Halo: Broken Circle E-Book

John Shirley

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 457

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

An original novel in the expansive universe of Microsoft's bestselling and award-winning Halo video game series – with more than 60 million games sold worldwide! Centuries before the Human-Covenant War would rage across the galaxy, a similar conflict erupted between the Prophets and the Elites—two alien races at odds over the sacred artifacts left by the powerful Forerunners, who disappeared eons ago. Although they would eventually form a stable alliance called the Covenant, there are those on both sides who question this fateful union. From an Elite splinter group rebelling against the Covenant during the time of its founding...to a brave Prophet caught in the machinations of the new leadership...to the root of the betrayal that would ultimately shatter the Covenant many years later, this is the untold chapter of the most unexpected heroes emerging from a realm filled with shocking treachery and ceaseless wonder.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Part One: A Place of Refuge

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Part Two: An Invitation to the Dance of Chaos

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

BROKEN CIRCLE

DON’T MISS THESE OTHER THRILLING STORIES IN THE WORLDS OF

HALO INFINITE

Kelly Gay

The Rubicon Protocol

THE FERRETS

Troy Denning

Last Light

Retribution

Divine Wind

RION FORGE & ACE OF SPADES

Kelly Gay

Smoke and Shadow

Renegades

Point of Light

THE MASTER CHIEF & BLUE TEAM

Troy Denning

Silent Storm

Oblivion

Shadows of Reach

ALPHA-NINE

Matt Forbeck

New Blood

Bad Blood

GRAY TEAM

Tobias S. Buckell

The Cole Protocol

Envoy

BATTLE BORN

Cassandra Rose Clarke

Battle Born

Meridian Divide

THE FORERUNNER SAGA

Greg Bear

Cryptum

Primordium

Silentium

THE KILO-FIVE TRILOGY

Karen Traviss

Glasslands

The Thursday War

Mortal Dictata

THE ORIGINAL SERIES

The Fall of Reach

Eric Nylund

The Flood

William C. Dietz

First Strike

Eric Nylund

Ghosts of Onyx

Eric Nylund

STAND-ALONE STORIES

Contact Harvest

Joseph Staten

Broken Circle

John Shirley

Hunters in the Dark

Peter David

Saint’s Testimony

Frank O’Connor

Shadow of Intent

Joseph Staten

Legacy of Onyx

Matt Forbeck

Outcasts

Troy Denning

Epitaph

Kelly Gay

Empty Throne

Jeremy Patenaude

SHORT STORY ANTHOLOGIES

Various Authors

Evolutions: Essential Tales of the Halo Universe

Fractures: More Essential Tales of the

BROKEN CIRCLE

JOHN SHIRLEY

BASED ON THE BESTSELLING VIDEO GAME FOR XBOX®

TITAN BOOKS

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Halo: Broken Circle

Print edition ISBN: 9781835414576

E-book edition ISBN: 9781835414583

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First Titan edition: July 2025

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Microsoft 2025. All Rights Reserved.

Xbox, Halo, and Halo Studios are trademarks ofthe Microsoft group of companies.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY.

To all the fans of the Halo universe,be they in this solar systemor elsewhere in the galaxy.

Prologue

San’Shyuum-Sangheili WarSkirmish of the Planet of Blue and RedCirca 860 BCEThe First Age of Conflict

Mken ‘Scre’ah’ben, a San’Shyuum High Lord of Sacred Relics, floated toward the open hatchway. He paused his antigrav chair at the door and listened, fascinated by the discordant singing of an alien world: the screeching of the planet’s endlessly churning winds.

“The enemy is just beyond the ridge, High Lord,” warned the Steward, his military advisor and—theoretically—his bodyguard. “There is no need to leave the pod. It would be wiser to observe from orbit, using the Eyes. The Sangheili are fierce and cunning.”

