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Chapter 10: Baptism of Fire

Oriné ‘Fulsamee turned the scuffed and burned box over in his hands. The rest of Olah’s unit was picking through the wreckage of Oriné’s previous unit’s convoy, finding bodies and salvageable material. So far, Oriné had only found this, but he had not looked very hard. He had been exempted from the search for “personal reasons.”

Now he sat on a displaced piece of building, staring numbly at his surviving possessions. He slid the lid open and looked inside; within, undamaged, were the nadier and the human book. His fingers grazed over the cover, but he shut the lid and continued to stare at the box. Once he may have secretly glanced inwards at a few of the words much to his own delight, but now it just seemed pointless.

Hada, he thought glumly. One of his closest friends was now dead. They had picked up what remained of his body and laid it out in the street next to the others they were finding now. When the rest of the army caught up with them, Yarna had told him, they would have the corpses sent back for proper internment on their home worlds. That did nothing to soothe Oriné, however, as he would repeatedly look over at the fallen form of his comrade then be forced to look away by the sight of it. It wounded him inside, too, to know that he couldn’t stomach the sight of his friend even as he was without a head. He felt like he had betrayed him.

A shadow fell across him and Oriné started, finding himself looking up into Olah ‘Seroumee’s face. The grave Sangheili nodded at the box. “I am glad to see you’ve kept them safe all this time.”

Oriné merely lowered his head. He had nothing to say.

There was a moment where Olah did not speak as well. “I’m placing you in Yarna’s lance for the time being,” he said. “If one of the leaders should fall, you will take his place and command his lance. I’ve also added you as part of the roster for Faithful Unit. Welcome back.” The shadow moved away, and Oriné nodded to no one but himself. The motion revealed a pile of dead Grunts that had been pulled from the wreckage and unceremoniously clumped together. Near the bottom, the former member of Divine Unit recognized the Unggoy that had been under his command. A new wave of sorrow crashed upon him as he realized that he had never bothered to learn their names.

He almost wailed aloud, but he heard Olah’s call to rise and prepare to move out, and as he stood Yarna came up behind him and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You shall be fine,” he said, touching foreheads. “Live for the lives they no longer have, and meet them on the Great Journey.”

Sighing, Oriné nodded and allowed his friend to lead him to the front of the column.

——

The vehicles passed the last vestiges of humanity and sped out into the snowy landscape. Visible on the same plain were other convoys that had broken through and were picking up speed to get as far away from the city as fast as possible. A few artillery cannons took potshots at them, but largely they were unimpeded.

Cheers went out across the Battle Net, warriors celebrating their freedom from the concrete hell that had been Tropicas. There were a few songs here and there, disharmonious against each other, and there were a few token Majors who tried to keep the peace among their units, but Olah was silent, as always.

Even Oriné felt new life breathed into him as he watched the city fall away behind them. Despite everything that had happened, he felt he could still carry on. Beside him in the seat, the Kig-Yar mercenary Maq jabbered sullenly at the noise on the radio. Yarna’s lance was slightly bigger than Oriné’s had been, accommodating two Jackals as well as the three usual Grunts. When Oriné had been transferred in, Yarna had been relieved for the help. Apparently keeping the Kig-Yar from abusing the Unggoy was a task.

“What has fouled your mood now, Maq?” Oriné asked, more out of necessity than genuine compassion. Perhaps the Jackal knew it, because he fixed the Sangheili with a hateful glare before replying.

“I do not like the cold or the Unggoy stink over everything,” he muttered.

Oriné cocked his head to the side. “The cold cannot be helped, and neither can the smell. You must learn to deal with each.”

Continuing to grumble, Maq managed a clipped “Yes, Excellency” before again becoming introspective. Oriné looked at the demented Kig-Yar for a moment longer before turning his attention back to the landscape that sped by.

After the revelry had died down, Olah took to the Battle Net. “Warriors, your ears,” he said. Immediately all those in Faithful Unit grew silent and attentive, even sitting straighter in their seats; whatever Olah had done to earn their respect, it had worked. “Tropicas falls behind us, but the greater battle lies ahead, an equal chance for glory or death.

“Our assignment is to protect our artillery mortars while we lay siege to the objective city. The hope of the Hierarchs is that this tactic will create enough damage and chaos as to allow the Inquisitors and their escorts a chance to enter, find the artifact, and escape.”

“Glory be to the Hierarchs,” the Elites recited, Oriné included, “those who show us the path to Enlightenment and illuminate the Great Journey.”

“While deployed,” Olah continued, “we can expect harsh counterattacks by the humans. Once we arrive we will move quickly to set up the anti-air defenses and watchtowers for the snipers. Fortifications will have to be constructed on-site, as not as many barricades and plasma covers survived the trip as I had hoped.”

Oriné pursed his mandibles in thought. This area was sparsely wooded, but there could be enough trees to cut down to make a perimeter. After a strategic deployment of barriers, the supply crates could likely be arranged to create further cover against enemy fire, as well as hinder the humans’ ability to damage the artillery.

It was a long ride, but when it came to an end by the artillery piece Oriné was prepared. As soon as the magnetics were disengaged he slid from his seat and set to work, ordering the Unggoy to locate trees of sufficient size while he and Yarna helped to unlimber and carry the existing plasma covers. As for Maq, he knew the hateful little creature would enjoy a break from the standard work.

“Jackal,” he said, nodding in his direction, “go scout the surrounding woods. Find good hiding spots, any place where the natural terrain could work for or against us, and locate a decent fallback position in case we are overrun.”

Though it was difficult to tell, Oriné knew that Maq was relieved for the distraction. As he nodded his assent and jogged off, the Elite Minor knew that he would not see the mercenary for several hours as he accomplished the task set before him. Turning back to the work at hand, he found himself grateful for its distraction from his own problems as well.

The artillery piece they were setting up around was a very dominating presence. Its rounded main body with a snub-nose barrel was mounted on a nineteen-meter-long base, making the weapon an intimidating 25 meters tall. On the back was an operating platform where the warriors in charge of manning and firing the gun could plot its firing trajectory. When it fired, Oriné understood from the training simulators, it hurled a blob of burning sapphire plasma in an arc, much akin to a Wraith but several times larger and far more devastating. Compared to human artillery, the heat from the impact incinerated anything too close, but the overpressure was virtually non-existent. It only required a short cool-down period, and could maintain bombardment for hours. From the Shadows, Oriné saw it was currently crewed by two Minors being overseen by a Major. It looked like they were running through diagnostics, so when he passed by to set up the cover, he made sure he didn’t interfere.

It was snowing lightly under a darker sky when they finished erecting the defenses, composed of a combination of hard-light barriers and felled tree trunks lashed together with cable. The plasma covers had been deployed at the “front” of the formation, where most of the human attacks were expected to come from. Guard posts had been designated all around the camp and firing notches cut into the wood; in addition, two watchtowers had been deployed to allow the Jackal snipers a clearer field of view through the sparse trees.

Oriné had been selected for first watch, so he was standing alert behind one of the wooden defenses when he saw movement. Alarmed at first, he readied his rifle but quickly stopped when he saw that it was only Maq, returning from his assignment. The Kig-Yar halted at the barrier, looking back and forth along it critically.

“I see the defenses are prepared, Excellency,” he muttered.

Oriné nodded. “Have you found what I asked you?”

“Indeed. The ground, though covered with snow, has an underlying layer of branches and leaves which, when lifted, can provide ample concealment. The forest terminates roughly three hundred meters that way”—he gestured towards the city—“into a gentle downward slope, evening out roughly a quarter-kilometer from the edge of the human capital. However, it is open space; any halfway decent sniper will be able to pick off an infantry charge. From the looks of many bodies freezing on the ground out there, they already have.” Oriné shuddered in a combination of rage and apprehension. Not being able to fight your enemy face-to-face was degrading and humiliating, and fate left in the hands of a sniper was never a good thing.

“And of fallback positions?”

Maq clicked his beak. “Back the way we came is the best choice, Excellency.”

Satisfied for the moment, Oriné stepped back and allowed the Jackal to climb over the chest-high wall into the camp. “Rest while you can,” he said. “The bombardment will begin at dawn to cover the advance of the armored ranks into the city. Few will be able to sleep through that, I imagine.”

His feathers once more ruffled, the Kig-Yar stalked off, muttering.

——

Morning came far too quickly, and Oriné’s rest cycle was brought to a jarring end when the artillery warmed and fired its first shot. The noise slammed through the camp, startling the defenders awake. Mind in a panic, the Elite Minor scrambled out of his shelter and looked up at the gun. It fired again, sending another blast ripping through the air. All throughout the forest, the echoing reports of the other guns firing in sequence could be heard.

Once he had calmed down, the Elite Minor looked into finding food and his duty post. His breakfast came in the form of a sealed ration pack, and his duty post as a vague wave towards one of the barrier walls they had constructed. As he sucked down the vile sludge he walked in the direction indicated, hoping that his assignment would become clear.

Yarna stood near one of the plasma barriers, gazing out into the sparse forest towards the human city. Oriné came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder; the other Sangheili turned and smiled.

“Good morning!” he shouted over the thunderous roar of the artillery.

Oriné nodded his own greeting. “What should we be doing?”

Yarna shrugged. “Keep watch, I suppose.”

The artillery blasted again and Oriné went back to his old post. Now, with the sound of the cannons and the other soldiers, the forest seemed alive. There was some animal life darting between trees, but they didn’t stay in sight very long. For a moment, Oriné dwelt on the thought of these smaller creatures. He doubted they were sapient, but he knew the Forerunner treasured virtually all forms of life. By glassing planets, wasn’t the Covenant destroying more than just the heretics? Weren’t they destroying nature and the creatures within it? In the spotty records that were in Covenant hands, the Forerunner only very rarely authorized the degree of force that the Covenant had brought to bear on the humans, and only ever in the case of some pandemic disease. The scholars and Inquisitors were still not sure what it was exactly they had been trying to eliminate.

A chime interrupted his internal monologue. “Warriors, your ears,” Olah said. “We are expecting the human counterattack to be mounted shortly and quickly. Be on guard. Snipers and spotters to the towers, all sentries be prepared for rapid encounters. Armor will be able to provide support.” With that the terse message finished, the soldiers fell into line. Glancing back, Oriné saw that Yarna was crouched and ready for whatever might come at them.

They didn’t have long to wait. At first Oriné could only hear something approach between the artillery blasts, but soon it grew to a point where he was able to detect them regularly. He had never heard the sound before, a high whining that grew louder and closer every second, but he knew what they were.

