2 page)

Mken stroked the furred wattles dangling from his jaws, tilting his oblong head thoughtfully. “Mark him for assassination, to be carried out as soon as the skirmish commences. Assign a squad of Sentinels.”

“Marked for assassination,” the Eye dutifully said.

Mken regretted the necessity. He'd have preferred to capture and interrogate the officer. He would like to know much more about the Sangheili, and this one might provide answers, perhaps even potentially act as liaison for the submission of the entire
Sangheili race. The San'Shyuum were aware of the need for ground troops—they could not use the Dreadnought everywhere at once, and they were sure to encounter more opposition on the Path to the Great Journey. The warlike, courageous Sangheili would make ideal allies, if they could be placed under San'Shyuum authority. To do that, they would have to be taught a lesson . . . would have to be shown that the San'Shyuum were their masters. If that Sangheili commander could be brought to heel . . .

“Belay that assassination order,” Mken said after pondering a moment. “Perhaps that especially clever Sangheili can be useful . . . at some point.”

“High Lord, I have a relayed report,” the Eye said, its tip light flashing. “Eye Thirteen informs us that an incursion party of Sangheili is advancing toward our lines.”

“You'd best go into the pod and handle this from orbit, High Lord,” the Steward said anxiously.

“All in good time,” Mken said. It was so tedious staying on the ship. He felt more alive here, on the edge of a battle. But it would be short, abortive—really, their defense would be a kind of feint, to draw the enemy into maximum concentration. The Sangheili, when dispersed, were difficult to annihilate. They were prone to organizing themselves into effective bands of transgressors.

The Eye relayed the image from Thirteen, reproducing it in front of Mken. He could now see about two hundred Sangheili advancing on foot toward the ridge and, beyond that, Forerunner Site One; the infantry was protectively flanked by hulking armored vehicles awkwardly floating on electromagnetic fields, sparking blue in the backdrop of red light. A sizable force remained behind to guard Forerunner Site Two.

How would the Forerunners feel, Mken wondered, knowing that two races who worshipped their memory were fighting to the
death over control of their ancient sites? Mken suspected they would be appalled.

But he had his duty to perform.

“Deploy the Sentinels,” he told the Eye. “See that they are not
too
effective. We do not wish the attack entirely stemmed—the Sangheili may retreat too soon. We will draw them into a better firing position.” The Sangheili could conceal themselves in the bunkers around Site Two; the more who were trapped in the open, the better.

“From what I've heard,” the Steward said quietly, “the Sangheili retreat only rarely. But the High Lord, imbued with inspiration, knows best . . .”

Mken ignored him and continued to watch the Sangheili advance—and noted there were now three columns of attack. The main force was heading straight up and over the ridge; two of the tanklike vehicles accompanied it. Two other tanks had joined a smaller force.

All were headed toward his position—Mken's own drop pod.

The third phalanx was behind the first wave, holding back but still advancing, and Mken suspected them of having a secondary objective. Because in their midst was Ussa, carrying a directed-energy rifle as he trudged up the steep incline.

Four Sentinels lifted from Site One and drifted horizontally, almost casually, over the ground toward the ridge. The Sangheili were just coming over the ridge's crest, weapons glinting faintly in the red tint. They immediately opened fire on the Sentinels, making the defensive fields on the machines flare. The Sentinels returned the assault, laserlike orange-yellow beams of murderous energy searing the Sangheili ranks. Some were struck repeatedly, charred and dead—but in accordance with orders, the Sentinels drew back and fired only sporadically.

Where was the Sangheili commander? Where was Ussa ‘Xellus?

Mken redirected the Eyes, and found Ussa and his smaller
force taking to a small rift, a ravine slanting roughly toward Site One. They were coming at the site quickly, in a flanking maneuver, while the San'Shyuum were occupied with the main assault.

“We will have to cut off Ussa's flanking assault at—”

Mken didn't finish the order. A flash of sickly yellow light stunned his eyesight, and the ground pitched under him.

“They've knocked out the force fields!” the Steward shouted as he backed toward the drop pod, firing at something Mken couldn't see. “They've hit them from below! There's a tunnel in the—”

A lance of yellow energy struck upward from the collapsing ground—from an artificial sinkhole that now revealed the Sangheili assassins who'd detonated the tunnels under the force field generators.

The Steward shrieked, burned by the vicious energy beam, the eyes melting from his head. Mken choked at the smell of the Steward's burned flesh.

“Cunning,” Mken muttered in admiration, hurrying back to the air lock even as two more searing bolts from the exposed tunnel struck the Eye, detonating it, and a third slashed through the air where Mken had stood only a moment before.

But Mken was in the air lock now, shouting for a seal and emergency liftoff. His gravitational mod belt kept him from being flung helplessly about as the pod lurched into the air.

“Strike forces, here are my orders!” Mken shouted as he floated into the pod's command seat. “Abandon Site One! Lift off and navigate clear of Dreadnought bombardment!”

“He's gotten away,” observed Ussa ‘Xellus, his head tilted back as he watched the pod rise toward orbit. “And he will be giving
orders right about now.” A couple of errant blasts from his assassins flicked after the pod, but it was already out of effective range.

