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Chapter 4: Institution

The dropship bay was flooded with Elite Juniors, dotted here and there with blue- and red-armored supervisors trying their hardest to guide the young Sangheili to the shuttles. Oriné ‘Fulsamee had never seen these craft before: they were called Phantoms, a far cry from the Spirit dropships he had been so accustomed to. They settled to the floor and opened a rear door, allowing passengers to flow into a much roomier compartment as opposed to individual troop-hatches.

“How long have these been in service?” he had asked the supervisor when the shuttles first entered the bay.

“Quite some time, but only recently have they been given military purpose,” the cobalt-armored Elite Minor replied. He told the young cadet that it was intended for them to be armed with plasma weaponry and gravity lifts in order to act as front-line dropships.

On the inside they were just as fascinating. There were handholds on the wall for gripping, but upon seizing one for himself the emerald-armored Sangheili was told the walls themselves were magnetic. To test this he leaned against an area indicated with a faint outline; sure enough, as he neared it he felt the tug of magnetic forces that pulled him up to the wall and held him securely in his station. The handholds, he was told, were for races such as the Kig-Yar or Jiralhanae who didn’t wear armor as dense as the Elites did. In the center of the floor was an outline for where Unggoy were supposed to stand.

After he and thirteen other passengers were securely docked, an Unggoy did indeed waddle out of the cockpit and walk around to check everybody’s wall connections. This was the first time Oriné had seen one dressed in the combat armor of a Grunt: it was bright red with a hump on the back that swooped up into a point. A more secure breather was also fit to his face with two small tubes rushing back from either side to merge with the larger unit. It was chipped and smudged with use; it had obviously seen many battles with possibly as many wearers.

“You’re all set,” he said, walking out the rear door before it closed. “Enjoy your stay.” The large portal hissed shut and for a tense moment nothing happened. A fist of iron seized Oriné’s stomachs and squeezed them; now he was happy he hadn’t eaten. The anticipation was getting to him and he struggled to keep control of it. A prayer pushed its way through his mandibles:

Protect us, O Forerunner,
Through perilous flights through space
No matter the distance;
Your presence gives us peace of mind
And ease of heart.

Should this be our very last flight
Then we shall humbly take our place in oblivion
Until the start of the Great Journey.

It wasn’t appropriate for the occasion, as he knew he was secure: no human ships nor heretic vessels could make it so far into Covenant space as Institution. However, as he repeated it, he heard his fellows whispering it with him.

Then they felt it: a sudden feeling of weightlessness as the Phantom lifted from the deck and passed into space. It was purely physiological, as the gravity-control in the ship was perfectly normal, but all fourteen passengers could feel the sensation of standing on nothing. Yet no one dared cry out or utter a sound that was not a good-hearted jeer or solemn appeal to the gods, for fear of being instantly recognized as a weakling and from then on shunned.

Oriné closed his eyes and called up memories from the depths of his mind to help comfort him. He recalled with ease the first day his father took him outside the city to an open field, allowing him to first run around and play before picking up two sticks and, after tossing one to his son, instructing him in the rules of honorable combat.

“You must never strike an opponent dishonorably,” Orita had said before they began. “That means no attacking from behind or striking for the lung.”

“Why not the lung, father?” Oriné had asked. At the time he had been unsure of what a lung actually was.

Orita patted his own chest. “That is our most vulnerable spot, aside from our heads.”

“Then why is it not dishonorable to strike an opponent in the head?”

“Two reasons: because you will be expected to wear a helmet, and in order to deliver a quick killing or disabling blow you must go for the head. The lung is far too slow of a death.”

They had fought then, a father and son training in the wilderness with sticks. When they returned to their home they brought the sticks with them and whittled them into fighting poles; for every subsequent day they spent training they used those same poles. In the week before his departure to Jisako, as dictated by tradition, Orita took his son on a five-day retreat. They had slept under the stars, exercised together under the warm day’s sun, and bathed in rivers and ponds. His father told him stories about the Covenant, not how it was created (as he had learned in school) but how it now operated. He told him about the war with the Jiralhanae and the subsequent battles in the war with the humans. Strangely, Orita had spoken of the humans with respect.

“Why do you recognize their ingenuity?” Oriné had asked after he finished with a story about a battle over a world called Harvest. “Are they not abominations in the eyes of the Forerunner?”

Orita nodded. “I am certain they are, but nevertheless they are worthy opponents. When you fight them, I want you to remember that you are not exterminating lowly beasts, no matter what the Clerics or Prophets tell you. All the soldiers who died had only contempt for the humans. Instead, know that you fight equals on the field of battle and treat them as such; that is the only way you will survive them.”

Now Oriné wondered what Institution would tell him of the humans.

The pilot’s voice cut through his internal reverie. “We are approaching Institution,” he said. “Would anybody like a preview?” A hologram fizzled into existence in the center of the troop bay. It was a two-dimensional live feed from the cockpit, flat and visible from either side. Hovering in space was what resembled a titanic thumbtack turned upside down, with the base being composed of fragmented rock spangled with meteor impact craters and the thin needle made up of intertwining spires. All around it hovered rings of asteroids in which defenses could be easily hidden and between which Institution’s defense fleet, the Fleet of Distinct Sanction, zipped in and out of.

It took only a moment of observation before rumors flew about the cabin.

“I have heard it was made using the remains of the Prophets’ home world after they constructed High Charity,” the Elite Junior next to Oriné said, reverence buzzing in his tone.

“You are wrong,” one from across the bay sneered. “It was constructed from the ruins of the home world of the First Heretic Race that stood in defiance of the Holy Covenant.”

“Those spires are made from damaged battleships that were retired from service,” a third chimed in.

“Impossible. The shipyards around Aquova break down all retired cruisers and use all the materials to make new ones. Nothing is wasted.” The conversations continued back and forth, eventually tapering off into everyone staring at the hologram, the image in which grew progressively larger as they approached; in their hearts, too, they knew the significance grew. Their destinies were approaching, be they honorable or otherwise.

Slowly they reached their goal and the shuttle was admitted into the lower docking bays of Institution. Either intentionally or by accident the hologram was left on, allowing the cadets in the cabin to get an early view of the bay: it was unimpressive, almost identical to the one on the cruiser they had just departed but shorter and wider. Their shuttle settled into the top tier, turning around and pressing its stern as close to the walkway as it could so as to afford the cadets an easier time getting across.

By an electronic command from the cockpit the magnets on the walls released the fourteen young Sangheili. They all stretched their restless limbs and exchanged a few muttered words in the moments before the door opened. When it did they quickly arranged themselves into two neat files of seven and marched off the Phantom, making small jumps to clear the gap. Three other shuttles had settled onto the same tier, making a grand total of fifty-six Elite Juniors on the same walkway. Discipline, however, demanded that they be courteous and respectful of each other; there was very little pushing, yet a great deal of pressure.

Unexpectedly a chime sounded right in Oriné’s ear. His head shot up in surprise and he looked around for the source. There was nothing to be seen, however, and judging by the looks on his fellows’ faces and their similar reactions they must have heard it.

A voice began speaking in his ear. He realized that it had been the sound of the radio systems in his armor linking up to Institution’s CommuNet, the station-wide communications band.

“Elite Junior Oriné ‘Fulsamee,” the voice said, “arrival from Lomak, Sanghelios. You are hereby assigned to First Battalion, Reverent Company, Squadron Twenty-two; your quarters are located on deck Residential-Forty-Eight, Room Fifteen-Zero-Five. Please report to that location with due haste.” He did as he was told as quickly as he could, but it took him several minutes to finally work his way out of the crowd. From there he navigated through purplish-grey hallways, moving through other emerald-armored cadets until he found a gravity-lift station.

All around were Elite Minors, trying their best to remain calm and helpful in explaining things to the newcomers. “Your ears, if you hope to find your proper floor,” they demanded. “As you approach each lift, make sure you have programmed your destination into your armor using your wrist-mounted unit. If you fail to do this the lift will merely hold you in place until you either program a destination or collide with another who has already mastered their own technology.”

“Avoid collisions,” a second Elite Minor said. “They are painful and embarrassing for both parties involved.”