High Lord Mken gave a dismissive gesture. “I have never been here before, and I will see this world firsthand. I am not without experience in combat. But if you are anxious, Steward, I shall be wary. My chair is weaponized—and I have you at hand. Stay close, but do not distract me.”

“Your orders are a joy to fulfill.” The Steward held back, adjusting his antigrav belt and noisily checking his pulse rifle. He seemed a trifle annoyed about being put in his place. The Steward was no doubt aware that, with his chair, Mken was better suited to protect the Steward than the reverse.

Still, Mken was indeed wary of this world, in spite of his bland bravado. He was not terribly comforted by the emplaced force field projectors set up near the pod—they moderated the wind, but would they protect him from attack? He scanned the sky for Sangheili fighter craft as he drifted his chair out the drop pod’s air lock. Here he paused, his chair hovering over the blast-scarred stone the pod had landed on, and swayed his long, gold-skinned neck with sinuous aplomb as he gazed curiously about, taking in the striking color contrasts, gust-flailed dunes, and rocky outcroppings of the planet’s principal continent.

The constantly shifting, shrieking winds were partly a product of the celestial objects that also gave this world its dual coloration: the blue dwarf star hanging in the sky to Mken’s left, the much larger red-giant sun to his right, both just forty-five degrees above opposite horizons. As per the High Lord’s orders, the pod had set down right on the Purple Line so he could appreciate the contrasting views. Hierarch J’nellin had been right to note in his monograph on the Planet of Red and Blue that the remarkable duality of hue, along either side of the Purple Line, was one of the wonders of the galaxy. On the left, the outcroppings and dunes were all gradations of blue, the sand lighter blue, the rocks darker; on the right, rugged landscape was entirely red, muted or emphatic, but all the way to the horizon. Only the relatively narrow Purple Line mixed the colors. The two suns in the binary-star system, one closer than the other, were always at the same angle, with respect to this motionless world, for there was no night on this side; the planet was prevented from spinning by the interlocking gravitational fields of the two stars. They played an eternal game of push-and-pull that would someday rip the planet apart. But until then, millennia from now, this world’s placement in the galaxy made it of strategic importance to the war effort; perhaps more important, there were Forerunner relics here in this area, and more buried in other parts of the planet—the Luminary had confirmed it. The necessity of investigating Forerunner relics was the only reason the San’Shyuum had descended from high orbit to the surface of this world, risking certain confrontation with the armed and dangerous Sangheili.

The shaped stones near the pod were the remnants of an ancient city belonging to an extinct species, an unknown biped . . . but on the jutting stones were carvings that suggested they had a knowledge of the Forerunners, who had been here even earlier than the stone carvers.

The densely compact blue sun was in the east; the bigger, sprawling, more diffuse red sun bulked in the west; the planet’s winds, urged by the opposed gravity that flexed back and forth, slashed first one way and then another, constantly eroding the stones with a kind of relentless brushing, turning them gradually into dunes that gave off ghostly plumes of dust and sand, plumes that shifted with the winds, as if doing a primitive dance. The red dancers flitted on one side, the blue on the other.

“It truly is a marvel,” sighed Mken, absently adjusting his robes. A commander’s ornately sewn ceremonial robes were impressive but not pragmatic; under them, he was fitted with clinging body armor. “It is worth the risk.”

His Steward grunted noncommittally, then, remembering himself, muttered, “Your insights shine like the hub of the galaxy, High Lord.”

The Steward’s tendency to engage in superfluous, honorific courtesies was a mild source of annoyance to Mken. There was a subtle touch of mockery in the old-fashioned usages, which might reflect the Steward’s awareness that he was chronologically elder to Mken, but having come from a lower-caste brood, was forever obliged to serve as a subordinate.

Gazing at the eerily beautiful landscape, Mken knew he was indulging his connoisseur side overmuch. He had once dreamed of being merely a relic historian, and had spent many glorious cycles studying the niceties of Forerunner design and ancient holographic renderings of the San’Shyuum homeworld, Janjur Qom.