His second-in-command, a large Sangheili colloquially hailed as Ernicka the Scar-Maker, was firing at the other pods already lifting off from the excavation known to the San'Shyuum as Site One. His rifle's energy bolt struck one of them, but to little effect. His multiple, clashing jaws quivered in angry frustration, their rows of teeth clacking.

“They were ready to go,” Ussa mused. “All too ready. And those flying attack machines seemed curiously restrained. I suspect . . . they will fire their orbital weapon.”

“They cannot fire on the excavation without damaging the Sacred Dome,” Ernicka said. “Even they would not dare such blasphemy!”

“So I assumed,” Ussa said. “Now I am not so sure. The dome is of Forerunner hardened energy and holy metals—it would depend on the magnitude of . . . yes!” His clawed four-fingered hand closed into a fist with which he struck his silvery armored chest, as if smiting himself in rebuke. “I've been a fool. Quickly—into the air chutes!”

“If we go down that way, we won't get back up for—”

“I said quickly! Tell the strike force to retreat, and to those we brought in the site—order them down into the chutes, now! There's not a second to waste!”

Equipped with a new chair, Mken sped into the orbiting shuttle's control room, shouting for the communications officer. “Signal the Dreadnought! I want the modulated cleansing beam on Site One! Hurry!”

“My Precious High Lord,” the communications officer said, “it is a privilege to—”

“Just be quiet and do it!”

There was a moment as the officer conveyed the order and another as the Dreadnought's attack array—weapons the San'Shyuum had added to the ancient Forerunner keyship—powered up to firing capacity, drawing on energies the Forerunners had intended for other purposes, some of those unknown.

“Modulated beam prepared and focused, High Lord.”

“Discharge!”

Mken could see the Dreadnought on a viewscreen, in orbit over the Purple Line, well above the churning atmosphere of the Planet of Blue and Red; the convergence of the Forerunner craft's armament was now pulsing with bright blue energy. Like a blade of fire, the energy suddenly stabbed down into the atmosphere. The viewscreen split to show its impact on Site One.

Mken silently prayed to the Prophets that the beam was modulated properly—their computational systems had assured him that the cleansing bolt would not harm the hardened Holy Dome exposed by the excavation. But it should destroy any living thing at the site.

The surface glowed with the Dreadnought's destructive power—but to Mken's relief, the Holy Dome appeared to be undamaged.

“We're getting a number of organic incineration indicators,” the communications officer said.

“How many?” Mken demanded.

“Six, seven . . . no more.”

Mken sighed. “Fire at Site Two! Destroy all troops there!”

“Some of them are already retreating into bunkers—”

“Then burn the ones you can! Quickly!”

“It is my privilege to obey.”

Mken touched the control arm of his floating chair. “Kucknoi, have you docked?”

“We are here on the shuttle, High Lord,” confirmed the head researcher from Site One. His voice carried a hint of accusation as he went on: “Do I understand that you are
attacking
the excavation?”

“It is not being harmed, merely cauterized. We have modulated the beam to be certain of that. Kucknoi, there were
tunnels
under my drop pod. You were aware of them?”

“Not until they were breached. There is a great deal under the surface we have not yet charted, High Lord.”

“And under Site One?”

“There is a subterranean chamber, noted by our subsurface resonator. We believe it could be a major reliquary. We had just found an entrance and were hoping to open it, when this untimely interruption wrenched us from our work . . .”

“Had we not interrupted you, I can assure you the Sangheili would have. They would have cut you all to pieces. Is there a way Sangheili can penetrate the subterranean chamber, from above, without major excavation?”

“There are air shafts that one Sangheili at a time could use, I suppose. We did not choose to utilize them . . . They are not suitable for our chairs or antigrav belts.”

Mken grunted. “No doubt. And no doubt Ussa ‘Xellus knew about them. They are nimble creatures, capable of going exactly where we cannot. We'll have to send the Sentinels in and clear those Sangheili out.”

But by then, Mken knew, Ussa would have probably moved on. He'd have found his way out of the hoary Forerunner structure, and would make ready to strike again at the San'Shyuum.

Mken was surprised at his own feelings—he was inwardly glad Ussa had escaped, though he'd have destroyed the Sangheili,
rather than allow the saurian commander to further interrupt their excavations.

Yes, there was potential in this Ussa ‘Xellus. Mken was aware that to other San'Shyuum, the Sangheili were just impediments—but Mken was also a San'Shyuum of vision.

If
the Sangheili were not entirely exterminated, then perhaps, on some faraway day . . .

And as for the Sangheili known as Ussa . . .

If this Ussa is not annihilated, he and I will meet again.

I can feel it . . .

Dreadnought Keyship

Conference Deck

The Age of Reconciliation

D
espite his current status as Minister of Relic Safety, High Lord Mken ‘Scre'ah'ben—the Prophet of Inner Conviction—was always a bit intimidated by the Chamber of Decision. Those he was expected to worship had presumably sat here, at this long, sweeping translucent table within the Dreadnought. The San'Shyuum used their own chairs, but the rest of the room remained just as the Forerunners had left it. The table itself seemed imbued with fractals, animated nesting scrolls that moved into and out of larger forms: three-dimensional, then two-dimensional, then three again. The area faced not a window so much as simply a transparent wall. The hub of the spiral galaxy itself glowed effulgently blue, in places streamed with scarlet and purple nebulae, wheeling with unspeakable immensity, ever transforming, chaotic yet appearing to be an eternal fixed shape.