They continued to give pointers, but Oriné was told to make haste, so he quickly regarded the computer on his arm. It at first appeared to be an oblong spot of a sickly orange luminescence on the bottom of his forearm armor, but as soon as he touched a finger to it the orange changed to light blue and text appeared on the surface like glaze. By navigating the available menus he found that not only could he specify destination but also what communications channel he was listening to.

Time was of the essence, however, and he dedicated his armor to guide him to deck Residential-Forty-Eight. He noted that, though one side of the room was intended to have gravity lifts going up and the other going down, all lifts were ascending due to the sudden influx of cadets.

He was almost certain that his floor was up.

Stepping into the gravity lift felt the same as when he was beneath the cruiser on Sanghelios. He was seized, but this time instead of being gently lifted he was hurled upwards with tremendous force; at first he panicked but after a moment was able to rationalize that he would have a distance to travel and the lift wanted to get him there as fast as it could.

The lift kept him in its claustrophobic shaft for a full minute, and as he passed through openings he could see out into other decks. Several of them were utilitarian, littered with mechanical parts and filled with Huragok Engineers and Yanme’e Drones, bustling about their work with single-minded dexterity. Suddenly, however, he passed into the realm of habitation decks. Each second-long glimpse of the decks revealed bits and pieces of different cultures and styles, and for the first time the thought genuinely occurred to him that the Sangheili would not be alone here. The other races, the Unggoy, Kig-Yar, Jiralhanae, and Lekgolo, would be living and studying alongside them. The idea excited him: his only real exposure had been to the Unggoy, and it would be fascinating to work next to other races of the Covenant.

The lift slowed him as he approached his floor and gently pushed him out of the way as others raced past, sending him stumbling into a hub-junction of eight hallways. It took Oriné a moment to regain his balance, something he knew would be gradually worked out of him throughout his time spent here. Glancing around he realized that there were other cadets milling about, most examining the markings on the wall and attempting to decipher where their rooms were. He pushed through the crowds and checked the writing, finding the appropriate hall and walking as fast as he dared down it. These hallways were all bare metal with only the occasional imperfection by way of removed panels that exposed piping or crudely etched messages that exposed the ineptitude of certain trainees; Oriné did his best not to stare, but a few of the more colorful exposures drew his eyes.

Finally he found room 1505, the door humming a pleasant note before sliding apart at a triple-seam. The inside was more spacious than he had dared hope: at the center were arrayed enough gravity-bunk units and around the edges enough desks to accommodate fifty Sangheili; through the rungs of the bunks he could see a secondary room on the other side of this one full of equipment. It was, perhaps, the training room.

More importantly Oriné noted that he was not the first one here. A handful of other Elite Juniors were standing about admiring or scorning their new home; Yarna ‘Orgalmee, however, stood out to Oriné in the group.

“Yarna!” he called out, walking over. Yarna looked up from the surface of a desk and smiled at his friend.

“Oriné, it’s good to see you survived your shuttle journey,” he jibed. “I thought for a moment the shivers would get you.”

The slightly younger Sangheili roughly bumped foreheads with his friend, the helmet material clacking. “You would believe that, wouldn’t you? After all, it was you who became ill during our flight to Jisako.” Yarna scowled and punched Oriné in the arm a bit harder than was friendly, but the latter smiled anyway. He quickly set about getting his own marveling out of the way, noting how the desks had Lumidexes built in and connected to Institution’s amazingly large database. The gravity bunks were strange, however, in their function: each had a series of small gravity “platforms” generated in the supporting rungs of the unit, four platforms total in a tiered formation. When a cadet climbed onto one it created a gravity bubble around said cadet that repelled outward, allowing the next to use it as a stepping stone to reach the next bunk. Oriné realized, after thinking about it, that he would much prefer being on the top bunk. That way he needn’t suffer the anxiety of the bubble failing and his bunkmates stepping on him.

“Well?” Yarna asked from behind him after a moment. “What do you think?”

“I think its home.”

——

The grand assembly hall was located at the base of the spires. It appeared as a bulge from the outside, but on the inside it was a fantastically large dome, big enough to hold all the occupants of Institution within its walls. Yarna ‘Orgalmee had noted a strange diploid tendency of Institution: a section was either threadbare and purely utilitarian or ornately decorated and lavishly furnished. This hall was one of the latter. Sacred halli trees from Sanghelios lined the walls and intricately-sewn draperies hung in pairs near each of them. Small standing pools teeming with aquatic life were slowly filled with trickling water running in rivulets through small canals. There were no chairs: all races were meant to stand, and there were several races present indeed.

Everything was centered around a single raised platform in the middle of the room illuminated by a shaft of bright white light, the four races arranged like spokes radiating from that center point. The Sangheili merely made up one spoke, the slight upwards curvature of the floor allowing people in the back to get a good view of the center stage. They all wore emerald armor until the very back where several Elite Minors and a handful of Elite Majors stood, keeping a careful eye on their charges. There were thousands of Sangheili trainees present, and any one of them could cause trouble.

Clockwise from the natives of Sanghelios were the Lekgolo, the “Hunters.” All of them wore heavy blue armor with spines and quadruple-digit gauntlets. At twelve feet tall and resembling walking tanks, even the Elites had kept their distance, but Yarna had allowed himself a few moments to observe them. As far as he could tell they were fairly relaxed, unlike the Sangheili who had to remain at strict attention, and they rumbled and hissed in their native tongues to each other. There was one curious thing: based on the still images he had seen of fully-equipped Hunters they had a heavy cannon on their right arms and a large steel on their left. These inductees, however, had neither; instead they wore the curious four-fingered manipulators. As he watched them move their own “hands” with a cautious curiosity Yarna could only surmise that they didn’t usually wear them. The Lekgolo were essentially colonies of thousands of eel-like worms that came together to form bipedal, lanky creatures; perhaps they didn’t have hands at all?

Counterclockwise were the Unggoy clad in their Grunt armor. Unlike the Elites and Hunters there was no easy way to distinguish a newly-arrived Grunt from one who had been there for a while; the newest arrivals wore the standard orange Grunt Minor armor. The only way Yarna supposed to tell them apart was to look at their skin: the more an Unggoy aged the rougher and craggier its skin would become. Those with the smoothest skin were undoubtedly trainees. They were standing at attention, but because of their naturally stooped posture it was difficult to tell. Looking at them, Yarna couldn’t help but grimace: though the Sangheili were the backbone of the Covenant, the Unggoy were the workhorses, and it showed. They weren’t much to look at but they were numerous.

Directly across, mostly obscured by the stage, was the fourth race of soldiers. The Jiralhanae. The Brutes. A tingle of apprehension ran up his spine. He had never met a Jiralhanae, and from the stories his father told he never wanted to. They were boorish, undisciplined; even from here he could tell they were making the most noise. They were roughly the size of a Sangheili, but the similarities abruptly ended there. Tufts of fur and leathery patches of hide formed a strikingly simian appearance; like the humans they had an upper palate and a single lower jaw, though from it grew razor-sharp tusks and fangs. Behaviorally they followed a tribe system with a Chieftain at the head and lesser lieutenants acting out his will. That Chieftain carried a totem of power, a personal item of importance that distinguished him and kept the others under control; recently, according to his father, it was something called the “Fist of Rukt,” though Yarna didn’t know what it was.

The light in the center of the room intensified, forcing Yarna to squint against it. A shape floated down from the top; as far as the young Sangheili could tell there must have been a hole up there, but it was washed out with the light. As the shape distanced itself from the source of the light it became clearer: it was a chair... no, a throne. In that throne sat a figure, slight of build with wispy features and an elaborate crown of gold.

Yarna’s breath caught in his throat. A Prophet.

“Greetings, my children,” he called out. His voice was vigorous, reaching all corners of the chamber seemingly without effort. “I congratulate you! You have taken the first steps to becoming the mightiest warriors the Covenant has to use.” The throne reached the stage... or at least got as close as it was going to get. It hovered in the air staying perfectly steady except for when its occupant gestured with his arms, adorned with a regal red robe.