“Vehicles!” someone cried out just as three angular shapes appeared between the trees. They rolled on four wheels each, a primitive but effective method of travel. Each had three passengers, two in the front and one on the back, manning a large weapon. As soon as they were within visual range, the first two gunners began firing, sending dozens of bullets at the encamped warriors. All ducked behind cover, bullets harmlessly pinging off the barriers or digging into the felled trees. A couple of Grunts screamed as the rounds entered and exited their bodies, but as they were able to pull themselves out of the line of fire, Oriné supposed that they were not too seriously wounded.

The third vehicle, what Oriné now realized were the human Warthogs, had a different weapon. It fired some kind of cannon at the artillery, loud but not as deafening as the artillery blasts that continued to fire. The stationary gun was heavily armored, enough to withstand the human assault, but it would be wise to take them out before they turned their destructive force against the artillery’s defenders.

“Snipers,” Olah said over the radio, “eliminate that gunner!” Almost immediately Oriné saw two thin purple beams lance out from the two sniper towers. One missed completely and the other was too low, melting a clean hole through the windshield. The human passenger slumped to the side, clutching at its throat, but the driver swerved and began some kind of evasive maneuver. The Warthogs began a circular pattern of driving around the encampment, the two vehicles with the more conventional weapons taking opposite tracks while the cannon moved much more erratically, often switching direction repeatedly and throwing off the snipers.

But it was the Warthogs with the machine guns that worried Oriné. As Grunts and Elites tried to switch positions to optimize their fire capability they would be cut down. Three Unggoy fell under a barrage and one Sangheili suffered a failing shield, two bullets digging deep into his shoulder. He flinched and fell back, but was still upright.

Out of the corner of his eye, Oriné saw Olah run to Yarna and his nearest comrade. They conversed quickly and intensely before the two nodded and the Elite Major made his way over to Oriné. “‘Fulsamee, land a grenade on the next Warthog that passes your position and then watch Yarna and Rabu.”

The Elite Minor nodded his affirmative and the Major ran on, obviously coordinating some bigger movement. Instead of wasting his time wondering, however, Oriné turned his attention back to the battle. The Warthog with the cannon was drawing closer; Oriné reached and unclipped a grenade from his belt, holding it at the ready. He could only prime it at the last possible second, otherwise it would become attached to him, and his military career would come to an abrupt and messy end.

As it drew nearer, the gauss-rifle Warthog slowed and began to turn; when it had almost completed its maneuver, Oriné struck. He gave the grenade a quick squeeze to arm it and lobbed it overhand as fast as he could. His aim was not as precise as he would have liked, but the weapon fused to the vehicle on the passenger side. Panicking, the human closest to it swatted at the glowing blue menace for a second, but his futile gesture amounted to nothing. It detonated, instantly killing the passenger and gunner. As the vehicle flipped from the force of the blast, its ammunition stores cooked off, the secondary explosion killing the driver as well. When the ruined husk of the Warthog finally stopped tumbling and came to a rest, there was little evidence of the humans that had once occupied it.

But the battle wasn’t over yet. Oriné quickly ducked behind cover as one of the machine guns was swept over his position. Two rounds bounced off his shields and brought them dangerously low, but he regained cover in time. Now with his objective completed, Oriné looked towards Yarna and his companion Rabu and watched with horror as they leaped from their own places as a Warthog barreled down on them.

He rose to shout a warning, but it died in his throat as he saw the two of them orient themselves on either side of the approaching vehicle. As it drew near, they stepped forward and reached out with their hands; when it passed they seized the frame and were pulled along with it. They pulled themselves up on either side and reached in, grabbing the occupants and throwing them out with great force. Rabu’s target, the driver, hurtled from the vehicle and slammed into a tree. Yarna’s flew several yards and hit the snow, rolling until it stopped, neck at an odd angle. They jumped down as the Warthog lost momentum, and just as the gunner was about to fire on them a purple beam shot out and pierced its skull. The human flopped out of the vehicle and hit the ground with an audible thump.

Yarna and Rabu were quick to return to cover. Oriné jogged over and knelt by his friend, who was breathless from exertion and laughter. “You are wrong in the head,” he said as he crouched down.

“What,” Yarna replied between gasps, “you don’t remember that maneuver? You invented it, after all.”

Oriné started. “The Yorahii on Jisako?”

“Yes, we got the idea when we first arrived and were beset by Warthogs.” Yarna smiled a wide smile. “We call it the Oriné-salal.” Oriné remained by him, uncertain of being able to return to his own position, as the remaining vehicle made a final circuit of the encampment, attempting to get in a few last-minute kills, before it sped off. Moments later two Ghosts shot past the encampment, their drivers determined to stop the vehicle from returning to the human city.

Oriné-salal, the younger Sangheili thought as he helped the two to their feet. It was traditional Sangheili tongue, meaning “the gambit of Oriné.” He smiled despite himself. It was an honorable thing.

——

By the third day in the encampment, the unit had fallen into a routine. There had been several counterattacks made by the humans, but they had been as largely ineffectual as the first. Two Unggoy had been killed; their bodies were stripped of anything useful and then moved off to a distant place. Oriné felt bad, but they could not be kept close; though the frost would limit the possibility of disease, it did not remove it completely.

Positions were rotated so that no one’s senses could be dulled by monotony. After two days of being on perimeter guard, Oriné found the position as tower spotter quite relaxing. He was on the balcony with the foul-tempered Maq the Jackal, but there was little work to do. Earlier that morning they had seen a small group of human soldiers approach, despite the creatures’ white camouflage; in the first shot, the Kig-Yar sniper was able to take one of them down, presumably their leader. As the day progressed, he had been able to take down two more before the remaining humans decided it wasn’t worth it and fled. Even then, Maq had wounded one as it ran.

Now things were dull. Oriné leaned against one of the rising walls of the balcony and looked over the forest. The atmosphere had grown moody, threatening another storm. Oriné was not pleased by the thought. He was slated for the first night shift again, and it would be difficult to see in such conditions.

He cast a look at his companion. Maq was admiring his beam rifle, a new model that had been reverse-engineered from Forerunner designs. It fired a thin purple stream of protons that was incredibly accurate over any distance they could find here. From what he understood of the workings, the beam was unaffected by wind, the only inaccuracy caused by the shift and dispersal of particles as the beam continued. Several test shots had confirmed that the weapon could fire through five trees before the protons became unstable and separated harmlessly into the air. Its design was quite sleek and smooth as well, a large delta-shaped stock narrowing smoothly into a long, thin barrel. The particle accelerators were visible as a single line on each side of the weapon that became energized when it fired, creating a distinct sound.

“A thing of beauty, Maq?” Oriné asked, looking back into the forest. Nothing was moving except the breeze.

The Kig-Yar almost didn’t respond. “Yes, Excellency,” he managed, running his clawed hand over the smooth barrel. It glistened even in the overcast light. The Elite Minor waited a moment longer to see if he would say anything else, but silent reverence was all he received. Satisfied his companion was distracted, he decided to descend from the tower and look into his midday meal.

The leap from the tower was not perilous at all, and soon Oriné was on the ground and weaving between the defenses to find his way to the ration station. The packs were already laid out; Oriné took his and began to walk away when he saw Major ‘Seroumee standing nearby, arms crossed, gaze intently on the forest. The Elite Minor walked up beside him. Olah inclined his head to acknowledge the new arrival, but did not take his eyes off the woods.

“Excellency...” Oriné began, but the other Sangheili suddenly scowled and waved his hand dismissively.

“Please, Oriné,” Olah growled, “if you have something to say, do it without clogging my ears with meaningless honorifics. I know you too well. Filth such as that should be reserved for politicians and Prophets.”

The outburst was so unexpected as to leave Oriné momentarily stunned, but he regained his composure. “I was wondering if we were to move into the city at any point, or if we would be confined here for the duration of the battle.”

Olah finally turned his eye to look at Oriné. “We are only to move forward as a last resort, but consider us fortunate to be back here. Most of the units sent towards the city have been annihilated, and those that weren’t were forced to retreat. Until a cruiser can get close enough to the city to bombard the humans’ defenses, we will hold our positions.” As if anticipating Oriné’s conflicted sense of glory, he added, “The best way for us to serve our Covenant is to survive and keep fighting. Do not be concerned with honor.

“Now return to your post.”

Oriné did as he was told, managing to ascend up the small gravity lift to the tower just as the artillery began firing again. As he ate, he tried to tune out the thundering gun and instead focus on his surroundings. The forest, sparse as it was, was decidedly beautiful. He knew the ultimate fate of this planet would be glassing, complete destruction to eradicate the taint of heresy that now infested it, but it was a shame to think of these natural creations burning under orbital bombardment.

A low whining noise, barely audible under the regular percussion of the artillery, made itself known to Oriné. The Sangheili looked down and saw a row of armored vehicles filing past. At the head was a flight of Ghosts, the Elite pilots keeping their speed reined in so as not to outpace the others. Trailing behind them were four Wraiths and an accompanying contingent of Spectres. At the back were two Shadows, one full of Grunts and Jackals, the other laden with Elites.

Except, as Oriné looked at them using the zoom function of his helmet, they were not quite Sangheili warriors; the insignia upon their armor revealed them to be Elite Inquisitors. Perhaps the human line has finally been broken? Oriné wondered, watching as they passed. He hoped so. Beautiful as this planet was, he was anxious to see this campaign’s end, late into it as he had come.

The snow was beginning to fall. Oriné settled into his position, watching the little flakes tumble carefree to the ground. He held out a hand and caught one on the tip of his finger. He was able to study it for but a moment before the intricate crystals that formed it broke down and turned into water. The Sangheili had his suit’s thermals cranked all the way up against the cold; being from Sanghelios, he was used to a tropic environment, and this frigid one had been a shock to his system when he arrived. Sometimes he toyed with the idea of turning them down, just to experience the true chill and maybe adjust himself to it, but every time he managed to talk himself into it one of these storms started. The wind would howl, the temperature would drop yet again, and Oriné would leave his thermals at maximum. Doing so did no damage to the armor, but sometimes he felt like the Gods Themselves were trying to convince him to keep to his old ways.

As he sat, he allowed his thoughts to wander to a subject that had always been picking at the back of his mind: why do we glass the humans’ planets? Never before in Covenant history, even when exterminating other heretic races, had the military used such a display of overkill. The Hierarchs told everybody that it was because the taint the humans bore was so pervasive that the entire planet must be destroyed. But if that were the case, then why bother trying to recover the Forerunner artifacts? By the logic presented by the High Prophets, weren’t these relics sullied?

Then again, Oriné thought, the artifacts were considered pure, untouchable by the dark aura of the heretics. But how could you see the taint? Oriné had killed several humans now, and the only dirtying they did was when their blood spilled onto him. If the taint was invisible, unknowable, then how could you tell if it had infected the artifact, or the soldier who killed the human?