Thinking of their homeworld, even looking at the holographs, always made him melancholy. Mken’s branch of the San’Shyuum had been forced to renounce the cradle of their civilization, their planet of origin, in the aftermath of the Stoic-Reformist conflict. Mken and his peers came from the Reformist line, which had fled the homeworld in the Dreadnought—the Forerunner keyship that had been the focus of the civil war between Stoics and Reformists. And the Reformists had set about searching for sacred Forerunner relics throughout the galaxy . . . until nearly eighty cycles ago, when they had come upon the Sangheili squatting in the shadow of numerous Forerunner artifacts. The war-mad saurian race had worshipped Forerunner vestiges without regard to their true utility. Worse, they had refused to allow the San’Shyuum access. The Sangheili in turn were horrified to see that the San’Shyuum actually used some Forerunner relics for practical purposes. To the Sangheili it was desecration, heresy.

Mken’s people tried conciliating the Sangheili, sending a delegation that explained that the San’Shyuum, under the direction of their Prophets, also worshipped the Forerunners . . . but to no avail. The delegates had been butchered, summarily slaughtered by the Sangheili. An all-out war had begun—and continued ever since.

“Ah well,” said Mken, rippling the three long fingers of his right hand in the ancient gesture of regret—a sign that said All things flow away. “Let us get to work. Summon the Field Oversight surveillance officer. I shall consult the Eyes.”

He tapped the armrest controls that summoned Eye Seven, then climbed out of the chair, stretching—he was expected to use an antigrav chair due to his high caste, but here his gravitational mod belt was enough, even in the substantial and eccentric gravity of the Planet of Blue and Red.

“High Lord,” the Steward tautly remarked, “you make all too good a target by stepping out of your chair.”

“We are well protected here,” Mken replied. He watched as Eye Seven flew into sight, looking red itself in the western vista.

Roughly diamond-shaped, the glassy device drifted near and came to a stop. It hovered expectantly as Mken said, “Report enemy movements.”

“Main enemy phalanx is northeast,” the Eye responded. “They encamp beyond Ridge Fifteen, at Site Two. They are present with considerable defenses, but probability estimates suggest they plan to assault our Forerunner reliquary excavation at Site One.”

“Not unexpected,” Mken said thoughtfully. “Show me the key enemy positions.”

The Eye projected a whirling beam of multicolored light that quickly built up a three-dimensional image of the Sangheili positions, seen from above and to the west, as per its long-distance observation. Mken stepped closer to the hologram, looking it over critically as his Steward walked around between the High Lord and the wilderness of stone and sand, nervously peering at the angling thrusts of rock formations.

In the image, Sangheili troops gathered protectively around a half-buried and tilted tower, the enormous Forerunner structure at Site Two, an imposing transmitter of some kind, sleek and efficient, showing little wear. Most of its immensity was hidden underground. Its sharp edges and polished surfaces contrasted with the red, dulled stone at the outskirts of the site. The entire scene was bathed red and red-brown in the elongated shadows.

The Sangheili were organized into roughly curving rows around the relic, facing toward the tentative San’Shyuum lines—tentative, because the San’Shyuum had no plans or forces for extensive ground combat. The San’Shyuum were simply outnumbered, and not physically capable of meeting the Sangheili at close quarters. The San’Shyuum defensive lines were here purely to protect relic hunters and retroengineering specialists. But the San’Shyuum’s ground force did have the Sentinels: flying self-controlled assault constructs, shaped like squat, gray-and-white, one-eyed insects, with grapplers and antigrav undercarriages, their single “eye” a heat-beam projector. Although still something of a mystery, the Sentinels appeared to have been used by the Forerunners to defend specific installations and assets—but the San’Shyuum had adapted the Sentinels for their own purposes. The Sentinels and another, even more lethal Forerunner technology gave the San’Shyuum the edge. At least, Mken hoped it was so.