“I am the High Prophet of Regret,” the figure said. Now all the way down his physical features were easier to make out. A frown formed on Yarna’s mandibles. He didn’t know the Prophet but that didn’t matter: he wore the vestments of a Hierarch, something that could not be faked. What did matter, however, was how he looked. Even though he was obviously young and, supposedly, in his prime, there was a high degree of frailty to him. His fingers were long and thin, his neck was arched and curved, and when his sleeves tumbled back it looked like the Sangheili would have no trouble wrapping a single hand around it and snapping it like a twig. Regret’s eyes bulged, ringed with what looked like fleshy eyelashes.

All the Sangheili had seen the murals on their home world, but somehow the Prophets seemed less impressive in person. No one dared voice this opinion, however.

The Prophet took a moment to complete a rotation, observing the entire chamber. He lingered for a moment on the Jiralhanae but kept his pace. As he finished the rotation slowed but stayed constant: he was trying to appear fair to all races. “This glorious Institution,” he began, “has served as the training place for all Covenant forces here in the beating heart of our own territory. The greatest heroes and Arbiters have passed through these halls, studied the ways of combat and philosophy, and gone on to become legends in our sacred lore.” He gestured upwards into the shaft of light enthusiastically. “Nine ages of time have passed, and in every one, Institution has borne hundreds of gifted warriors on to their destinies of urging the Great Journey forward.”

Yarna momentarily lost interest in what the Prophet was saying and allowed his eyes to wander a little. Oriné was situated a few rows closer to Regret and appeared completely enthralled. Olah ‘Seroumee was also a distance away, closer to Oriné than to Yarna, but seemed to have the same waning attentiveness to the presentation.

Satisfying himself that there was nothing better to focus on, he returned his attention to the Prophet. “Within these hallowed walls,” he was still saying, “you will have access to the greatest treasures of knowledge the Covenant has at its disposal. Unlike the facilities on Estuarini, Institution has a data-link with the Sacred Text databases on High Charity that is updated daily.

“Also unlike other facilities, we have the greatest soldiers to teach you the arts of combat. Be you Lekgolo, Sangheili, Jiralhanae, or,” he paused for a light chuckle that came to his throat, “even Unggoy, you will be trained to be the best on the battlefield.” Regret’s chuckle proceeded uneasily through the ranks of Sangheili and Unggoy, uproariously through the Jiralhanae, and not at all through the Lekgolo. “Access to the latest technological developments will be yours at all times; the training grounds are constantly staffed and will never be without attendants. Furthermore the libraries, temples, and meditation courts will also have an all-hour access.

“Now it is time for you all to become adjusted to your new surroundings. You shall be dismissed to your quarters, familiarized with the standards of organization, and allowed the rest of the day to explore. Tomorrow begins your official training.”

A strange smile crossed Regret’s lips, one that chilled Yarna’s heart. “Godspeed,” the Prophet finished and rose once more into the light. His ascension this time seemed much more rapid and hasty, a fact that stuck with the young Sangheili more than anything the Hierarch had said.

——

“Attention!” the Elite Major called out. The Sangheili had all proceeded back to their quarters; Oriné was in his, along with Yarna, Olah, and forty-seven others. The warrior in the crimson armor had been waiting for their return.

“Here in Institution, we operate based on squadrons.” The Major gestured to the assembled Sangheili. “This is your squadron: fifty of you. You will be divided into five units of ten each, with one member from each unit serving as unit commander, and one unit commander serving as the squadron commander. Commanders will be decided upon through combat.” He nodded to the room. “This will be your new home. You will conduct all battle exercises and all studies with your squadron. You will be expected to keep each other going, and to excel under extreme pressure. That is what it means to be Elites within the Covenant: leadership, tactical ability, and the combat skills necessary to back it up.

“You are all considered Rank Threes. You will be promoted to Rank Two and, subsequently, Rank One when your squad has demonstrated the proper skills necessary to ascend.” He began pacing back and forth, his arms swaying stiffly at his side. “You will not be promoted based on individual merit. If your squad fails, so do you. Working together is what makes the Sangheili Elites and not Grunts.”

The Major paused and looked down Oriné’s line. The Elite Junior was third in line; Olah ‘Seroumee was first. “You will also work in tangent with the other combat races,” he continued, and returned to his even pace as he did so. “Be they Hunters, Grunts, or even Brutes you will treat them with respect; as far as the Covenant is concerned you are all of the same rank.” Oriné hesitated; he believed he had no problem working with the other races but he knew his comrades might not have that same ease. They had been raised on bias. Admittedly so had he: his father often used the words “Brute” and “Grunt” detrimentally and sometimes Oriné couldn’t help but repeat it.

A Sangheili stepped forth from the fifty, puffing his chest out and hollering, “Excellency!” The Major ceased and turned to regard the forthcoming Elite; the others kept their heads forward but rolled an eye to see their comrade.

“What is it, Junior?”

“Excellency, will we be training with the Kig-Yar as well? They were not at the ceremony.”

The Major’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The Jackals do not train with us; they train elsewhere. Occasionally flocks of them will be present for training purposes but they operate on... different principles than we do.” Several of the young Sangheili in the crowd took notice of the hesitation in the Major’s voice; Oriné could tell from the slight twitches of their mandibles or the barely-detectable rotation of their shoulders. Obviously these Jackals did not conduct themselves in a manner similar to the Elites.

The speech resumed, moving into sleeping schedules and time rotations. Yes, their senior told them, the places around Institution were open at all times but they weren’t necessarily accessible. The cadets would only be allowed into the gardens, training grounds, and libraries when it was not a meal or sleep rotation; the only places that were truly open at all times were the cantinas and temples.

“Now,” the Major finally said, “it is time to determine your commanders.” He led the Elite Juniors into the training room off their main quarters. It was slightly smaller than their living space, but against all the walls were racks. Most were empty save for one wall full of long silver rods; the Sangheili knew them as malier, dueling staves that had come to replace the nadier for trainees, as Energy Swords were still too heavy and too dangerous to use.

“Everyone, take up a weapon and arrange yourselves in a circle,” the Major ordered. Oriné walked up to a rack, as did everyone else, and grabbed one of the malier. It was lighter than his nadier, even with the gravity manipulation activated, but it required both hands for use. He gave it a test spin and found it to be satisfying; the whipping noise it made in the air filled him with an elation he had only been able to find through combat.

The Elite Juniors quickly formed the circle that had been asked of them, and the Major stood in the middle. “Bring up your wrist units,” he ordered, and they did as they were told, planting one end of their staves on the ground and letting them rest against their shoulders as they observed their personal computers. “Set your armor to training, first standing. This is the lightest setting: you will be able to take four strikes to any part of your armor before it paralyzes your motion in that area. If you’re hit four times in the head or torso you will be considered neutralized.” They followed his orders, and while they struggled to program the correct setting he stepped out of the circle.

“Prepare yourselves,” he loudly announced, then waited for a beat; it was long enough for the Sangheili to adopt the proper stance for staff combat.

“Go!” The room blurred into motion as the Elite Juniors made their premier strikes, the vast majority of them attacking the Elites to either side. Oriné opted for a different tactic, ducking beneath the blows of his two neighbors and rushing across the circle. Not only would this prevent him from being immediately sandwiched but his target was occupied with his own two companions; Oriné was able to land four rapid strikes to the Sangheili’s chest and score the first kill of the battle. Pride filled his mind but that was quickly knocked out as he received a vicious blow to the back of his helmet; he turned as fast as he could and parried the next two attacks but the third struck his gauntlet. The pain flashed through his forearm and up to his head, and for a moment a vicious bloodlust took over; it was long enough for him to strike upwards and catch his attacker in the throat. He obviously hadn’t expected that and went reeling backwards, dropping his malier and collapsing to the floor. Oriné delivered his swift blows to his comrade’s head and effectively neutralized him, though he had the idea that the opponent wouldn’t have been able to continue fighting with such hampered breathing.

Oriné looked up and observed the room: four-fifths of the Sangheili had been eliminated, either crawling or limping their way off the battleground to the corners of the room, resigned to spectating the remaining ten Elite Juniors.

There was a whistle in the air behind him, and the Sangheili barely rolled in time to avoid a hit to his back. Oriné twirled and swung his staff low to knock his opponent off his feet, but Yarna nimbly jumped over it and swiped his own weapon across Oriné’s leg. He retaliated quickly, hitting the ground and rolling onto his back to deliver a powerful blow to his friend’s stomach. He doubled over, allowing Oriné to get in two more hits; but before he could deliver the final one Yarna parried and struck him hard in the head. The younger cadet stumbled backwards and struggled to readjust his helmet after it had fallen a bit too far over his eyes. As soon as it was fixed he could see Yarna drawing back for another strike. Suddenly, just as Oriné was preparing to block the attack, Yarna cried out and collapsed to the floor, limp except for a prolonged groan.