A new thought suddenly made him jump, the force of which rocked the balcony. Maq looked back, annoyed, but returned his gaze to the forest. How could you tell, Oriné wondered, if the taint existed at all? There was no evidence of its existence except through hearsay. And for all the Prophets proclaimed, when Oriné read the Divinidex, he had never seen one indication of the humans, heretical or otherwise, except for the sections written by the Hierarchs.

As soon as that thought occurred, however, panic swept through his mind. Heresy! He caught his head between his hands, felt the smooth metal beneath his fingers and let the sensation bring him back to reality. How did these filthy thoughts come to his mind? Was this the effect of the taint? Was he really infected, and had just not realized it until now?

Yes, he decided, yes, that’s it. The black taint of their heresy cannot be seen, nor touched, nor smelled, but it can be felt. He quickly began muttering prayers under his breath for forgiveness, but knew this was too much heresy for such simple atonement. Next time he was on the ship, he would have to go to the Cleric, explain himself, and beg for reckoning from the Forerunners.

Exhausted by his own mind, Oriné sat back and watched the snow continue to fall. It had gotten darker since the storm moved in, and now the flakes were coming down much larger. The beauty was still known to him, though his mind now roiled in its own misery.

If it weren’t necessary to cleanse this taint, he thought, I’m sure many would like to have their homes here. Oriné decided that he would not. He had seen many battles here and didn’t think he would be able to settle where he knew explosive shells once fell. Besides, it was too cold.

He looked up at the sky once more. Would Hada have wanted such a home? He had seemed to enjoy this landscape.

This place is better than his home, Oriné thought darkly. It is his grave.

——

The trees shot past at incredible speed, the falling snow going by even faster in the fading light of the day, but Yarna ‘Orgalmee didn’t ease off the throttle. It was exhilarating. Memories of High Charity, of racing Eidolons through the streets, came floating back to him. It seemed so long ago. The Ghost handled much the same, though this model was designed for combat, not reckless speed.

Another craft matched speed with him. His companion for this mission was Ayan ‘Tapatee, one of the other Minors from Faithful Unit. While neither was part of an armored unit, they had both trained on Institution to pilot light vehicles; with the dedicated squadrons attempting to breach the human line, Major ‘Seroumee had volunteered these two warriors to run a scouting/patrol mission through the surrounding woods.

They joked as they maneuvered the craft between the sparse trees. “Lies do not come easily to these mandibles,” Yarna was finishing a tale, “but I swear that the very next lecture spoke of mating. Not one hour from my discussion!”

Ayan chuckled lightly. “You are too much, Yarna,” he said, then became serious. “We approach the next station.” As he said it, another artillery encampment came into view. They slowed their Ghosts and pulled up to the barricades. A Major stalked out to greet them.

“Routine patrol,” Yarna said, nodding his greeting to the ranking Sangheili. “Is all well?”

The Major nodded, clearly very weary. “At this moment, yes. The humans have been pushing hard in this sector to break through. If you continue in this direction, be wary of ambush. I lost a full lance just yesterday.”

The pair thanked him and sped along, relaying the report to Olah. Expecting the line of conversation to return to its previous direction, Yarna was caught by surprise by his companion’s question.

“Are they true, the rumors of your friend Oriné?” asked Ayan.

“That depends. What are these rumors?”

“That he is a womanizer and a thief. That he was punished for his actions but was able to use family ties to sidestep the consequences and come here.”

Yarna wanted to feel indignity for his friend, but the thought of him as a womanizing bandit made him laugh too hard. “I do not think,” he said after he had finished, “that I have ever heard a more inaccurate description of Oriné in my life.”

The pair made a slight turn, keeping to the route. “Then by all means, correct me.”

“It is true what you’ve heard about him and the Head Master’s daughter,” conceded Yarna. The Ghost made an unfamiliar sound, and the Sangheili frowned at it, fiddling with one of the controls until it stopped. “But in that situation, Oriné was far more the victim than the perpetrator.”

“What of his family? I heard that it was his brother’s high rank that got him excused from gulag duty.”

The Ghost made the sound again. What was it trying to say? “Having not met the elder ‘Fulsamee, I cannot speak for him. But Oriné would not use his Lineage as a bargaining chip. He is too proud, if anything.”

Ayan was saying something, but Yarna didn’t pay attention. The Ghost continued to make the annoying keening noise. He only caught the last part: “I have heard his sister is a priestess, though she doesn’t deserve the honor.”

This is becoming ridiculous, Yarna thought, both of his Ghost and Ayan’s wild accusations. He spread his mandibles to reply, in no uncertain terms, that Ayan knew nothing of the situation, but suddenly everything went wrong all at once.

He heard the crack about half a second before his head snapped back, seemingly of its own volition, and wrenched the muscles in his neck. As his spine rebounded, his mind recalled the sound: a human sniper rifle. Gods, he thought, head in a panic and body slack, I am slain! However, as the Ghost veered to one side, its anti-gravity generator having just suffered a critical mechanical failure, Yarna realized he felt the movement. He returned to his senses but not fast enough to accommodate for the broken vehicle, and it smashed full speed into a tree. He was hurled through the air and landed three meters away.

Forcing his head up despite the agonizing pain, he saw that his Ghost had turned over, right wing snapped off. The noise must have been a warning of some kind. The surprise of the failing technology would have to wait, though; a second later, there was another sniper shot and a 14.5 mm round embedded itself in the ground right next to his arm. Possessed of renewed urgency, Yarna scrambled over to the damaged vehicle, crouching in the cover provided by the Ghost and the tree. He reached a hand up and felt all along his helmet; after just a moment’s searching, he found a deep hole cutting right into the helmet. Panicking once more, he undid the fasteners and pulled off the helmet. The bullet, slowed by his shielding and the metal of the headgear, had stopped just short of penetrating the final layer of armor.

Thank the Forerunners, he thought, gasping as his hearts caught up to him. He replaced the helmet and crouched down further, hearing the sound of automatic fire starting up. Tracers whipped by overhead, cutting swathes through the increasingly thick snowfall.

A soft whine preceded Ayan’s approach. He hovered into place and started firing in the direction of the attacking humans. “Keep your head down,” Yarna called out to him. The other Elite Minor did as he suggested, and a white vapor trail ripped through the air near his head.

“If they do not have rockets here,” shouted Ayan, “they soon will, and we’ll be easy targets.”

Understanding his meaning, Yarna keyed the Battle Net and contacted Olah. “Major, we are pinned down roughly half a kilometer to the northwest from artillery station four and require reinforcements.”

Olah’s gruff voice was a relief to hear. “What is their strength?”

“Unknown. At least one sniper and several riflemen.”

“Hold your position. Reinforcements will arrive shortly.”

——

Oriné had just ridden the gravity lift up to the top of the tower for the night’s watch when he heard Olah’s bellowing voice: “‘Bodnolee! ‘Fulsamee! ‘Cklovee!” There was an urgency in his voice that Oriné had never heard, but whatever it was compelled him to immediately turn on his heel and jump down. He jogged over to where he knew the Major would be.

“What is it?” he asked just as the other two arrived.

“Yarna and Ayan are pinned down half a kilometer northwest from the fourth artillery station,” Olah said. “Head to the rear, commandeer a Spectre, and retrieve them. Time is of the essence! Go!”

“Yes, Excellency!” The three immediately took off at a full sprint, leaping over barricades and dashing between Unggoy. The rear line was a good two hundred meters through the forest, but even so they were motivated, plunging through the dark. In just a few minutes of running they had reached their destination: the vehicle depot situated on the rear line. Oriné’s chest was heaving, but they didn’t slow down as they blazed past the sentry.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked one Elite Minor, closest to their chosen Spectre.

“Our brothers are pinned down,” Rabu ‘Cklovee said, gently clapping the Sangheili on the shoulder. Oriné recognized him as the one who had boarded that Warthog with Yarna, the maneuver they had called the Oriné-salal. “We must rescue them.”

“Rabu, take the gun,” ordered ‘Bodnolee, hefting himself into the driver’s seat. “Oriné, you’re on the side. Keep your wits about you.” Though he was not a higher rank than either of them, and indeed Oriné’s honor markings usually gave him a slightly elevated position, both he and Rabu followed what Toro ‘Bodnolee told them. This was his third campaign; should he survive it, Oriné understood he was eligible for promotion to Major.

The attendant Minor signaled the guards to make room for the departing vehicle. “Our ships in space report the storm is intensifying. Be wary.”

“Thank you for your concern,” grunted Rabu as ‘Bodnolee gunned the boost thruster and tore out of the depot.

The Minor turned out to be quite correct; hardly two minutes after they left the snow was coming down so thickly that Oriné could barely see the cockpit of the very vehicle he rode on, though the onset of night likely did not help. Trees appeared from the darkness, swept very near to the wing the Sangheili sat upon, and then vanished just as suddenly.

“It will be difficult to see them,” said Rabu. Oriné heard the mechanical whir as he moved the gun back and forth.

They passed the third station, barely seeing it as they went. “Something tells me they won’t be too difficult to find,” commented Oriné. Just a short time later, artillery station four shot past.

“‘Cklovee, get ready,” ‘Bodnolee said. “‘Fulsamee, as soon as we reach them, jump and roll.” They both affirmed. Oriné made sure his rifle was attached firmly to his hip; though having it drawn would mean he’d be ready all the sooner, it also meant that he could lose his grip on it upon impact with the ground.

The first sign they were near came when three tracer rounds zipped out of the darkness and punched holes in the frame right next to Oriné’s shoulder. Immediately Rabu swiveled the turret in the direction it came from and fired, blue plasma bolts reflecting off the snow. More bullets came at them, making a horrifying stunning light show of burning topaz and sapphire in the night air.

“Now, Oriné!” Without thinking, Oriné tensed his legs and leaped off to the side, tucking his shoulder and rolling as soon as he hit the ground. He tumbled through the rising snow, coming to a stop on his belly. In an instant he had his rifle up and ready. The Spectre sped off into the dark, only visible from the occasional blue flare of the boost and the quick accurate bursts from the mounted gun on the back. Two grenade blasts went up, silhouetting an overturned Ghost that was nose-first into a tree. Judging that to be his best bet, Oriné got up and ran over, staying as low as he could.

As he drew nearer, his sharp eyes made out another shape crouched nearby. It suddenly drew itself up, leaned over the top of the ruined vehicle, and fired three green bolts of energy at some unseen foe before ducking down. Oriné slid to a stop next to the shape, which reeled in surprise but quickly regained composure.

“Oriné!”

Now he recognized him. “Yarna, are you wounded?”

“No,” the Elite Minor said.

“Where’s Ayan?”

“Strafing around. His Ghost is still intact.”

Oriné stood and fired several shots. He was answered as a hail of lead flew at him. A few bullets pinged off his shield, but he dropped back down before they could cause him any permanent harm. He eyed the pistol in his friend’s hand. “Where is your rifle?”