Looking closer at the hologram, Mken spotted the bunkers around Site Two—they had been reported to him before he’d come down to the surface. Beneath those bunkers were underground quarters. A great many of the Sangheili could retreat into them, if the Dreadnought was brought into play—a safe haven for the enemy, since the Dreadnought could not be used at full power where Forerunner artifacts might be damaged. Its most destructive energies were reserved for hit-and-run attacks in open space on Sangheili fleets, and had already been used with devastating results.

Before even the moderated energy of the Dreadnought could be used on Site One, San’Shyuum personnel needed to be evacuated first—when the time was right.

The San’Shyuum on this side of the ridge had been working at the Site One excavation for some time; plans had been made to excavate Site Two, but then the Sangheili assault force had descended, arraying itself around that tilted, half-buried tower.

No matter. The San’Shyuum scientists and those who protected them were ready to leave the combat zone at a moment’s notice. Their drop pods were pulsing with energy, prepared for a quick jump to orbit. For now, though, it was useful to keep the Sangheili focused.

Mken noted enemy plasma cannons set up in advance of the Sangheili lines, angled to point up the slope leading to the ridge top. Near the center cannon, an imposing Sangheili officer in silver armor stood gesturing broadly, giving instructions to a group of underlings. This officer had the aura of authority and sharp awareness that Mken instinctively knew made him both interesting and dangerous.

He pointed at the silver-armored figure, his finger activating a spotlight on the Eye image of the Sangheili. “Is that Sangheili identifiable? Any information on him?”

“Sangheili identified as Ussa ‘Xellus. Designation is Significant Field Commander, relatively young. Strong, quick, experienced. He came to this colony not long ago, and has completely reorganized its defenses. Surveillance shows him in almost constant activity. He is estimated as a high-innovation individual.”

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 tooeffective. 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 . . .

Part One

A Place of Refuge

Chapter 1

Dreadnought KeyshipConference DeckThe Age of Reconciliation

Despite 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.

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 CreckThe 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.

Ussa and Sooln were riding a lift up a shaft from one of those scorching power plants. They’d spent some time there, traveling in the guise of engineers pretending to check for heat-fatigued walls, and talking as discreetly as possible to those who toiled over the generators. A defector from Creck had told Ussa there was discontent here. Who wouldn’t feel ill used, working in the geological energy plant? The structure couldn’t be climate controlled efficiently—and the heat was unbearable.

But his primary contact, Muskem, had perished the day before Ussa arrived. Muskem had inexplicably fallen into a throbbing pit of magma, where he was instantly incinerated. Ussa had a strong intuition, after speaking with a supervising officer, that someone had arranged the unfortunate accident.

Ussa almost hadn’t come to Creck at all. It seemed foolishly risky. But there was another, too, who’d contacted Ussa. A Sangheili who called himself ‘Quillick, which was an ancient word, from Sanghelios, for “small hunter,” a little animal known to catch mammals for farmers. Clearly it was this Sangheili’s code name. ‘Quillick’s communication was folded in with Muskem’s: There is a place where much can be found to help you. It is a world no one knows. But I know . . . I fought beside your uncle at Tarjak, under the stone trees . . .

What could this mean? Was this the fantasy of some eccentric? But the remark about Tarjak and the stone trees referred to a story his uncle had told him—one his uncle was reluctant to tell. Covenant agents were unlikely to know about Tarjak and the stone trees—the gallery built of petrifactions, a long-extinct forest. There a small but vicious battle, clan against clan, had gone on for several bloody cycles.

The note had promised a place where much can be found to help you. It is a world no one knows. Ussa had been intrigued enough to take the risk of visiting the colony at Creck.

He had little hope in finding this ‘Quillick now, and it was difficult to know who else to contact here. No sane Sangheili would talk openly of joining the resistance to the Covenant—and few would talk even secretly. The Writ of Union is written, was the phrase Ussa had heard so many times that he wanted to scream when it was repeated to him. It cannot be unwritten.