Behind the prone Sangheili stood Olah ‘Seroumee, staff still held in the air where he had struck Yarna’s spine. He did not grin in victory or even make any kind of taunting movement; Olah merely locked eyes with Oriné and lunged forward. Twirling his malier Oriné was able to parry three attacks and then swing low to knock his opponent off-balance. Olah, however, jumped over it and did an impressive flip, landing on his hand and kicking Oriné in the face with a booted hoof. Blood trickled down his lower right mandible from a broken tooth and the cadet tried to force the pain out of his head; he staggered back but succeeded in raising his staff into a defensive position to block the next attack.

Olah, however, would not be so easily stopped. He allowed the malier to connect, but slid his own forward and smacked Oriné’s forehead with it. The Sangheili stumbled and fell, the four fatal hits having been registered. At first there was pain, but a numbness flashed through his body and caused him to crumple to the floor, his weapon rolling out of his limp fingers. He grunted when he hit the floor, and then gasped as feeling gradually returned to him. With a great deal of effort he pulled himself to his feet and half-shuffled, half-limped to the sidelines, where he rested his back against the wall next to Yarna and watched the rest of the fight.

Olah ‘Seroumee won and was given the title of unit commander; according to the collaborated stories of the rest, he hadn’t taken a single hit throughout the course of the melee.

——

The curriculum at Institution was broken up into three principle parts: Combat, Faith, and Knowledge. Combat was constituted of time at the training grounds, fighting over varied terrain and learning the intricacies of battle under the careful guidance of the Sangheili Instructors. Oriné and his squadron were often pitted against each other and, in rare cases, against other squadrons in mock battles, in which they vied for control of certain objectives: Emblem tested their abilities to outwit each other, steal small colored cubes from their enemies, and return to their own base with them, while Expanse tried the skill of seizing and holding territories while the opposing team attempted the same. There was also Melee, which was a team exercise in completely eliminating the opponents.

These tests took place on several terrain types: there was a desert that was uncomfortably similar to Jisako, a forest arena, a field, and a mock human city in which to battle. They were given training rifles and pistols, or sometimes they were only allowed malier. Gradually they moved on from the first standing setting on their armor, proceeding to second and even third, each time the number of hits required for incapacitation was reduced by one; additionally, in third, the pain was enhanced to the point of feeling like a plasma burn.

Besides actually participating in battle they spent time learning about the different weapons at the disposal of the Covenant, of vehicles (some of which they would be given the opportunity to train with once they achieved Rank Two) and ships, and of battlefield tactics; occasionally the Instructors had them use simulators to wage war against each other to apply the things they learned.

Faith was, admittedly, much more dry and boring. The classes were taught by Lesser Prophets, and the Sangheili learned about the histories of the Covenant and the Forerunner. Oriné’s favorite Forerunner tales were the Valor of Fasul and the Fall of Lithiom, but many more were told, including the Legend of the Rings, but Oriné found more comfort in the tale of battle and of warriors, not in myths of lost gateways. He believed that the path to the Great Journey lay in combat, and that the only way to take one’s first step was to die in battle.

Regardless, his and his squadron’s faith was tested every so often through the flawless reciting of prayer and scripture, seemingly at the Prophets’ whim. The target of the day was often singled out, forced to stand alone and bidden to speak loudly and with conviction. In privacy they confided in each other that such tactics did not breed faith, but instead resentment of their Prophet teachers. Such feelings were only considered to be Minor Heresies, however, and were easily atoned for, thus they had no trouble divulging them to the other Sangheili.

Secretly, however, Oriné had a passion, and it lay within the realm of Knowledge. Under Knowledge, instructed by Magisters, they were taught many things that did not fall under the other two categories. How to accurately judge climate conditions with as little data as possible, the anatomy of themselves and the other Covenant clients, proper ways to take care of oneself be it on the battlefield or in times of peace. Over time Oriné learned things such as what was safe to eat and what wasn’t, how to construct a sturdy shelter, how to ration supplies... and a great deal of general wisdom imparted upon him by the Magisters.

However, his true enthusiasm lied in Heretic Studies, specifically the humans. Magister Torlo ‘Alsakee taught Oriné and his squadron this subject. His immediate uncle on his mother’s side, Oriné often looked forward to Magister ‘Alsakee’s lectures.

“Today we shall discuss the anatomy of the humans,” ‘Alsakee began, pressing a few runes on a holographic display and calling forth a three-dimensional image of a bipedal heretic. Several members of Oriné’s squadron began crying out and hissing, a few seizing personal objects to toss through the Spirit. The Magister bellowed for quiet.

“Thank you for that display of barbarism,” he said, even though a smile pulled at his mandibles. “Now let’s continue. This is your average adult human male; approximate height at six feet. You will most likely see this specimen dressed thusly—” the image changed to represent a human Marine, in full combat gear, “—or perhaps you will see him as this.” Once again the image changed, this time from armor to what the Covenant had come to understand as their civilian clothes: cloth coverings that were tight against the torso and bits that fully encircled the individual limbs. It looked far too restricted and uncomfortable.

The image changed back to its original, naked state and the diverged into a second version, largely similar with a few notable differences. “This other image is a human female, approximately five feet and eight inches tall. Note the lack of external sex organs and the expanded mammary glands.” ‘Alsakee waved his hand at the appropriate areas. “They also tend to be more fragile than their male counterparts, yet they are no less dangerous.

“But, aside from genitalia, internally the two genders are no different.” The female faded and the male’s skin seemed to turn transparent, allowing the cadets to properly see the muscle groups; that quickly vanished itself to be replaced by the organ system. “Autopsies on captured humans have revealed a great many details that we would have otherwise overlooked. For instance, notice that they have a distinct lack of redundant organs: one heart, one stomach, one liver, one spleen. If one is damaged or rendered inoperable that would spell the end; that also explains why their care for the wounded is so comprehensive and thorough, as they cannot afford the same mistakes we can.

“Here, though, is an interesting contradiction to that system.” Using the holograph system, the Magister highlighted an area below the neck where two puffy, pinkish organs resided. “These are average human lungs. Yes, lungs. Though smaller than ours, they have two lungs instead of our one. That means that, conceivably, they can survive if one is punctured or destroyed.” Oriné’s interest suddenly peaked: humans seemed as if they teetered on the edge of oblivion with every step. Sangheili had two hearts, three stomachs, and two organs acting as a liver. The lung difference was certainly an oddity, yet it seemed like they hardly needed to exterminate them at all: they could just wait for their metabolisms to make an inevitable, critical mistake and end them that way.

His thoughts were interrupted when Yarna had a question. “Magister, what is the most effective way to kill a human?”

“A shot to the head, as with every other species, is the most effective,” ‘Alsakee said, “but severing the spine at the neck or piercing the heart will do as well. Those are quick deaths, however; slower would be to target the abdominal area as it is highly likely that you will hit a vital organ.”

The discussion drifted between topics, from the structure of their feet (highly articulated, allowing them to move quickly across difficult terrain even if they weren’t stable) to the large lack of hair except for the top of the head and other places (no one had a good explanation). What was slightly shocking, however, was on the genetic level:

“Humans have forty-six chromosomes, twenty-three from each parent,” ‘Alsakee said, pointing to a double-helix diagram. “Compared to ours, in which we receive sixteen chromosomes from each parent for a total of thirty-two, they have the more advanced DNA. This allows them a greater variation of phenotypes, making them seem more diverse.”

Oriné was curious. “Do the humans with more advanced DNA achieve greater status?”

“As far as we can tell, no. No regard is given to genetic disposition.” That was something of a surprise to the Sangheili in the room, who were used to thinking that the humans were some kind of vicious savage. The fact that they paid no attention to one’s genetic profile meant that, most likely, promotions and advances were made based on individual skill and merit; in that regard they weren’t so different from themselves.

His father’s words returned to him: know you face equals on the field of battle.