He shook his head. “Lost in the crash,” said Yarna. “This is the second time you’ve come to my rescue. Is it fate or the Gods that make you watch over me, dear friend?”

The younger Sangheili couldn’t help but smile. “A higher power, our mutual friend and commanding officer.”

Another grenade detonated nearby, shaking the Ghost. Yarna winced. “The fusion core must be close to exploding. This is no longer safe cover.”

“Contact Ayan,” Oriné said, “tell him to fall back. We’ll get out of here immediately.” As Yarna did that, Oriné opened his own channel on the Battle Net and linked up with ‘Bodnolee. “I have Yarna, he is unwounded. Ayan will be joining us shortly.”

“Affirmative,” replied Toro. “Falling back.”

“Cover!” Yarna suddenly yelled. Oriné barely reacted in time, throwing himself to the ground as a much stronger explosion shook the ground and threw the already damaged Ghost over their heads, metal raining down on them. A shrill alarm sounded in his ears; his shields were down, but he could see the faint blue glow of a rapidly approaching Spectre.

A Ghost swung around behind them. “Rockets!” cried Ayan.

“Get on! Now!” ‘Bondolee shouted. Oriné and Yarna started to rise, but heard a sharp sound behind them. Yarna started to turn, not knowing what the sound was, but Oriné instantly recognized it as a fusion core going critical.

Oriné flung himself against Yarna’s back, knocking him to the ground just as the beaten Ghost exploded, filling the air with shrapnel and the smell of ozone. Rabu cried out as a shard pierced his shields and dug into his upper arm. Picking themselves up once more, the two Sangheili on the ground charged forward and slid into the nooks on the wings of the Spectre.

“Haste!” Oriné cried, feeling the magnets grab his belt and secure him. ‘Bodnolee wasted no time gunning the engine as the human fire intensified, two more rockets shooting from the night but fortunately missing the vehicles. As both vehicles leaned on the boost, the sounds of battle fell far behind them. Oriné slumped against the Spectre’s hull and sighed. They had made it.

Once safely back at their proper artillery station, they were greeted with cheers. The Unggoy and Kig-Yar crowded around them while the artillery crew applauded and saluted from their platform. Out of the corner of his eye, Oriné saw Yarna clap Ayan heartily on the back.

“You see?” said the elder Sangheili. “He’s not as terrible as they say.”

Ayan ‘Tapatee just shook his head and chuckled wearily. “No, he’s not.”

——

Two weeks later the call came to pull back from the planet. Spirits descended from the sky to pick up the embattled warriors and what hardware could be salvaged; the retreat order came so suddenly that there had been no time to break down the artillery, and they would be left on the surface. Of course, there was no concern that the humans would capture them and learn any secrets. Everyone knew that the retreat meant the planet’s imminent destruction.

First supervising he and Yarna’s Grunts as they loaded on, Oriné found his place in one of the dropships and eased himself into the troop slot. A sense of giddy horror seized his stomachs: he had survived. It had been terrible and beautiful, all at once, and his training had saved his life on more than one occasion, but now, looking back, it was a wonder. Bullets had filled the air, his life had been in danger almost every second of every day. He reveled in it.

But now he was weary, and the weight of what he had seen, what he had done, the friends he had lost... it was settling onto his shoulders. The giddiness was smothered, leaving only a hollow feeling. Hada ‘Sobotee had been his close friend on the gulag, and had even managed to accompany him out here. But Hada was dead, and Oriné was alive. Did that make sense?

Why is my life worth more than his? Oriné wondered, sorrow setting in again. Why did the Forerunners find me worthier of their grace than he? He was a Healer; I am a warrior. He could give life, I can only take it away.

The slots beside him filled up and the door closed. From the cockpit, the pilot announced their departure and Oriné felt the deck lift beneath him. Gazing out of the small window he was allowed, he watched as the trees fell past his view and he finally was able to see the city he had fought so hard to take, given up so much, and yet had never set foot in or laid eyes upon. It was a sprawling human metropolis, low buildings with arched roofs to keep the snow from settling. There were stills signs of lingering battle, a few anti-air cannons firing at a flight of Banshees that were covering the dropships’ retreat.

The city itself, however, stood out. It was ordered and planned, while the beautiful nature all around it was wild, chaotic; it looked like a cancer on the face of the world. Oriné remembered the undetectable taint that had pervaded even him and frowned. He wished the endearing landscape could be spared, but the humans, affronts as they were, could not be allowed to continue.

Once in space, the Spirit dropship maneuvered its way through the atmospheric wreckage to the Transcendent Voyager. It and three other dropships made their way to the starboard hangars and landed, disgorging their troops. All made their way quickly out of the hangar; these would return to the planet to pick up more soldiers, which would involve lowering the force fields and exposing the entire hangar to space. No one wanted to end up in the vacuum.

However, while most of the returned warriors filed off to find their quarters, Oriné found the main gravity lift and took it up to the observation deck. He was happy to see that the ship was oriented properly to allow him a view of the planet. He remembered seeing the planet from the deck of the Domain of Prosperity, when he had first arrived. It seemed so long ago.

They were still evacuating people from the planet, so Oriné knew he had time to wait. He sat in the small garden and meditated, communing with the Gods as best he could. His mind was still swimming with confused, contradicting emotions, but at the end of an hour he had resolved that all of them together made up one strong feeling: relief. Relief at having survived, relief at having left.

“Look, they’re beginning!” Oriné opened his eyes and saw that a small crowd had gathered, mostly curios Grunts and Jackals, though a Hunter pair was present as well. He stood and walked to a place where he could see the planet.

Pearl was now fully framed in the windows, but even from this distance Oriné could make out the cruisers that had taken up geosynchronous positions just above the atmosphere. His keen Sangheili eyes strained to see the plasma as it fell from the ships and bombarded the atmosphere. As they went, they left trails of disturbed clouds and fire in their wake.

From here, Oriné tried to imagine the places he had seen burning, being incinerated into vapor by the unthinkably hot bombs being dropped. The visions of Tropicas, the human city, filled him with nothing. Just thinking of his experiences sapped his emotion so much that he didn’t even feel satisfaction at its destruction. He wondered if Hada’s body had been recovered, or if it had stayed down there with all the dead Unggoy and Kig-Yar and humans.

A world is your funeral pyre, Hada ‘Sobotee, Oriné thought. You’ve earned such a splendor. One day, Oriné resolved, he would see him on the Great Journey. And on that day, he would be happy.

Now the true physical weariness was felt by the Sangheili. Once he had thought he would feel sadness to see such a beautiful place burn, but in just a short time, now he felt nothing. I am a soldier now.

He left the observation deck. As he walked away, Pearl burned.

——

From space, Joyous Exultation had looked a little bit like Sanghelios, just with less ocean and more land. It also only had one moon that hung in the sky, glittering on the dark side with military installations, war academies much smaller than Institution, both in size and curriculum.

However, on the ground, Oriné saw that the buildings were squatter than on Sanghelios, emphasizing floor space per story instead of the numbers tall. Only a few spires rose here and there, and Oriné recognized them as religious temples, outposts for the Convent. This planet was a humble colony and had no true attraction, except that the great war hero, Supreme Commander Xytan Jar ‘Wattinree had his estate here. But Oriné’s destination took him well beyond that area, and in fact well beyond the cities of small, flat buildings.

For his errand, he had been lent a Chimera. As he drove over the dirt road, the farmers and children knee-deep in water in the fields on either side looked up to watch his passing. It was rare to see such a craft this far out. Most walked or used shabbier vehicles design for transporting grains and livestock to the markets and bazaars in the city.

The home he was looking for was a kilometer down the road, past the small farms and agricultural plants that made up the area. It was very cozy, situated on an open plain of grass with a small hill behind it. A little hatchling played with her mother on the visible side, the older Sangheili holding her to the ground and tickling her vulnerable belly. Judging by the motions made by the smaller form, she was laughing hysterically.

Oriné brought the Chimera to a stop several meters in front of the home, where a stone-lined path led up to the front door. As he powered down the core, he looked over at the passenger seat. Cradled in the cup-shaped chair was a helmet. Its cobalt surface was scuffed and scratched, one deep gash cutting diagonally across the top but not piercing the inner armor. It had seen a lot of action, he knew. It had belonged to Oriné, the one he had worn on Pearl throughout the campaign. Now, though, it would serve a new purpose, since the one he should have brought...

But why did he bring it? It was tradition, yes, but why did he bring it? Others had known Hada ‘Sobotee, and likely some of them knew him better than Oriné. So why was he bringing it and subjecting himself to this.

Because I was there, he told himself. Because in those few days, we grew close, because we shed blood together. The snow was stained purple from both our wounds, and we cried and triumphed together.

Because he was my friend.

Sighing, the Elite Minor got out of the driver’s seat. His new combat harness glistened in the sun, unbearably clean. He had gotten new armor because his old one had seen so much punishment that it offered little protection. The shield generator had been close to burning out, the technicians had said. He had used them too much, pushed them too hard. He was supposed to be careful with this new one.

What is less life-threatening than this? He walked around the front of the Chimera and scooped the damaged helmet out of the seat, running a finger over the valleys that had been carved into it.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said a voice behind him. He jumped, surprised, and dropped the helmet back into the vehicle. Turning around, he came face-to-face with a male Sangheili dressed in soiled farmer’s trousers. A long scar ran down the side of his neck, but it showed no burn tissue. Perhaps it was a wound from a human combat knife.

The man smiled, slightly sheepishly. “From behind, you looked like my son. If I had realized it was somebody else, I would have made some attempt at getting clean.” He gestured to his trousers, mud encrusted around the bottoms and covered in dirt. “So what brings you out this far, warrior? News of my son?”

Oriné tried to speak, but even though his mandibles opened he could make no sound. The man looked at him quizzically, no sign of understanding in his features. A knot formed in the Elite Minor’s throat and he became acutely aware of the off-rhythm beat of his hearts.

Slowly he reached back, took the helmet, and brought it out of the seat again. He cradled it for just a moment, and then held it in front of him with both hands. “Are you Ladu ‘Sobotee?”

Ladu nodded, his eyes falling to look at what was being presented to him. Oriné could not take his eyes off the other’s face, not as his mandibles slackened, not when his eyes widened, and certainly not when his eyes, moist, looked up again. The older male’s mandibles twitched, attempting speech, but there was no sound. Oriné understood.

“We were warriors together,” said the Minor. “He was my friend.”

Numbness seemed to take the man, and he made a vague invitational gesture as he turned to go back into his house. Oriné followed behind him; the confident posture this farmer had just moments before was completely gone. He sort of slumped along the path.

As they went, Oriné looked up at the hill. The hatchling and her mother had stopped playing and were looking at him now.

Despite everything, he couldn’t bring himself to nod hello.