Now Ussa repeated the trite point to his mate, but his voice was bitter. “The Writ of Union is written—it cannot be unwritten. This was said over and over. Someone has gotten to these Sangheili.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“To hear them all repeating the same declaration—they have been told to do so. And every Sangheili I spoke with appeared miserable. They knew they were being dishonorable cowards.”

Sooln tapped one of her mandibles thoughtfully. “What else can they do? It’s not as if there is some clear enemy of Sanghelios left to fight. If that were the case, they would be there in the heart of battle. But this is the Council of City States—it is Sanghelios itself, threatening them. Yet they know we should not be surrendering to the San’Shyuum.”

“And Muskem was our contact for finding ‘Quillick. Our visit here could be a waste of time.”

The lift hummed on for a few moments, getting cooler almost by the second as it left the zone of active volcanism. Then Ussa looked fondly at Sooln—compact, perhaps a bit uppity and bold for a female Sangheili, but also delicate and petite . . . or so it seemed to Ussa. Her mind was quicker and more analytical than his, he knew; she had a genius for science that he lacked. “Sooln, perhaps you’re speaking this way about the Writ of Union to please me. Perhaps you wish, for the sake of our lives together, that I would accept the Covenant . . .”

She clamped her mandibles in amusement. “I believe as you do. I do not trust the San’Shyuum. Their vision of a Great Journey is fantasy.”

“I fear that I should not have brought you. Do you believe anyone has detected us? The death of our contact concerns me . . .”

“I haven’t noticed any drones following us; I haven’t seen any spies lurking about watching us. There was that elder Sangheili yesterday, but—he never spoke to us . . .”

“What elder Sangheili?”

“You failed to notice him? He followed us from the mines, back toward the spaceport. But he was slow, weary, scarred . . . He could not keep up. I thought perhaps he wanted to join us, but when I looked back again, he was gone. He seemed too feeble to be a Covenant operative.”

Ussa growled softly to himself. “We shall soon know, one way or the other. Because—”

But he broke off then, as they’d reached the colony’s residence level. The lift doors opened and the two stepped onto the darkened street, between the stubby, utilitarian buildings, and walked together toward the spaceport, where their ship waited. Ussa was careful not to hurry as they walked by two sharp-eyed guards on patrol, though he’d have liked nothing more than to pick up his stride. He wondered if Ernicka the Scar-Maker was keeping order in the caverns back on Sanghelios. Perhaps they had already been found, and routed. But surely he would have received a communiqué if there had been an attack . . .

He wondered, too, if he and Sooln were still safe in this place. He’d brought his mate because she had access to engineer’s documentation—she was able to create a suitable cover identity for them. She knew the proper terminology on visits to the mines and power plants. But suppose their disguise had been penetrated? He might very well have led her to a tragic end here.

Still, they crossed the square without incident. The two edged through a crowd of sullen-looking Sangheili, dusty miners coming off work shifts, and then scurried between two processing structures to the port.

They were permitted past the gate guards, a young Sangheili scarcely glancing up at them from his talkscreen, and headed to their spacecraft.

The Clan’s Blade, a blue-and-red vessel shaped like a dart and just large enough for a handful of travelers, was fueled and prepped for departure. Ussa ‘Xellus confirmed this remotely through his wrist interface. But as he approached the hatch, he noted someone step out of the shadows.

It was an ancient Sangheili in a much-repaired subcommander’s uniform. Most of the teeth were missing from his jaws, and one of his eyes had long ago been scarred over.

“You . . . This is the one who was following us yesterday!” Sooln exclaimed.

Ussa reached for his pistol, and then saw the old warrior raise his arms in the air. His left hand was missing.

“Do not fire on me, brethren, until you have at least spoken to me,” he croaked. “I have no weapon.”

This one makes Ernicka look young, Ussa thought.