Description
Chapter 4: Institution

The dropship bay was flooded with Elite Juniors, dotted here and there with blue- and red-armored supervisors trying their hardest to guide the young Sangheili to the shuttles. Oriné ‘Fulsamee had never seen these craft before: they were called Phantoms, a far cry from the Spirit dropships he had been so accustomed to. They settled to the floor and opened a rear door, allowing passengers to flow into a much roomier compartment as opposed to individual troop-hatches.

“How long have these been in service?” he had asked the supervisor when the shuttles first entered the bay.

“Quite some time, but only recently have they been given military purpose,” the cobalt-armored Elite Minor replied. He told the young cadet that it was intended for them to be armed with plasma weaponry and gravity lifts in order to act as front-line dropships.

On the inside they were just as fascinating. There were handholds on the wall for gripping, but upon seizing one for himself the emerald-armored Sangheili was told the walls themselves were magnetic. To test this he leaned against an area indicated with a faint outline; sure enough, as he neared it he felt the tug of magnetic forces that pulled him up to the wall and held him securely in his station. The handholds, he was told, were for races such as the Kig-Yar or Jiralhanae who didn’t wear armor as dense as the Elites did. In the center of the floor was an outline for where Unggoy were supposed to stand.

After he and thirteen other passengers were securely docked, an Unggoy did indeed waddle out of the cockpit and walk around to check everybody’s wall connections. This was the first time Oriné had seen one dressed in the combat armor of a Grunt: it was bright red with a hump on the back that swooped up into a point. A more secure breather was also fit to his face with two small tubes rushing back from either side to merge with the larger unit. It was chipped and smudged with use; it had obviously seen many battles with possibly as many wearers.

“You’re all set,” he said, walking out the rear door before it closed. “Enjoy your stay.” The large portal hissed shut and for a tense moment nothing happened. A fist of iron seized Oriné’s stomachs and squeezed them; now he was happy he hadn’t eaten. The anticipation was getting to him and he struggled to keep control of it. A prayer pushed its way through his mandibles:

Protect us, O Forerunner,
Through perilous flights through space
No matter the distance;
Your presence gives us peace of mind
And ease of heart.

Should this be our very last flight
Then we shall humbly take our place in oblivion
Until the start of the Great Journey.

It wasn’t appropriate for the occasion, as he knew he was secure: no human ships nor heretic vessels could make it so far into Covenant space as Institution. However, as he repeated it, he heard his fellows whispering it with him.

Then they felt it: a sudden feeling of weightlessness as the Phantom lifted from the deck and passed into space. It was purely physiological, as the gravity-control in the ship was perfectly normal, but all fourteen passengers could feel the sensation of standing on nothing. Yet no one dared cry out or utter a sound that was not a good-hearted jeer or solemn appeal to the gods, for fear of being instantly recognized as a weakling and from then on shunned.

Oriné closed his eyes and called up memories from the depths of his mind to help comfort him. He recalled with ease the first day his father took him outside the city to an open field, allowing him to first run around and play before picking up two sticks and, after tossing one to his son, instructing him in the rules of honorable combat.

“You must never strike an opponent dishonorably,” Orita had said before they began. “That means no attacking from behind or striking for the lung.”

“Why not the lung, father?” Oriné had asked. At the time he had been unsure of what a lung actually was.

Orita patted his own chest. “That is our most vulnerable spot, aside from our heads.”

“Then why is it not dishonorable to strike an opponent in the head?”

“Two reasons: because you will be expected to wear a helmet, and in order to deliver a quick killing or disabling blow you must go for the head. The lung is far too slow of a death.”

They had fought then, a father and son training in the wilderness with sticks. When they returned to their home they brought the sticks with them and whittled them into fighting poles; for every subsequent day they spent training they used those same poles. In the week before his departure to Jisako, as dictated by tradition, Orita took his son on a five-day retreat. They had slept under the stars, exercised together under the warm day’s sun, and bathed in rivers and ponds. His father told him stories about the Covenant, not how it was created (as he had learned in school) but how it now operated. He told him about the war with the Jiralhanae and the subsequent battles in the war with the humans. Strangely, Orita had spoken of the humans with respect.

“Why do you recognize their ingenuity?” Oriné had asked after he finished with a story about a battle over a world called Harvest. “Are they not abominations in the eyes of the Forerunner?”

Orita nodded. “I am certain they are, but nevertheless they are worthy opponents. When you fight them, I want you to remember that you are not exterminating lowly beasts, no matter what the Clerics or Prophets tell you. All the soldiers who died had only contempt for the humans. Instead, know that you fight equals on the field of battle and treat them as such; that is the only way you will survive them.”

Now Oriné wondered what Institution would tell him of the humans.

The pilot’s voice cut through his internal reverie. “We are approaching Institution,” he said. “Would anybody like a preview?” A hologram fizzled into existence in the center of the troop bay. It was a two-dimensional live feed from the cockpit, flat and visible from either side. Hovering in space was what resembled a titanic thumbtack turned upside down, with the base being composed of fragmented rock spangled with meteor impact craters and the thin needle made up of intertwining spires. All around it hovered rings of asteroids in which defenses could be easily hidden and between which Institution’s defense fleet, the Fleet of Distinct Sanction, zipped in and out of.

It took only a moment of observation before rumors flew about the cabin.

“I have heard it was made using the remains of the Prophets’ home world after they constructed High Charity,” the Elite Junior next to Oriné said, reverence buzzing in his tone.

“You are wrong,” one from across the bay sneered. “It was constructed from the ruins of the home world of the First Heretic Race that stood in defiance of the Holy Covenant.”

“Those spires are made from damaged battleships that were retired from service,” a third chimed in.

“Impossible. The shipyards around Aquova break down all retired cruisers and use all the materials to make new ones. Nothing is wasted.” The conversations continued back and forth, eventually tapering off into everyone staring at the hologram, the image in which grew progressively larger as they approached; in their hearts, too, they knew the significance grew. Their destinies were approaching, be they honorable or otherwise.

Slowly they reached their goal and the shuttle was admitted into the lower docking bays of Institution. Either intentionally or by accident the hologram was left on, allowing the cadets in the cabin to get an early view of the bay: it was unimpressive, almost identical to the one on the cruiser they had just departed but shorter and wider. Their shuttle settled into the top tier, turning around and pressing its stern as close to the walkway as it could so as to afford the cadets an easier time getting across.

By an electronic command from the cockpit the magnets on the walls released the fourteen young Sangheili. They all stretched their restless limbs and exchanged a few muttered words in the moments before the door opened. When it did they quickly arranged themselves into two neat files of seven and marched off the Phantom, making small jumps to clear the gap. Three other shuttles had settled onto the same tier, making a grand total of fifty-six Elite Juniors on the same walkway. Discipline, however, demanded that they be courteous and respectful of each other; there was very little pushing, yet a great deal of pressure.

Unexpectedly a chime sounded right in Oriné’s ear. His head shot up in surprise and he looked around for the source. There was nothing to be seen, however, and judging by the looks on his fellows’ faces and their similar reactions they must have heard it.

A voice began speaking in his ear. He realized that it had been the sound of the radio systems in his armor linking up to Institution’s CommuNet, the station-wide communications band.

“Elite Junior Oriné ‘Fulsamee,” the voice said, “arrival from Lomak, Sanghelios. You are hereby assigned to First Battalion, Reverent Company, Squadron Twenty-two; your quarters are located on deck Residential-Forty-Eight, Room Fifteen-Zero-Five. Please report to that location with due haste.” He did as he was told as quickly as he could, but it took him several minutes to finally work his way out of the crowd. From there he navigated through purplish-grey hallways, moving through other emerald-armored cadets until he found a gravity-lift station.

All around were Elite Minors, trying their best to remain calm and helpful in explaining things to the newcomers. “Your ears, if you hope to find your proper floor,” they demanded. “As you approach each lift, make sure you have programmed your destination into your armor using your wrist-mounted unit. If you fail to do this the lift will merely hold you in place until you either program a destination or collide with another who has already mastered their own technology.”

“Avoid collisions,” a second Elite Minor said. “They are painful and embarrassing for both parties involved.”