Description
Chapter 10: Baptism of Fire

Oriné ‘Fulsamee turned the scuffed and burned box over in his hands. The rest of Olah’s unit was picking through the wreckage of Oriné’s previous unit’s convoy, finding bodies and salvageable material. So far, Oriné had only found this, but he had not looked very hard. He had been exempted from the search for “personal reasons.”

Now he sat on a displaced piece of building, staring numbly at his surviving possessions. He slid the lid open and looked inside; within, undamaged, were the nadier and the human book. His fingers grazed over the cover, but he shut the lid and continued to stare at the box. Once he may have secretly glanced inwards at a few of the words much to his own delight, but now it just seemed pointless.

Hada, he thought glumly. One of his closest friends was now dead. They had picked up what remained of his body and laid it out in the street next to the others they were finding now. When the rest of the army caught up with them, Yarna had told him, they would have the corpses sent back for proper internment on their home worlds. That did nothing to soothe Oriné, however, as he would repeatedly look over at the fallen form of his comrade then be forced to look away by the sight of it. It wounded him inside, too, to know that he couldn’t stomach the sight of his friend even as he was without a head. He felt like he had betrayed him.

A shadow fell across him and Oriné started, finding himself looking up into Olah ‘Seroumee’s face. The grave Sangheili nodded at the box. “I am glad to see you’ve kept them safe all this time.”

Oriné merely lowered his head. He had nothing to say.

There was a moment where Olah did not speak as well. “I’m placing you in Yarna’s lance for the time being,” he said. “If one of the leaders should fall, you will take his place and command his lance. I’ve also added you as part of the roster for Faithful Unit. Welcome back.” The shadow moved away, and Oriné nodded to no one but himself. The motion revealed a pile of dead Grunts that had been pulled from the wreckage and unceremoniously clumped together. Near the bottom, the former member of Divine Unit recognized the Unggoy that had been under his command. A new wave of sorrow crashed upon him as he realized that he had never bothered to learn their names.

He almost wailed aloud, but he heard Olah’s call to rise and prepare to move out, and as he stood Yarna came up behind him and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You shall be fine,” he said, touching foreheads. “Live for the lives they no longer have, and meet them on the Great Journey.”

Sighing, Oriné nodded and allowed his friend to lead him to the front of the column.

——

The vehicles passed the last vestiges of humanity and sped out into the snowy landscape. Visible on the same plain were other convoys that had broken through and were picking up speed to get as far away from the city as fast as possible. A few artillery cannons took potshots at them, but largely they were unimpeded.

Cheers went out across the Battle Net, warriors celebrating their freedom from the concrete hell that had been Tropicas. There were a few songs here and there, disharmonious against each other, and there were a few token Majors who tried to keep the peace among their units, but Olah was silent, as always.

Even Oriné felt new life breathed into him as he watched the city fall away behind them. Despite everything that had happened, he felt he could still carry on. Beside him in the seat, the Kig-Yar mercenary Maq jabbered sullenly at the noise on the radio. Yarna’s lance was slightly bigger than Oriné’s had been, accommodating two Jackals as well as the three usual Grunts. When Oriné had been transferred in, Yarna had been relieved for the help. Apparently keeping the Kig-Yar from abusing the Unggoy was a task.

“What has fouled your mood now, Maq?” Oriné asked, more out of necessity than genuine compassion. Perhaps the Jackal knew it, because he fixed the Sangheili with a hateful glare before replying.

“I do not like the cold or the Unggoy stink over everything,” he muttered.

Oriné cocked his head to the side. “The cold cannot be helped, and neither can the smell. You must learn to deal with each.”

Continuing to grumble, Maq managed a clipped “Yes, Excellency” before again becoming introspective. Oriné looked at the demented Kig-Yar for a moment longer before turning his attention back to the landscape that sped by.

After the revelry had died down, Olah took to the Battle Net. “Warriors, your ears,” he said. Immediately all those in Faithful Unit grew silent and attentive, even sitting straighter in their seats; whatever Olah had done to earn their respect, it had worked. “Tropicas falls behind us, but the greater battle lies ahead, an equal chance for glory or death.

“Our assignment is to protect our artillery mortars while we lay siege to the objective city. The hope of the Hierarchs is that this tactic will create enough damage and chaos as to allow the Inquisitors and their escorts a chance to enter, find the artifact, and escape.”

“Glory be to the Hierarchs,” the Elites recited, Oriné included, “those who show us the path to Enlightenment and illuminate the Great Journey.”

“While deployed,” Olah continued, “we can expect harsh counterattacks by the humans. Once we arrive we will move quickly to set up the anti-air defenses and watchtowers for the snipers. Fortifications will have to be constructed on-site, as not as many barricades and plasma covers survived the trip as I had hoped.”

Oriné pursed his mandibles in thought. This area was sparsely wooded, but there could be enough trees to cut down to make a perimeter. After a strategic deployment of barriers, the supply crates could likely be arranged to create further cover against enemy fire, as well as hinder the humans’ ability to damage the artillery.

It was a long ride, but when it came to an end by the artillery piece Oriné was prepared. As soon as the magnetics were disengaged he slid from his seat and set to work, ordering the Unggoy to locate trees of sufficient size while he and Yarna helped to unlimber and carry the existing plasma covers. As for Maq, he knew the hateful little creature would enjoy a break from the standard work.

“Jackal,” he said, nodding in his direction, “go scout the surrounding woods. Find good hiding spots, any place where the natural terrain could work for or against us, and locate a decent fallback position in case we are overrun.”

Though it was difficult to tell, Oriné knew that Maq was relieved for the distraction. As he nodded his assent and jogged off, the Elite Minor knew that he would not see the mercenary for several hours as he accomplished the task set before him. Turning back to the work at hand, he found himself grateful for its distraction from his own problems as well.

The artillery piece they were setting up around was a very dominating presence. Its rounded main body with a snub-nose barrel was mounted on a nineteen-meter-long base, making the weapon an intimidating 25 meters tall. On the back was an operating platform where the warriors in charge of manning and firing the gun could plot its firing trajectory. When it fired, Oriné understood from the training simulators, it hurled a blob of burning sapphire plasma in an arc, much akin to a Wraith but several times larger and far more devastating. Compared to human artillery, the heat from the impact incinerated anything too close, but the overpressure was virtually non-existent. It only required a short cool-down period, and could maintain bombardment for hours. From the Shadows, Oriné saw it was currently crewed by two Minors being overseen by a Major. It looked like they were running through diagnostics, so when he passed by to set up the cover, he made sure he didn’t interfere.

It was snowing lightly under a darker sky when they finished erecting the defenses, composed of a combination of hard-light barriers and felled tree trunks lashed together with cable. The plasma covers had been deployed at the “front” of the formation, where most of the human attacks were expected to come from. Guard posts had been designated all around the camp and firing notches cut into the wood; in addition, two watchtowers had been deployed to allow the Jackal snipers a clearer field of view through the sparse trees.

Oriné had been selected for first watch, so he was standing alert behind one of the wooden defenses when he saw movement. Alarmed at first, he readied his rifle but quickly stopped when he saw that it was only Maq, returning from his assignment. The Kig-Yar halted at the barrier, looking back and forth along it critically.

“I see the defenses are prepared, Excellency,” he muttered.

Oriné nodded. “Have you found what I asked you?”

“Indeed. The ground, though covered with snow, has an underlying layer of branches and leaves which, when lifted, can provide ample concealment. The forest terminates roughly three hundred meters that way”—he gestured towards the city—“into a gentle downward slope, evening out roughly a quarter-kilometer from the edge of the human capital. However, it is open space; any halfway decent sniper will be able to pick off an infantry charge. From the looks of many bodies freezing on the ground out there, they already have.” Oriné shuddered in a combination of rage and apprehension. Not being able to fight your enemy face-to-face was degrading and humiliating, and fate left in the hands of a sniper was never a good thing.

“And of fallback positions?”

Maq clicked his beak. “Back the way we came is the best choice, Excellency.”

Satisfied for the moment, Oriné stepped back and allowed the Jackal to climb over the chest-high wall into the camp. “Rest while you can,” he said. “The bombardment will begin at dawn to cover the advance of the armored ranks into the city. Few will be able to sleep through that, I imagine.”

His feathers once more ruffled, the Kig-Yar stalked off, muttering.

——

Morning came far too quickly, and Oriné’s rest cycle was brought to a jarring end when the artillery warmed and fired its first shot. The noise slammed through the camp, startling the defenders awake. Mind in a panic, the Elite Minor scrambled out of his shelter and looked up at the gun. It fired again, sending another blast ripping through the air. All throughout the forest, the echoing reports of the other guns firing in sequence could be heard.

Once he had calmed down, the Elite Minor looked into finding food and his duty post. His breakfast came in the form of a sealed ration pack, and his duty post as a vague wave towards one of the barrier walls they had constructed. As he sucked down the vile sludge he walked in the direction indicated, hoping that his assignment would become clear.

Yarna stood near one of the plasma barriers, gazing out into the sparse forest towards the human city. Oriné came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder; the other Sangheili turned and smiled.

“Good morning!” he shouted over the thunderous roar of the artillery.

Oriné nodded his own greeting. “What should we be doing?”

Yarna shrugged. “Keep watch, I suppose.”

The artillery blasted again and Oriné went back to his old post. Now, with the sound of the cannons and the other soldiers, the forest seemed alive. There was some animal life darting between trees, but they didn’t stay in sight very long. For a moment, Oriné dwelt on the thought of these smaller creatures. He doubted they were sapient, but he knew the Forerunner treasured virtually all forms of life. By glassing planets, wasn’t the Covenant destroying more than just the heretics? Weren’t they destroying nature and the creatures within it? In the spotty records that were in Covenant hands, the Forerunner only very rarely authorized the degree of force that the Covenant had brought to bear on the humans, and only ever in the case of some pandemic disease. The scholars and Inquisitors were still not sure what it was exactly they had been trying to eliminate.

A chime interrupted his internal monologue. “Warriors, your ears,” Olah said. “We are expecting the human counterattack to be mounted shortly and quickly. Be on guard. Snipers and spotters to the towers, all sentries be prepared for rapid encounters. Armor will be able to provide support.” With that the terse message finished, the soldiers fell into line. Glancing back, Oriné saw that Yarna was crouched and ready for whatever might come at them.

They didn’t have long to wait. At first Oriné could only hear something approach between the artillery blasts, but soon it grew to a point where he was able to detect them regularly. He had never heard the sound before, a high whining that grew louder and closer every second, but he knew what they were.