“Who are you, old warrior?”

“I am ‘Crecka,” said the elder Sangheili simply.

Ussa snorted. “Nonsense.”

“I am he. I may also be known to you by another name: ‘Quillick.”

“You are ‘Quillick?”

“Yes—and I need to speak to you alone. Inside.”

“And how do we know you’re not just some cunning old assassin?”

“You would have been under arrest by now, if they were aware of your identity here—not targeted by an assassin. You are too important to simply assassinate, Ussa ‘Xellus. Please, you may search me for arms and then permit me into your ship, if you choose, and I will tell you why I am here.”

Ussa grunted. But he did search the old one for hidden weapons and found nothing. And, too, there was something inexplicably trustworthy in this Sangheili. “Come in, if you must. But we are leaving the planet very shortly. It will not take us long to get proper clearance. I will only give you a few moments.”

The three were soon in the tiny bridge of the craft, Ussa in his pilot’s seat, Sooln checking systems beside him. But Ussa had his seat turned toward the old warrior, who stood on the deck behind the control panel, his maimed arms folded over his chest.

“Make it quick,” Ussa told him. His hand was not far from that pistol as he spoke.

“I am who I said I was. I have been watching for you—Muskem and I expected you. But I wasn’t sure if you yourself were being watched. I was reluctant to speak.”

“Speak now. We are alone.”

The old warrior rubbed thoughtfully at his scarred eye socket. “Many cycles ago, I was the last survivor of a vessel brought down by hostiles—we never knew what race it was. They did not speak a civilized tongue. All this was on the far side of the galaxy from here, in the System of Miasmic Giants. I managed to escape, piloting the ship through slipspace to another system—one chosen almost at random. It was the farthest I could reach. There I saw something most peculiar . . . a world made out of an alloy I’ve never seen.”

“You mean a space station of some kind.”

“No. A small planet. But encased entirely in metal. I had never seen the like. An artifact so large—it was beyond belief.”

“It is difficult for me to believe as well.”

“No doubt,” said ‘Crecka. “I had to see for myself. I landed on the outer hull, in a place that looked like it might have an entry point—and found a portal. I descended into the metal skin—and on a lower deck, a machine came floating out to greet me. It was a machine intelligence, built by the ancients! It had already sorted through my ship’s computer, with some kind of scanning device. I believe that’s how it was able to speak our language. It told me a few things; but it refused to divulge its origin. It had a name—Enduring Bias, it called itself. It had been left to oversee the planet—the ‘shield world,’ in truth is what it called this place—until its creators should return. It ordered that I should provide it with information about the Sangheili and make myself available for study. But I escaped. It was . . . confused; many of its systems no longer worked and it was not so difficult to get away. I managed to get into slipspace . . . and ended up here, near what is now called Creck. A scan told me there were valuable minerals here. I reported this world—but not the other. The other was full of relics, of things from the ancients. The Forerunners. I was afraid that Enduring Bias would kill anyone I sent. For so it had threatened, should I depart . . .”

“And you kept the secret of that place until now . . . with all those relics there?”

“I did. I was a warrior, not a scientist. I fought and was maimed in sixteen of the great Clan Battles on Sanghelios. The eye I lost fighting beside your uncle under the stone trees!”

Ussa nodded. “He mentioned someone called ‘Quillick—because he would scout out the enemy for them, the way a ‘Quillick would slink silently through the shadows.”

“It was I! But it is not my friendship for your uncle that brings me here. I know your cause. It is my cause, too. This world can be a refuge and a resource for your people—for our people. Away from the Covenant.”

Ussa pondered this. If the elderly warrior—who had fought beside Ussa’s own uncle—could be trusted, then he might be offering a key to something that could truly empower the rebellion against the Covenant. Again he wondered if this could be some kind of trick or trap—but then why go to these lengths? Old ‘Crecka was right: they could simply have arrested him. And few could know the tale of ‘Quillick and the stone trees.