They continued to give pointers, but Oriné was told to make haste, so he quickly regarded the computer on his arm. It at first appeared to be an oblong spot of a sickly orange luminescence on the bottom of his forearm armor, but as soon as he touched a finger to it the orange changed to light blue and text appeared on the surface like glaze. By navigating the available menus he found that not only could he specify destination but also what communications channel he was listening to.

Time was of the essence, however, and he dedicated his armor to guide him to deck Residential-Forty-Eight. He noted that, though one side of the room was intended to have gravity lifts going up and the other going down, all lifts were ascending due to the sudden influx of cadets.

He was almost certain that his floor was up.

Stepping into the gravity lift felt the same as when he was beneath the cruiser on Sanghelios. He was seized, but this time instead of being gently lifted he was hurled upwards with tremendous force; at first he panicked but after a moment was able to rationalize that he would have a distance to travel and the lift wanted to get him there as fast as it could.

The lift kept him in its claustrophobic shaft for a full minute, and as he passed through openings he could see out into other decks. Several of them were utilitarian, littered with mechanical parts and filled with Huragok Engineers and Yanme’e Drones, bustling about their work with single-minded dexterity. Suddenly, however, he passed into the realm of habitation decks. Each second-long glimpse of the decks revealed bits and pieces of different cultures and styles, and for the first time the thought genuinely occurred to him that the Sangheili would not be alone here. The other races, the Unggoy, Kig-Yar, Jiralhanae, and Lekgolo, would be living and studying alongside them. The idea excited him: his only real exposure had been to the Unggoy, and it would be fascinating to work next to other races of the Covenant.

The lift slowed him as he approached his floor and gently pushed him out of the way as others raced past, sending him stumbling into a hub-junction of eight hallways. It took Oriné a moment to regain his balance, something he knew would be gradually worked out of him throughout his time spent here. Glancing around he realized that there were other cadets milling about, most examining the markings on the wall and attempting to decipher where their rooms were. He pushed through the crowds and checked the writing, finding the appropriate hall and walking as fast as he dared down it. These hallways were all bare metal with only the occasional imperfection by way of removed panels that exposed piping or crudely etched messages that exposed the ineptitude of certain trainees; Oriné did his best not to stare, but a few of the more colorful exposures drew his eyes.

Finally he found room 1505, the door humming a pleasant note before sliding apart at a triple-seam. The inside was more spacious than he had dared hope: at the center were arrayed enough gravity-bunk units and around the edges enough desks to accommodate fifty Sangheili; through the rungs of the bunks he could see a secondary room on the other side of this one full of equipment. It was, perhaps, the training room.

More importantly Oriné noted that he was not the first one here. A handful of other Elite Juniors were standing about admiring or scorning their new home; Yarna ‘Orgalmee, however, stood out to Oriné in the group.

“Yarna!” he called out, walking over. Yarna looked up from the surface of a desk and smiled at his friend.

“Oriné, it’s good to see you survived your shuttle journey,” he jibed. “I thought for a moment the shivers would get you.”

The slightly younger Sangheili roughly bumped foreheads with his friend, the helmet material clacking. “You would believe that, wouldn’t you? After all, it was you who became ill during our flight to Jisako.” Yarna scowled and punched Oriné in the arm a bit harder than was friendly, but the latter smiled anyway. He quickly set about getting his own marveling out of the way, noting how the desks had Lumidexes built in and connected to Institution’s amazingly large database. The gravity bunks were strange, however, in their function: each had a series of small gravity “platforms” generated in the supporting rungs of the unit, four platforms total in a tiered formation. When a cadet climbed onto one it created a gravity bubble around said cadet that repelled outward, allowing the next to use it as a stepping stone to reach the next bunk. Oriné realized, after thinking about it, that he would much prefer being on the top bunk. That way he needn’t suffer the anxiety of the bubble failing and his bunkmates stepping on him.

“Well?” Yarna asked from behind him after a moment. “What do you think?”

“I think its home.”

——

The grand assembly hall was located at the base of the spires. It appeared as a bulge from the outside, but on the inside it was a fantastically large dome, big enough to hold all the occupants of Institution within its walls. Yarna ‘Orgalmee had noted a strange diploid tendency of Institution: a section was either threadbare and purely utilitarian or ornately decorated and lavishly furnished. This hall was one of the latter. Sacred halli trees from Sanghelios lined the walls and intricately-sewn draperies hung in pairs near each of them. Small standing pools teeming with aquatic life were slowly filled with trickling water running in rivulets through small canals. There were no chairs: all races were meant to stand, and there were several races present indeed.

Everything was centered around a single raised platform in the middle of the room illuminated by a shaft of bright white light, the four races arranged like spokes radiating from that center point. The Sangheili merely made up one spoke, the slight upwards curvature of the floor allowing people in the back to get a good view of the center stage. They all wore emerald armor until the very back where several Elite Minors and a handful of Elite Majors stood, keeping a careful eye on their charges. There were thousands of Sangheili trainees present, and any one of them could cause trouble.

Clockwise from the natives of Sanghelios were the Lekgolo, the “Hunters.” All of them wore heavy blue armor with spines and quadruple-digit gauntlets. At twelve feet tall and resembling walking tanks, even the Elites had kept their distance, but Yarna had allowed himself a few moments to observe them. As far as he could tell they were fairly relaxed, unlike the Sangheili who had to remain at strict attention, and they rumbled and hissed in their native tongues to each other. There was one curious thing: based on the still images he had seen of fully-equipped Hunters they had a heavy cannon on their right arms and a large steel on their left. These inductees, however, had neither; instead they wore the curious four-fingered manipulators. As he watched them move their own “hands” with a cautious curiosity Yarna could only surmise that they didn’t usually wear them. The Lekgolo were essentially colonies of thousands of eel-like worms that came together to form bipedal, lanky creatures; perhaps they didn’t have hands at all?

Counterclockwise were the Unggoy clad in their Grunt armor. Unlike the Elites and Hunters there was no easy way to distinguish a newly-arrived Grunt from one who had been there for a while; the newest arrivals wore the standard orange Grunt Minor armor. The only way Yarna supposed to tell them apart was to look at their skin: the more an Unggoy aged the rougher and craggier its skin would become. Those with the smoothest skin were undoubtedly trainees. They were standing at attention, but because of their naturally stooped posture it was difficult to tell. Looking at them, Yarna couldn’t help but grimace: though the Sangheili were the backbone of the Covenant, the Unggoy were the workhorses, and it showed. They weren’t much to look at but they were numerous.

Directly across, mostly obscured by the stage, was the fourth race of soldiers. The Jiralhanae. The Brutes. A tingle of apprehension ran up his spine. He had never met a Jiralhanae, and from the stories his father told he never wanted to. They were boorish, undisciplined; even from here he could tell they were making the most noise. They were roughly the size of a Sangheili, but the similarities abruptly ended there. Tufts of fur and leathery patches of hide formed a strikingly simian appearance; like the humans they had an upper palate and a single lower jaw, though from it grew razor-sharp tusks and fangs. Behaviorally they followed a tribe system with a Chieftain at the head and lesser lieutenants acting out his will. That Chieftain carried a totem of power, a personal item of importance that distinguished him and kept the others under control; recently, according to his father, it was something called the “Fist of Rukt,” though Yarna didn’t know what it was.

The light in the center of the room intensified, forcing Yarna to squint against it. A shape floated down from the top; as far as the young Sangheili could tell there must have been a hole up there, but it was washed out with the light. As the shape distanced itself from the source of the light it became clearer: it was a chair... no, a throne. In that throne sat a figure, slight of build with wispy features and an elaborate crown of gold.

Yarna’s breath caught in his throat. A Prophet.

“Greetings, my children,” he called out. His voice was vigorous, reaching all corners of the chamber seemingly without effort. “I congratulate you! You have taken the first steps to becoming the mightiest warriors the Covenant has to use.” The throne reached the stage... or at least got as close as it was going to get. It hovered in the air staying perfectly steady except for when its occupant gestured with his arms, adorned with a regal red robe.