“Vehicles!” someone cried out just as three angular shapes appeared between the trees. They rolled on four wheels each, a primitive but effective method of travel. Each had three passengers, two in the front and one on the back, manning a large weapon. As soon as they were within visual range, the first two gunners began firing, sending dozens of bullets at the encamped warriors. All ducked behind cover, bullets harmlessly pinging off the barriers or digging into the felled trees. A couple of Grunts screamed as the rounds entered and exited their bodies, but as they were able to pull themselves out of the line of fire, Oriné supposed that they were not too seriously wounded.

The third vehicle, what Oriné now realized were the human Warthogs, had a different weapon. It fired some kind of cannon at the artillery, loud but not as deafening as the artillery blasts that continued to fire. The stationary gun was heavily armored, enough to withstand the human assault, but it would be wise to take them out before they turned their destructive force against the artillery’s defenders.

“Snipers,” Olah said over the radio, “eliminate that gunner!” Almost immediately Oriné saw two thin purple beams lance out from the two sniper towers. One missed completely and the other was too low, melting a clean hole through the windshield. The human passenger slumped to the side, clutching at its throat, but the driver swerved and began some kind of evasive maneuver. The Warthogs began a circular pattern of driving around the encampment, the two vehicles with the more conventional weapons taking opposite tracks while the cannon moved much more erratically, often switching direction repeatedly and throwing off the snipers.

But it was the Warthogs with the machine guns that worried Oriné. As Grunts and Elites tried to switch positions to optimize their fire capability they would be cut down. Three Unggoy fell under a barrage and one Sangheili suffered a failing shield, two bullets digging deep into his shoulder. He flinched and fell back, but was still upright.

Out of the corner of his eye, Oriné saw Olah run to Yarna and his nearest comrade. They conversed quickly and intensely before the two nodded and the Elite Major made his way over to Oriné. “‘Fulsamee, land a grenade on the next Warthog that passes your position and then watch Yarna and Rabu.”

The Elite Minor nodded his affirmative and the Major ran on, obviously coordinating some bigger movement. Instead of wasting his time wondering, however, Oriné turned his attention back to the battle. The Warthog with the cannon was drawing closer; Oriné reached and unclipped a grenade from his belt, holding it at the ready. He could only prime it at the last possible second, otherwise it would become attached to him, and his military career would come to an abrupt and messy end.

As it drew nearer, the gauss-rifle Warthog slowed and began to turn; when it had almost completed its maneuver, Oriné struck. He gave the grenade a quick squeeze to arm it and lobbed it overhand as fast as he could. His aim was not as precise as he would have liked, but the weapon fused to the vehicle on the passenger side. Panicking, the human closest to it swatted at the glowing blue menace for a second, but his futile gesture amounted to nothing. It detonated, instantly killing the passenger and gunner. As the vehicle flipped from the force of the blast, its ammunition stores cooked off, the secondary explosion killing the driver as well. When the ruined husk of the Warthog finally stopped tumbling and came to a rest, there was little evidence of the humans that had once occupied it.

But the battle wasn’t over yet. Oriné quickly ducked behind cover as one of the machine guns was swept over his position. Two rounds bounced off his shields and brought them dangerously low, but he regained cover in time. Now with his objective completed, Oriné looked towards Yarna and his companion Rabu and watched with horror as they leaped from their own places as a Warthog barreled down on them.

He rose to shout a warning, but it died in his throat as he saw the two of them orient themselves on either side of the approaching vehicle. As it drew near, they stepped forward and reached out with their hands; when it passed they seized the frame and were pulled along with it. They pulled themselves up on either side and reached in, grabbing the occupants and throwing them out with great force. Rabu’s target, the driver, hurtled from the vehicle and slammed into a tree. Yarna’s flew several yards and hit the snow, rolling until it stopped, neck at an odd angle. They jumped down as the Warthog lost momentum, and just as the gunner was about to fire on them a purple beam shot out and pierced its skull. The human flopped out of the vehicle and hit the ground with an audible thump.

Yarna and Rabu were quick to return to cover. Oriné jogged over and knelt by his friend, who was breathless from exertion and laughter. “You are wrong in the head,” he said as he crouched down.

“What,” Yarna replied between gasps, “you don’t remember that maneuver? You invented it, after all.”

Oriné started. “The Yorahii on Jisako?”

“Yes, we got the idea when we first arrived and were beset by Warthogs.” Yarna smiled a wide smile. “We call it the Oriné-salal.” Oriné remained by him, uncertain of being able to return to his own position, as the remaining vehicle made a final circuit of the encampment, attempting to get in a few last-minute kills, before it sped off. Moments later two Ghosts shot past the encampment, their drivers determined to stop the vehicle from returning to the human city.

Oriné-salal, the younger Sangheili thought as he helped the two to their feet. It was traditional Sangheili tongue, meaning “the gambit of Oriné.” He smiled despite himself. It was an honorable thing.

——

By the third day in the encampment, the unit had fallen into a routine. There had been several counterattacks made by the humans, but they had been as largely ineffectual as the first. Two Unggoy had been killed; their bodies were stripped of anything useful and then moved off to a distant place. Oriné felt bad, but they could not be kept close; though the frost would limit the possibility of disease, it did not remove it completely.

Positions were rotated so that no one’s senses could be dulled by monotony. After two days of being on perimeter guard, Oriné found the position as tower spotter quite relaxing. He was on the balcony with the foul-tempered Maq the Jackal, but there was little work to do. Earlier that morning they had seen a small group of human soldiers approach, despite the creatures’ white camouflage; in the first shot, the Kig-Yar sniper was able to take one of them down, presumably their leader. As the day progressed, he had been able to take down two more before the remaining humans decided it wasn’t worth it and fled. Even then, Maq had wounded one as it ran.

Now things were dull. Oriné leaned against one of the rising walls of the balcony and looked over the forest. The atmosphere had grown moody, threatening another storm. Oriné was not pleased by the thought. He was slated for the first night shift again, and it would be difficult to see in such conditions.

He cast a look at his companion. Maq was admiring his beam rifle, a new model that had been reverse-engineered from Forerunner designs. It fired a thin purple stream of protons that was incredibly accurate over any distance they could find here. From what he understood of the workings, the beam was unaffected by wind, the only inaccuracy caused by the shift and dispersal of particles as the beam continued. Several test shots had confirmed that the weapon could fire through five trees before the protons became unstable and separated harmlessly into the air. Its design was quite sleek and smooth as well, a large delta-shaped stock narrowing smoothly into a long, thin barrel. The particle accelerators were visible as a single line on each side of the weapon that became energized when it fired, creating a distinct sound.

“A thing of beauty, Maq?” Oriné asked, looking back into the forest. Nothing was moving except the breeze.

The Kig-Yar almost didn’t respond. “Yes, Excellency,” he managed, running his clawed hand over the smooth barrel. It glistened even in the overcast light. The Elite Minor waited a moment longer to see if he would say anything else, but silent reverence was all he received. Satisfied his companion was distracted, he decided to descend from the tower and look into his midday meal.

The leap from the tower was not perilous at all, and soon Oriné was on the ground and weaving between the defenses to find his way to the ration station. The packs were already laid out; Oriné took his and began to walk away when he saw Major ‘Seroumee standing nearby, arms crossed, gaze intently on the forest. The Elite Minor walked up beside him. Olah inclined his head to acknowledge the new arrival, but did not take his eyes off the woods.

“Excellency...” Oriné began, but the other Sangheili suddenly scowled and waved his hand dismissively.

“Please, Oriné,” Olah growled, “if you have something to say, do it without clogging my ears with meaningless honorifics. I know you too well. Filth such as that should be reserved for politicians and Prophets.”

The outburst was so unexpected as to leave Oriné momentarily stunned, but he regained his composure. “I was wondering if we were to move into the city at any point, or if we would be confined here for the duration of the battle.”

Olah finally turned his eye to look at Oriné. “We are only to move forward as a last resort, but consider us fortunate to be back here. Most of the units sent towards the city have been annihilated, and those that weren’t were forced to retreat. Until a cruiser can get close enough to the city to bombard the humans’ defenses, we will hold our positions.” As if anticipating Oriné’s conflicted sense of glory, he added, “The best way for us to serve our Covenant is to survive and keep fighting. Do not be concerned with honor.

“Now return to your post.”

Oriné did as he was told, managing to ascend up the small gravity lift to the tower just as the artillery began firing again. As he ate, he tried to tune out the thundering gun and instead focus on his surroundings. The forest, sparse as it was, was decidedly beautiful. He knew the ultimate fate of this planet would be glassing, complete destruction to eradicate the taint of heresy that now infested it, but it was a shame to think of these natural creations burning under orbital bombardment.

A low whining noise, barely audible under the regular percussion of the artillery, made itself known to Oriné. The Sangheili looked down and saw a row of armored vehicles filing past. At the head was a flight of Ghosts, the Elite pilots keeping their speed reined in so as not to outpace the others. Trailing behind them were four Wraiths and an accompanying contingent of Spectres. At the back were two Shadows, one full of Grunts and Jackals, the other laden with Elites.

Except, as Oriné looked at them using the zoom function of his helmet, they were not quite Sangheili warriors; the insignia upon their armor revealed them to be Elite Inquisitors. Perhaps the human line has finally been broken? Oriné wondered, watching as they passed. He hoped so. Beautiful as this planet was, he was anxious to see this campaign’s end, late into it as he had come.

The snow was beginning to fall. Oriné settled into his position, watching the little flakes tumble carefree to the ground. He held out a hand and caught one on the tip of his finger. He was able to study it for but a moment before the intricate crystals that formed it broke down and turned into water. The Sangheili had his suit’s thermals cranked all the way up against the cold; being from Sanghelios, he was used to a tropic environment, and this frigid one had been a shock to his system when he arrived. Sometimes he toyed with the idea of turning them down, just to experience the true chill and maybe adjust himself to it, but every time he managed to talk himself into it one of these storms started. The wind would howl, the temperature would drop yet again, and Oriné would leave his thermals at maximum. Doing so did no damage to the armor, but sometimes he felt like the Gods Themselves were trying to convince him to keep to his old ways.

As he sat, he allowed his thoughts to wander to a subject that had always been picking at the back of his mind: why do we glass the humans’ planets? Never before in Covenant history, even when exterminating other heretic races, had the military used such a display of overkill. The Hierarchs told everybody that it was because the taint the humans bore was so pervasive that the entire planet must be destroyed. But if that were the case, then why bother trying to recover the Forerunner artifacts? By the logic presented by the High Prophets, weren’t these relics sullied?

Then again, Oriné thought, the artifacts were considered pure, untouchable by the dark aura of the heretics. But how could you see the taint? Oriné had killed several humans now, and the only dirtying they did was when their blood spilled onto him. If the taint was invisible, unknowable, then how could you tell if it had infected the artifact, or the soldier who killed the human?