Ussa’s hearts thudded with excitement as the possibilities glimmered in his imagination. But it could all be a trap—without ‘Crecka knowing. If the Covenant knew of the planetoid.

“Think back: you must have told someone about this metal planet. Someone—somewhere.”

“No! I was afraid I would be executed if I spoke of what I had seen. What I learned on the shield world—ah, I might well have been put to death for having entered the planetoid and communicating with the machine, which was heresy back then. That is no honorable way to die. But then . . . when you were in the mines, I was conversing with my son. He is an engineer here. And I overheard you speak, railing against the Covenant. I have heard something of Ussa ‘Xellus, and his mate. You fit the description. So I came here to help—because I have a wish to return to that world—and I believe it will offer a refuge for you and those who follow you. You and I . . . are of a like mind. We should never have surrendered to the San’Shyuum.”

The old warrior paused to cough into a mangled hand, and Ussa pondered again in silence. Could ‘Crecka simply be senile, addled by war, imagining things? But the ancient Sangheili had a character that rang true, like the well-seasoned metal of a sword forged on Qikost. And he truly had fought beside his uncle. Ussa could not help but believe the tale, as fantastic as it was.

Sooln spoke up then. “Such a place, a world that is one great Forerunner relic—it should not fall into the hands of the Covenant. We should at least see if it is real, Ussa. What have we to lose? He is right—it could be our chance! Think of the potential of such a place!”

“You believe it is real, then?”

“We have to see for ourselves. We must take the chance. We have so few prospects for the cause . . .”

Ussa paced the deck, and at last said, “It would be difficult to imagine the spies of Sanghelios contriving such a tale.” He turned to ‘Crecka. “Can you show us this world covered in metal—immediately?”

“I have the waymarkers. I’m ready to take you there. It will probably be my last journey anywhere. I’m dying, you see. But—I want to see those marvels again, one last time, and I want to help you. You are right: the Covenant is wrong. It is that simple.”

*   *   *

Their disguises had held up: departure from the spaceport was granted. Within a few minutes they were in orbit, burning their way into the slipspace aperture that was like a glowing wound in space-time.

They passed through and into slipspace, where time is not easily reckoned. There was opportunity to rest, eat, and hear stories from ‘Crecka about the Clan Battles of Sanghelios. By degrees, Ussa increasingly came to trust the old fellow.

But still—he could be on a fool’s mission. He had failed to recruit more converts, unless old ‘Quillick could be counted as such.

Perhaps this voyage was just a desperate stab in the darkness of space.

*   *   *

An Uncharted World851 BCEThe Age of Reconciliation

They were in orbit over something extraordinary.

Ussa waited, his fingers hovering over the controls, ready to begin high-acceleration evasion maneuvers. He half expected defensive measures of some kind to be fired at them from the colossal sphere of silvery-gray alloy. But though there was a regular pulse of internal energy signatures from the shield world, as ‘Crecka called it, no attack was forthcoming.

“Come, let me show you the portal,” ‘Crecka told him. “It’s on the farther side . . . the only one I know of.”

They accelerated into a faster orbit and homed in on the coordinates. They descended, spiraling down carefully, Ussa still wondering the whole time if this was some kind of trap—but he was far too intrigued, too caught up in a sense of inexorable destiny to turn back now.

The metallic hide of the planet loomed, details defining through thin mists of a pseudo atmosphere. Seams showed; here and there curiously shaped antennas sprouted.

Ussa ‘Xellus shivered as the Clan’s Blade approached the rectangular object, almost flush with the curved surface, which ‘Crecka identified as the portal. Ussa felt a superstitious fear as he settled the ship into the rectangle. Its outlines seemed to grow within themselves, walls rising up around the spacecraft, rather than from inside the planet.

In a few moments, a ceiling had formed over them—and the ship’s instruments soon showed pressurization and breathable air. There were no indications of dangerous microorganisms.