“I am the High Prophet of Regret,” the figure said. Now all the way down his physical features were easier to make out. A frown formed on Yarna’s mandibles. He didn’t know the Prophet but that didn’t matter: he wore the vestments of a Hierarch, something that could not be faked. What did matter, however, was how he looked. Even though he was obviously young and, supposedly, in his prime, there was a high degree of frailty to him. His fingers were long and thin, his neck was arched and curved, and when his sleeves tumbled back it looked like the Sangheili would have no trouble wrapping a single hand around it and snapping it like a twig. Regret’s eyes bulged, ringed with what looked like fleshy eyelashes.

All the Sangheili had seen the murals on their home world, but somehow the Prophets seemed less impressive in person. No one dared voice this opinion, however.

The Prophet took a moment to complete a rotation, observing the entire chamber. He lingered for a moment on the Jiralhanae but kept his pace. As he finished the rotation slowed but stayed constant: he was trying to appear fair to all races. “This glorious Institution,” he began, “has served as the training place for all Covenant forces here in the beating heart of our own territory. The greatest heroes and Arbiters have passed through these halls, studied the ways of combat and philosophy, and gone on to become legends in our sacred lore.” He gestured upwards into the shaft of light enthusiastically. “Nine ages of time have passed, and in every one, Institution has borne hundreds of gifted warriors on to their destinies of urging the Great Journey forward.”

Yarna momentarily lost interest in what the Prophet was saying and allowed his eyes to wander a little. Oriné was situated a few rows closer to Regret and appeared completely enthralled. Olah ‘Seroumee was also a distance away, closer to Oriné than to Yarna, but seemed to have the same waning attentiveness to the presentation.

Satisfying himself that there was nothing better to focus on, he returned his attention to the Prophet. “Within these hallowed walls,” he was still saying, “you will have access to the greatest treasures of knowledge the Covenant has at its disposal. Unlike the facilities on Estuarini, Institution has a data-link with the Sacred Text databases on High Charity that is updated daily.

“Also unlike other facilities, we have the greatest soldiers to teach you the arts of combat. Be you Lekgolo, Sangheili, Jiralhanae, or,” he paused for a light chuckle that came to his throat, “even Unggoy, you will be trained to be the best on the battlefield.” Regret’s chuckle proceeded uneasily through the ranks of Sangheili and Unggoy, uproariously through the Jiralhanae, and not at all through the Lekgolo. “Access to the latest technological developments will be yours at all times; the training grounds are constantly staffed and will never be without attendants. Furthermore the libraries, temples, and meditation courts will also have an all-hour access.

“Now it is time for you all to become adjusted to your new surroundings. You shall be dismissed to your quarters, familiarized with the standards of organization, and allowed the rest of the day to explore. Tomorrow begins your official training.”

A strange smile crossed Regret’s lips, one that chilled Yarna’s heart. “Godspeed,” the Prophet finished and rose once more into the light. His ascension this time seemed much more rapid and hasty, a fact that stuck with the young Sangheili more than anything the Hierarch had said.

——

“Attention!” the Elite Major called out. The Sangheili had all proceeded back to their quarters; Oriné was in his, along with Yarna, Olah, and forty-seven others. The warrior in the crimson armor had been waiting for their return.

“Here in Institution, we operate based on squadrons.” The Major gestured to the assembled Sangheili. “This is your squadron: fifty of you. You will be divided into five units of ten each, with one member from each unit serving as unit commander, and one unit commander serving as the squadron commander. Commanders will be decided upon through combat.” He nodded to the room. “This will be your new home. You will conduct all battle exercises and all studies with your squadron. You will be expected to keep each other going, and to excel under extreme pressure. That is what it means to be Elites within the Covenant: leadership, tactical ability, and the combat skills necessary to back it up.

“You are all considered Rank Threes. You will be promoted to Rank Two and, subsequently, Rank One when your squad has demonstrated the proper skills necessary to ascend.” He began pacing back and forth, his arms swaying stiffly at his side. “You will not be promoted based on individual merit. If your squad fails, so do you. Working together is what makes the Sangheili Elites and not Grunts.”

The Major paused and looked down Oriné’s line. The Elite Junior was third in line; Olah ‘Seroumee was first. “You will also work in tangent with the other combat races,” he continued, and returned to his even pace as he did so. “Be they Hunters, Grunts, or even Brutes you will treat them with respect; as far as the Covenant is concerned you are all of the same rank.” Oriné hesitated; he believed he had no problem working with the other races but he knew his comrades might not have that same ease. They had been raised on bias. Admittedly so had he: his father often used the words “Brute” and “Grunt” detrimentally and sometimes Oriné couldn’t help but repeat it.

A Sangheili stepped forth from the fifty, puffing his chest out and hollering, “Excellency!” The Major ceased and turned to regard the forthcoming Elite; the others kept their heads forward but rolled an eye to see their comrade.

“What is it, Junior?”

“Excellency, will we be training with the Kig-Yar as well? They were not at the ceremony.”

The Major’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The Jackals do not train with us; they train elsewhere. Occasionally flocks of them will be present for training purposes but they operate on... different principles than we do.” Several of the young Sangheili in the crowd took notice of the hesitation in the Major’s voice; Oriné could tell from the slight twitches of their mandibles or the barely-detectable rotation of their shoulders. Obviously these Jackals did not conduct themselves in a manner similar to the Elites.

The speech resumed, moving into sleeping schedules and time rotations. Yes, their senior told them, the places around Institution were open at all times but they weren’t necessarily accessible. The cadets would only be allowed into the gardens, training grounds, and libraries when it was not a meal or sleep rotation; the only places that were truly open at all times were the cantinas and temples.

“Now,” the Major finally said, “it is time to determine your commanders.” He led the Elite Juniors into the training room off their main quarters. It was slightly smaller than their living space, but against all the walls were racks. Most were empty save for one wall full of long silver rods; the Sangheili knew them as malier, dueling staves that had come to replace the nadier for trainees, as Energy Swords were still too heavy and too dangerous to use.

“Everyone, take up a weapon and arrange yourselves in a circle,” the Major ordered. Oriné walked up to a rack, as did everyone else, and grabbed one of the malier. It was lighter than his nadier, even with the gravity manipulation activated, but it required both hands for use. He gave it a test spin and found it to be satisfying; the whipping noise it made in the air filled him with an elation he had only been able to find through combat.

The Elite Juniors quickly formed the circle that had been asked of them, and the Major stood in the middle. “Bring up your wrist units,” he ordered, and they did as they were told, planting one end of their staves on the ground and letting them rest against their shoulders as they observed their personal computers. “Set your armor to training, first standing. This is the lightest setting: you will be able to take four strikes to any part of your armor before it paralyzes your motion in that area. If you’re hit four times in the head or torso you will be considered neutralized.” They followed his orders, and while they struggled to program the correct setting he stepped out of the circle.

“Prepare yourselves,” he loudly announced, then waited for a beat; it was long enough for the Sangheili to adopt the proper stance for staff combat.

“Go!” The room blurred into motion as the Elite Juniors made their premier strikes, the vast majority of them attacking the Elites to either side. Oriné opted for a different tactic, ducking beneath the blows of his two neighbors and rushing across the circle. Not only would this prevent him from being immediately sandwiched but his target was occupied with his own two companions; Oriné was able to land four rapid strikes to the Sangheili’s chest and score the first kill of the battle. Pride filled his mind but that was quickly knocked out as he received a vicious blow to the back of his helmet; he turned as fast as he could and parried the next two attacks but the third struck his gauntlet. The pain flashed through his forearm and up to his head, and for a moment a vicious bloodlust took over; it was long enough for him to strike upwards and catch his attacker in the throat. He obviously hadn’t expected that and went reeling backwards, dropping his malier and collapsing to the floor. Oriné delivered his swift blows to his comrade’s head and effectively neutralized him, though he had the idea that the opponent wouldn’t have been able to continue fighting with such hampered breathing.

Oriné looked up and observed the room: four-fifths of the Sangheili had been eliminated, either crawling or limping their way off the battleground to the corners of the room, resigned to spectating the remaining ten Elite Juniors.

There was a whistle in the air behind him, and the Sangheili barely rolled in time to avoid a hit to his back. Oriné twirled and swung his staff low to knock his opponent off his feet, but Yarna nimbly jumped over it and swiped his own weapon across Oriné’s leg. He retaliated quickly, hitting the ground and rolling onto his back to deliver a powerful blow to his friend’s stomach. He doubled over, allowing Oriné to get in two more hits; but before he could deliver the final one Yarna parried and struck him hard in the head. The younger cadet stumbled backwards and struggled to readjust his helmet after it had fallen a bit too far over his eyes. As soon as it was fixed he could see Yarna drawing back for another strike. Suddenly, just as Oriné was preparing to block the attack, Yarna cried out and collapsed to the floor, limp except for a prolonged groan.