A new thought suddenly made him jump, the force of which rocked the balcony. Maq looked back, annoyed, but returned his gaze to the forest. How could you tell, Oriné wondered, if the taint existed at all? There was no evidence of its existence except through hearsay. And for all the Prophets proclaimed, when Oriné read the Divinidex, he had never seen one indication of the humans, heretical or otherwise, except for the sections written by the Hierarchs.

As soon as that thought occurred, however, panic swept through his mind. Heresy! He caught his head between his hands, felt the smooth metal beneath his fingers and let the sensation bring him back to reality. How did these filthy thoughts come to his mind? Was this the effect of the taint? Was he really infected, and had just not realized it until now?

Yes, he decided, yes, that’s it. The black taint of their heresy cannot be seen, nor touched, nor smelled, but it can be felt. He quickly began muttering prayers under his breath for forgiveness, but knew this was too much heresy for such simple atonement. Next time he was on the ship, he would have to go to the Cleric, explain himself, and beg for reckoning from the Forerunners.

Exhausted by his own mind, Oriné sat back and watched the snow continue to fall. It had gotten darker since the storm moved in, and now the flakes were coming down much larger. The beauty was still known to him, though his mind now roiled in its own misery.

If it weren’t necessary to cleanse this taint, he thought, I’m sure many would like to have their homes here. Oriné decided that he would not. He had seen many battles here and didn’t think he would be able to settle where he knew explosive shells once fell. Besides, it was too cold.

He looked up at the sky once more. Would Hada have wanted such a home? He had seemed to enjoy this landscape.

This place is better than his home, Oriné thought darkly. It is his grave.

——

The trees shot past at incredible speed, the falling snow going by even faster in the fading light of the day, but Yarna ‘Orgalmee didn’t ease off the throttle. It was exhilarating. Memories of High Charity, of racing Eidolons through the streets, came floating back to him. It seemed so long ago. The Ghost handled much the same, though this model was designed for combat, not reckless speed.

Another craft matched speed with him. His companion for this mission was Ayan ‘Tapatee, one of the other Minors from Faithful Unit. While neither was part of an armored unit, they had both trained on Institution to pilot light vehicles; with the dedicated squadrons attempting to breach the human line, Major ‘Seroumee had volunteered these two warriors to run a scouting/patrol mission through the surrounding woods.

They joked as they maneuvered the craft between the sparse trees. “Lies do not come easily to these mandibles,” Yarna was finishing a tale, “but I swear that the very next lecture spoke of mating. Not one hour from my discussion!”

Ayan chuckled lightly. “You are too much, Yarna,” he said, then became serious. “We approach the next station.” As he said it, another artillery encampment came into view. They slowed their Ghosts and pulled up to the barricades. A Major stalked out to greet them.

“Routine patrol,” Yarna said, nodding his greeting to the ranking Sangheili. “Is all well?”

The Major nodded, clearly very weary. “At this moment, yes. The humans have been pushing hard in this sector to break through. If you continue in this direction, be wary of ambush. I lost a full lance just yesterday.”

The pair thanked him and sped along, relaying the report to Olah. Expecting the line of conversation to return to its previous direction, Yarna was caught by surprise by his companion’s question.

“Are they true, the rumors of your friend Oriné?” asked Ayan.

“That depends. What are these rumors?”

“That he is a womanizer and a thief. That he was punished for his actions but was able to use family ties to sidestep the consequences and come here.”

Yarna wanted to feel indignity for his friend, but the thought of him as a womanizing bandit made him laugh too hard. “I do not think,” he said after he had finished, “that I have ever heard a more inaccurate description of Oriné in my life.”

The pair made a slight turn, keeping to the route. “Then by all means, correct me.”

“It is true what you’ve heard about him and the Head Master’s daughter,” conceded Yarna. The Ghost made an unfamiliar sound, and the Sangheili frowned at it, fiddling with one of the controls until it stopped. “But in that situation, Oriné was far more the victim than the perpetrator.”

“What of his family? I heard that it was his brother’s high rank that got him excused from gulag duty.”

The Ghost made the sound again. What was it trying to say? “Having not met the elder ‘Fulsamee, I cannot speak for him. But Oriné would not use his Lineage as a bargaining chip. He is too proud, if anything.”

Ayan was saying something, but Yarna didn’t pay attention. The Ghost continued to make the annoying keening noise. He only caught the last part: “I have heard his sister is a priestess, though she doesn’t deserve the honor.”

This is becoming ridiculous, Yarna thought, both of his Ghost and Ayan’s wild accusations. He spread his mandibles to reply, in no uncertain terms, that Ayan knew nothing of the situation, but suddenly everything went wrong all at once.

He heard the crack about half a second before his head snapped back, seemingly of its own volition, and wrenched the muscles in his neck. As his spine rebounded, his mind recalled the sound: a human sniper rifle. Gods, he thought, head in a panic and body slack, I am slain! However, as the Ghost veered to one side, its anti-gravity generator having just suffered a critical mechanical failure, Yarna realized he felt the movement. He returned to his senses but not fast enough to accommodate for the broken vehicle, and it smashed full speed into a tree. He was hurled through the air and landed three meters away.

Forcing his head up despite the agonizing pain, he saw that his Ghost had turned over, right wing snapped off. The noise must have been a warning of some kind. The surprise of the failing technology would have to wait, though; a second later, there was another sniper shot and a 14.5 mm round embedded itself in the ground right next to his arm. Possessed of renewed urgency, Yarna scrambled over to the damaged vehicle, crouching in the cover provided by the Ghost and the tree. He reached a hand up and felt all along his helmet; after just a moment’s searching, he found a deep hole cutting right into the helmet. Panicking once more, he undid the fasteners and pulled off the helmet. The bullet, slowed by his shielding and the metal of the headgear, had stopped just short of penetrating the final layer of armor.

Thank the Forerunners, he thought, gasping as his hearts caught up to him. He replaced the helmet and crouched down further, hearing the sound of automatic fire starting up. Tracers whipped by overhead, cutting swathes through the increasingly thick snowfall.

A soft whine preceded Ayan’s approach. He hovered into place and started firing in the direction of the attacking humans. “Keep your head down,” Yarna called out to him. The other Elite Minor did as he suggested, and a white vapor trail ripped through the air near his head.

“If they do not have rockets here,” shouted Ayan, “they soon will, and we’ll be easy targets.”

Understanding his meaning, Yarna keyed the Battle Net and contacted Olah. “Major, we are pinned down roughly half a kilometer to the northwest from artillery station four and require reinforcements.”

Olah’s gruff voice was a relief to hear. “What is their strength?”

“Unknown. At least one sniper and several riflemen.”

“Hold your position. Reinforcements will arrive shortly.”

——

Oriné had just ridden the gravity lift up to the top of the tower for the night’s watch when he heard Olah’s bellowing voice: “‘Bodnolee! ‘Fulsamee! ‘Cklovee!” There was an urgency in his voice that Oriné had never heard, but whatever it was compelled him to immediately turn on his heel and jump down. He jogged over to where he knew the Major would be.

“What is it?” he asked just as the other two arrived.

“Yarna and Ayan are pinned down half a kilometer northwest from the fourth artillery station,” Olah said. “Head to the rear, commandeer a Spectre, and retrieve them. Time is of the essence! Go!”

“Yes, Excellency!” The three immediately took off at a full sprint, leaping over barricades and dashing between Unggoy. The rear line was a good two hundred meters through the forest, but even so they were motivated, plunging through the dark. In just a few minutes of running they had reached their destination: the vehicle depot situated on the rear line. Oriné’s chest was heaving, but they didn’t slow down as they blazed past the sentry.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked one Elite Minor, closest to their chosen Spectre.

“Our brothers are pinned down,” Rabu ‘Cklovee said, gently clapping the Sangheili on the shoulder. Oriné recognized him as the one who had boarded that Warthog with Yarna, the maneuver they had called the Oriné-salal. “We must rescue them.”

“Rabu, take the gun,” ordered ‘Bodnolee, hefting himself into the driver’s seat. “Oriné, you’re on the side. Keep your wits about you.” Though he was not a higher rank than either of them, and indeed Oriné’s honor markings usually gave him a slightly elevated position, both he and Rabu followed what Toro ‘Bodnolee told them. This was his third campaign; should he survive it, Oriné understood he was eligible for promotion to Major.

The attendant Minor signaled the guards to make room for the departing vehicle. “Our ships in space report the storm is intensifying. Be wary.”

“Thank you for your concern,” grunted Rabu as ‘Bodnolee gunned the boost thruster and tore out of the depot.

The Minor turned out to be quite correct; hardly two minutes after they left the snow was coming down so thickly that Oriné could barely see the cockpit of the very vehicle he rode on, though the onset of night likely did not help. Trees appeared from the darkness, swept very near to the wing the Sangheili sat upon, and then vanished just as suddenly.

“It will be difficult to see them,” said Rabu. Oriné heard the mechanical whir as he moved the gun back and forth.

They passed the third station, barely seeing it as they went. “Something tells me they won’t be too difficult to find,” commented Oriné. Just a short time later, artillery station four shot past.

“‘Cklovee, get ready,” ‘Bodnolee said. “‘Fulsamee, as soon as we reach them, jump and roll.” They both affirmed. Oriné made sure his rifle was attached firmly to his hip; though having it drawn would mean he’d be ready all the sooner, it also meant that he could lose his grip on it upon impact with the ground.

The first sign they were near came when three tracer rounds zipped out of the darkness and punched holes in the frame right next to Oriné’s shoulder. Immediately Rabu swiveled the turret in the direction it came from and fired, blue plasma bolts reflecting off the snow. More bullets came at them, making a horrifying stunning light show of burning topaz and sapphire in the night air.

“Now, Oriné!” Without thinking, Oriné tensed his legs and leaped off to the side, tucking his shoulder and rolling as soon as he hit the ground. He tumbled through the rising snow, coming to a stop on his belly. In an instant he had his rifle up and ready. The Spectre sped off into the dark, only visible from the occasional blue flare of the boost and the quick accurate bursts from the mounted gun on the back. Two grenade blasts went up, silhouetting an overturned Ghost that was nose-first into a tree. Judging that to be his best bet, Oriné got up and ran over, staying as low as he could.

As he drew nearer, his sharp eyes made out another shape crouched nearby. It suddenly drew itself up, leaned over the top of the ruined vehicle, and fired three green bolts of energy at some unseen foe before ducking down. Oriné slid to a stop next to the shape, which reeled in surprise but quickly regained composure.

“Oriné!”

Now he recognized him. “Yarna, are you wounded?”

“No,” the Elite Minor said.

“Where’s Ayan?”

“Strafing around. His Ghost is still intact.”

Oriné stood and fired several shots. He was answered as a hail of lead flew at him. A few bullets pinged off his shield, but he dropped back down before they could cause him any permanent harm. He eyed the pistol in his friend’s hand. “Where is your rifle?”