Behind the prone Sangheili stood Olah ‘Seroumee, staff still held in the air where he had struck Yarna’s spine. He did not grin in victory or even make any kind of taunting movement; Olah merely locked eyes with Oriné and lunged forward. Twirling his malier Oriné was able to parry three attacks and then swing low to knock his opponent off-balance. Olah, however, jumped over it and did an impressive flip, landing on his hand and kicking Oriné in the face with a booted hoof. Blood trickled down his lower right mandible from a broken tooth and the cadet tried to force the pain out of his head; he staggered back but succeeded in raising his staff into a defensive position to block the next attack.

Olah, however, would not be so easily stopped. He allowed the malier to connect, but slid his own forward and smacked Oriné’s forehead with it. The Sangheili stumbled and fell, the four fatal hits having been registered. At first there was pain, but a numbness flashed through his body and caused him to crumple to the floor, his weapon rolling out of his limp fingers. He grunted when he hit the floor, and then gasped as feeling gradually returned to him. With a great deal of effort he pulled himself to his feet and half-shuffled, half-limped to the sidelines, where he rested his back against the wall next to Yarna and watched the rest of the fight.

Olah ‘Seroumee won and was given the title of unit commander; according to the collaborated stories of the rest, he hadn’t taken a single hit throughout the course of the melee.

——

The curriculum at Institution was broken up into three principle parts: Combat, Faith, and Knowledge. Combat was constituted of time at the training grounds, fighting over varied terrain and learning the intricacies of battle under the careful guidance of the Sangheili Instructors. Oriné and his squadron were often pitted against each other and, in rare cases, against other squadrons in mock battles, in which they vied for control of certain objectives: Emblem tested their abilities to outwit each other, steal small colored cubes from their enemies, and return to their own base with them, while Expanse tried the skill of seizing and holding territories while the opposing team attempted the same. There was also Melee, which was a team exercise in completely eliminating the opponents.

These tests took place on several terrain types: there was a desert that was uncomfortably similar to Jisako, a forest arena, a field, and a mock human city in which to battle. They were given training rifles and pistols, or sometimes they were only allowed malier. Gradually they moved on from the first standing setting on their armor, proceeding to second and even third, each time the number of hits required for incapacitation was reduced by one; additionally, in third, the pain was enhanced to the point of feeling like a plasma burn.

Besides actually participating in battle they spent time learning about the different weapons at the disposal of the Covenant, of vehicles (some of which they would be given the opportunity to train with once they achieved Rank Two) and ships, and of battlefield tactics; occasionally the Instructors had them use simulators to wage war against each other to apply the things they learned.

Faith was, admittedly, much more dry and boring. The classes were taught by Lesser Prophets, and the Sangheili learned about the histories of the Covenant and the Forerunner. Oriné’s favorite Forerunner tales were the Valor of Fasul and the Fall of Lithiom, but many more were told, including the Legend of the Rings, but Oriné found more comfort in the tale of battle and of warriors, not in myths of lost gateways. He believed that the path to the Great Journey lay in combat, and that the only way to take one’s first step was to die in battle.

Regardless, his and his squadron’s faith was tested every so often through the flawless reciting of prayer and scripture, seemingly at the Prophets’ whim. The target of the day was often singled out, forced to stand alone and bidden to speak loudly and with conviction. In privacy they confided in each other that such tactics did not breed faith, but instead resentment of their Prophet teachers. Such feelings were only considered to be Minor Heresies, however, and were easily atoned for, thus they had no trouble divulging them to the other Sangheili.

Secretly, however, Oriné had a passion, and it lay within the realm of Knowledge. Under Knowledge, instructed by Magisters, they were taught many things that did not fall under the other two categories. How to accurately judge climate conditions with as little data as possible, the anatomy of themselves and the other Covenant clients, proper ways to take care of oneself be it on the battlefield or in times of peace. Over time Oriné learned things such as what was safe to eat and what wasn’t, how to construct a sturdy shelter, how to ration supplies... and a great deal of general wisdom imparted upon him by the Magisters.

However, his true enthusiasm lied in Heretic Studies, specifically the humans. Magister Torlo ‘Alsakee taught Oriné and his squadron this subject. His immediate uncle on his mother’s side, Oriné often looked forward to Magister ‘Alsakee’s lectures.

“Today we shall discuss the anatomy of the humans,” ‘Alsakee began, pressing a few runes on a holographic display and calling forth a three-dimensional image of a bipedal heretic. Several members of Oriné’s squadron began crying out and hissing, a few seizing personal objects to toss through the Spirit. The Magister bellowed for quiet.

“Thank you for that display of barbarism,” he said, even though a smile pulled at his mandibles. “Now let’s continue. This is your average adult human male; approximate height at six feet. You will most likely see this specimen dressed thusly—” the image changed to represent a human Marine, in full combat gear, “—or perhaps you will see him as this.” Once again the image changed, this time from armor to what the Covenant had come to understand as their civilian clothes: cloth coverings that were tight against the torso and bits that fully encircled the individual limbs. It looked far too restricted and uncomfortable.

The image changed back to its original, naked state and the diverged into a second version, largely similar with a few notable differences. “This other image is a human female, approximately five feet and eight inches tall. Note the lack of external sex organs and the expanded mammary glands.” ‘Alsakee waved his hand at the appropriate areas. “They also tend to be more fragile than their male counterparts, yet they are no less dangerous.

“But, aside from genitalia, internally the two genders are no different.” The female faded and the male’s skin seemed to turn transparent, allowing the cadets to properly see the muscle groups; that quickly vanished itself to be replaced by the organ system. “Autopsies on captured humans have revealed a great many details that we would have otherwise overlooked. For instance, notice that they have a distinct lack of redundant organs: one heart, one stomach, one liver, one spleen. If one is damaged or rendered inoperable that would spell the end; that also explains why their care for the wounded is so comprehensive and thorough, as they cannot afford the same mistakes we can.

“Here, though, is an interesting contradiction to that system.” Using the holograph system, the Magister highlighted an area below the neck where two puffy, pinkish organs resided. “These are average human lungs. Yes, lungs. Though smaller than ours, they have two lungs instead of our one. That means that, conceivably, they can survive if one is punctured or destroyed.” Oriné’s interest suddenly peaked: humans seemed as if they teetered on the edge of oblivion with every step. Sangheili had two hearts, three stomachs, and two organs acting as a liver. The lung difference was certainly an oddity, yet it seemed like they hardly needed to exterminate them at all: they could just wait for their metabolisms to make an inevitable, critical mistake and end them that way.

His thoughts were interrupted when Yarna had a question. “Magister, what is the most effective way to kill a human?”

“A shot to the head, as with every other species, is the most effective,” ‘Alsakee said, “but severing the spine at the neck or piercing the heart will do as well. Those are quick deaths, however; slower would be to target the abdominal area as it is highly likely that you will hit a vital organ.”

The discussion drifted between topics, from the structure of their feet (highly articulated, allowing them to move quickly across difficult terrain even if they weren’t stable) to the large lack of hair except for the top of the head and other places (no one had a good explanation). What was slightly shocking, however, was on the genetic level:

“Humans have forty-six chromosomes, twenty-three from each parent,” ‘Alsakee said, pointing to a double-helix diagram. “Compared to ours, in which we receive sixteen chromosomes from each parent for a total of thirty-two, they have the more advanced DNA. This allows them a greater variation of phenotypes, making them seem more diverse.”

Oriné was curious. “Do the humans with more advanced DNA achieve greater status?”

“As far as we can tell, no. No regard is given to genetic disposition.” That was something of a surprise to the Sangheili in the room, who were used to thinking that the humans were some kind of vicious savage. The fact that they paid no attention to one’s genetic profile meant that, most likely, promotions and advances were made based on individual skill and merit; in that regard they weren’t so different from themselves.

His father’s words returned to him: know you face equals on the field of battle.