He shook his head. “Lost in the crash,” said Yarna. “This is the second time you’ve come to my rescue. Is it fate or the Gods that make you watch over me, dear friend?”

The younger Sangheili couldn’t help but smile. “A higher power, our mutual friend and commanding officer.”

Another grenade detonated nearby, shaking the Ghost. Yarna winced. “The fusion core must be close to exploding. This is no longer safe cover.”

“Contact Ayan,” Oriné said, “tell him to fall back. We’ll get out of here immediately.” As Yarna did that, Oriné opened his own channel on the Battle Net and linked up with ‘Bodnolee. “I have Yarna, he is unwounded. Ayan will be joining us shortly.”

“Affirmative,” replied Toro. “Falling back.”

“Cover!” Yarna suddenly yelled. Oriné barely reacted in time, throwing himself to the ground as a much stronger explosion shook the ground and threw the already damaged Ghost over their heads, metal raining down on them. A shrill alarm sounded in his ears; his shields were down, but he could see the faint blue glow of a rapidly approaching Spectre.

A Ghost swung around behind them. “Rockets!” cried Ayan.

“Get on! Now!” ‘Bondolee shouted. Oriné and Yarna started to rise, but heard a sharp sound behind them. Yarna started to turn, not knowing what the sound was, but Oriné instantly recognized it as a fusion core going critical.

Oriné flung himself against Yarna’s back, knocking him to the ground just as the beaten Ghost exploded, filling the air with shrapnel and the smell of ozone. Rabu cried out as a shard pierced his shields and dug into his upper arm. Picking themselves up once more, the two Sangheili on the ground charged forward and slid into the nooks on the wings of the Spectre.

“Haste!” Oriné cried, feeling the magnets grab his belt and secure him. ‘Bodnolee wasted no time gunning the engine as the human fire intensified, two more rockets shooting from the night but fortunately missing the vehicles. As both vehicles leaned on the boost, the sounds of battle fell far behind them. Oriné slumped against the Spectre’s hull and sighed. They had made it.

Once safely back at their proper artillery station, they were greeted with cheers. The Unggoy and Kig-Yar crowded around them while the artillery crew applauded and saluted from their platform. Out of the corner of his eye, Oriné saw Yarna clap Ayan heartily on the back.

“You see?” said the elder Sangheili. “He’s not as terrible as they say.”

Ayan ‘Tapatee just shook his head and chuckled wearily. “No, he’s not.”

——

Two weeks later the call came to pull back from the planet. Spirits descended from the sky to pick up the embattled warriors and what hardware could be salvaged; the retreat order came so suddenly that there had been no time to break down the artillery, and they would be left on the surface. Of course, there was no concern that the humans would capture them and learn any secrets. Everyone knew that the retreat meant the planet’s imminent destruction.

First supervising he and Yarna’s Grunts as they loaded on, Oriné found his place in one of the dropships and eased himself into the troop slot. A sense of giddy horror seized his stomachs: he had survived. It had been terrible and beautiful, all at once, and his training had saved his life on more than one occasion, but now, looking back, it was a wonder. Bullets had filled the air, his life had been in danger almost every second of every day. He reveled in it.

But now he was weary, and the weight of what he had seen, what he had done, the friends he had lost... it was settling onto his shoulders. The giddiness was smothered, leaving only a hollow feeling. Hada ‘Sobotee had been his close friend on the gulag, and had even managed to accompany him out here. But Hada was dead, and Oriné was alive. Did that make sense?

Why is my life worth more than his? Oriné wondered, sorrow setting in again. Why did the Forerunners find me worthier of their grace than he? He was a Healer; I am a warrior. He could give life, I can only take it away.

The slots beside him filled up and the door closed. From the cockpit, the pilot announced their departure and Oriné felt the deck lift beneath him. Gazing out of the small window he was allowed, he watched as the trees fell past his view and he finally was able to see the city he had fought so hard to take, given up so much, and yet had never set foot in or laid eyes upon. It was a sprawling human metropolis, low buildings with arched roofs to keep the snow from settling. There were stills signs of lingering battle, a few anti-air cannons firing at a flight of Banshees that were covering the dropships’ retreat.

The city itself, however, stood out. It was ordered and planned, while the beautiful nature all around it was wild, chaotic; it looked like a cancer on the face of the world. Oriné remembered the undetectable taint that had pervaded even him and frowned. He wished the endearing landscape could be spared, but the humans, affronts as they were, could not be allowed to continue.

Once in space, the Spirit dropship maneuvered its way through the atmospheric wreckage to the Transcendent Voyager. It and three other dropships made their way to the starboard hangars and landed, disgorging their troops. All made their way quickly out of the hangar; these would return to the planet to pick up more soldiers, which would involve lowering the force fields and exposing the entire hangar to space. No one wanted to end up in the vacuum.

However, while most of the returned warriors filed off to find their quarters, Oriné found the main gravity lift and took it up to the observation deck. He was happy to see that the ship was oriented properly to allow him a view of the planet. He remembered seeing the planet from the deck of the Domain of Prosperity, when he had first arrived. It seemed so long ago.

They were still evacuating people from the planet, so Oriné knew he had time to wait. He sat in the small garden and meditated, communing with the Gods as best he could. His mind was still swimming with confused, contradicting emotions, but at the end of an hour he had resolved that all of them together made up one strong feeling: relief. Relief at having survived, relief at having left.

“Look, they’re beginning!” Oriné opened his eyes and saw that a small crowd had gathered, mostly curios Grunts and Jackals, though a Hunter pair was present as well. He stood and walked to a place where he could see the planet.

Pearl was now fully framed in the windows, but even from this distance Oriné could make out the cruisers that had taken up geosynchronous positions just above the atmosphere. His keen Sangheili eyes strained to see the plasma as it fell from the ships and bombarded the atmosphere. As they went, they left trails of disturbed clouds and fire in their wake.

From here, Oriné tried to imagine the places he had seen burning, being incinerated into vapor by the unthinkably hot bombs being dropped. The visions of Tropicas, the human city, filled him with nothing. Just thinking of his experiences sapped his emotion so much that he didn’t even feel satisfaction at its destruction. He wondered if Hada’s body had been recovered, or if it had stayed down there with all the dead Unggoy and Kig-Yar and humans.

A world is your funeral pyre, Hada ‘Sobotee, Oriné thought. You’ve earned such a splendor. One day, Oriné resolved, he would see him on the Great Journey. And on that day, he would be happy.

Now the true physical weariness was felt by the Sangheili. Once he had thought he would feel sadness to see such a beautiful place burn, but in just a short time, now he felt nothing. I am a soldier now.

He left the observation deck. As he walked away, Pearl burned.

——

From space, Joyous Exultation had looked a little bit like Sanghelios, just with less ocean and more land. It also only had one moon that hung in the sky, glittering on the dark side with military installations, war academies much smaller than Institution, both in size and curriculum.

However, on the ground, Oriné saw that the buildings were squatter than on Sanghelios, emphasizing floor space per story instead of the numbers tall. Only a few spires rose here and there, and Oriné recognized them as religious temples, outposts for the Convent. This planet was a humble colony and had no true attraction, except that the great war hero, Supreme Commander Xytan Jar ‘Wattinree had his estate here. But Oriné’s destination took him well beyond that area, and in fact well beyond the cities of small, flat buildings.

For his errand, he had been lent a Chimera. As he drove over the dirt road, the farmers and children knee-deep in water in the fields on either side looked up to watch his passing. It was rare to see such a craft this far out. Most walked or used shabbier vehicles design for transporting grains and livestock to the markets and bazaars in the city.

The home he was looking for was a kilometer down the road, past the small farms and agricultural plants that made up the area. It was very cozy, situated on an open plain of grass with a small hill behind it. A little hatchling played with her mother on the visible side, the older Sangheili holding her to the ground and tickling her vulnerable belly. Judging by the motions made by the smaller form, she was laughing hysterically.

Oriné brought the Chimera to a stop several meters in front of the home, where a stone-lined path led up to the front door. As he powered down the core, he looked over at the passenger seat. Cradled in the cup-shaped chair was a helmet. Its cobalt surface was scuffed and scratched, one deep gash cutting diagonally across the top but not piercing the inner armor. It had seen a lot of action, he knew. It had belonged to Oriné, the one he had worn on Pearl throughout the campaign. Now, though, it would serve a new purpose, since the one he should have brought...

But why did he bring it? It was tradition, yes, but why did he bring it? Others had known Hada ‘Sobotee, and likely some of them knew him better than Oriné. So why was he bringing it and subjecting himself to this.

Because I was there, he told himself. Because in those few days, we grew close, because we shed blood together. The snow was stained purple from both our wounds, and we cried and triumphed together.

Because he was my friend.

Sighing, the Elite Minor got out of the driver’s seat. His new combat harness glistened in the sun, unbearably clean. He had gotten new armor because his old one had seen so much punishment that it offered little protection. The shield generator had been close to burning out, the technicians had said. He had used them too much, pushed them too hard. He was supposed to be careful with this new one.

What is less life-threatening than this? He walked around the front of the Chimera and scooped the damaged helmet out of the seat, running a finger over the valleys that had been carved into it.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said a voice behind him. He jumped, surprised, and dropped the helmet back into the vehicle. Turning around, he came face-to-face with a male Sangheili dressed in soiled farmer’s trousers. A long scar ran down the side of his neck, but it showed no burn tissue. Perhaps it was a wound from a human combat knife.

The man smiled, slightly sheepishly. “From behind, you looked like my son. If I had realized it was somebody else, I would have made some attempt at getting clean.” He gestured to his trousers, mud encrusted around the bottoms and covered in dirt. “So what brings you out this far, warrior? News of my son?”

Oriné tried to speak, but even though his mandibles opened he could make no sound. The man looked at him quizzically, no sign of understanding in his features. A knot formed in the Elite Minor’s throat and he became acutely aware of the off-rhythm beat of his hearts.

Slowly he reached back, took the helmet, and brought it out of the seat again. He cradled it for just a moment, and then held it in front of him with both hands. “Are you Ladu ‘Sobotee?”

Ladu nodded, his eyes falling to look at what was being presented to him. Oriné could not take his eyes off the other’s face, not as his mandibles slackened, not when his eyes widened, and certainly not when his eyes, moist, looked up again. The older male’s mandibles twitched, attempting speech, but there was no sound. Oriné understood.

“We were warriors together,” said the Minor. “He was my friend.”

Numbness seemed to take the man, and he made a vague invitational gesture as he turned to go back into his house. Oriné followed behind him; the confident posture this farmer had just moments before was completely gone. He sort of slumped along the path.

As they went, Oriné looked up at the hill. The hatchling and her mother had stopped playing and were looking at him now.

Despite everything, he couldn’t bring himself to nod hello.