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Chapter 7: Commencement

Fear gripped Oriné ‘Fulsamee as he walked through the halls of Institution. Every shadow seemed to take a twisted, demonic form, with claws that reached out to tear him to shreds. His eyes darted around nervously, looking for whatever it was that made his neck tingle so; but there was nothing, just him and the empty corridor.

Since his return, he had not felt at peace. Upon learning of Ekla’s true identity as the daughter of Institution’s Head Master he constantly expected swift death to fall upon him. His unease was only made greater by the fact that, so far, no reprimand had been delivered. For such a dishonorable action anyone would be punished, and Oriné did not think himself to be free of that rule of society. So why had there been no retribution? Nightmares filled his slumber, of him being dragged from his bed and publicly tortured, of him being thrown into an airlock and ejected into space, of him being stripped naked and forced to fight against a Yorahii in a small, cramped space, alone and destitute. The worst, however, were the dreams where he was dragged into the Chamber of the Head Master and placed before his mercy. He was always veiled in shadows, possessing a deep voice and shining, blood-red eyes that cut through the mystique surrounding him. Always he would speak, but Oriné couldn’t understand the words; they made no sense. Finally the shadows surrounding the figure would expand and swallow him whole, and he would wake in a cold sweat.

The journey through the corridor was complete. A door slid aside and Oriné entered his squad’s quarters. Several of the Sangheili within called out greetings, but he just nodded back and made his way towards his bunk. Around him his comrades were preparing for sleep; a few tooled through their Lumidexes for a few more moments before finally putting them down. They removed their armor, except for the dermo-suits, and climbed to their appropriate positions, with those in the first row of bunks settling in before everyone else, activating their gravity step, and the second row doing the same, and so on. Oriné was on the third row of five, and thus had to climb into his own bunk, lie down, activate the force-field, and watch nervously as his squad mates climbed over him to get to their own beds. Would that be how the Head Master was to kill him? Deactivate the field just as someone was walking over, his hoof coming down on Oriné’s head and killing him?

That’s ridiculous, the rational part of his mind told him. The Head Master didn’t have remote controls for the force-fields, and even if he somehow programmed it to accidentally fail, such an accident would surely hurt but would not be fatal. Still, the Elite Junior felt paranoia seize him and he pressed himself deeper into the padding.

Sleep came quickly, and mercifully the dream of meeting the Head Master did not come. It was a dream Oriné had not yet experienced: he stood at the edge of a great circular platform, with a similar-yet-smaller one above and, if he looked through carefully carved holes in the floor, one below. Everything was matte grey. Surrounding him were Sangheili, but they were... fuzzy, distorted, as if they weren’t actually there but instead somehow imprinted upon the air. Each had battle wounds, mortal bludgeons from the looks of them; they were ghosts, Oriné quickly realized.

He began to walk between them, and as he passed, each looked at him. Injustice, they all cried out, but there was no sound. The Elite Junior continued to move about them, stepping between the phantoms as if he was looking for something; but he did not know what he searched for.

Blasphemy, one “said” as he passed it, and he stopped. A diabolical trick, a betrayal of faith, but no faith in the betrayal. Sensing that was all he would hear he moved on.

Lies of truth, another said.

Promises of sacrilege.

The Age of Annihilation.

Oriné was confused. They spoke in riddles, and he walked on as if he searched for something. Suddenly a new phantom appeared, fading into view near the center, but this one was different: he was bathed in golden light. Unconsciously the Elite Junior moved towards it.

As he approached, he felt... familiarity. He could not understand, but it was there, tickling his mind, guiding him towards this being. When he was near, it spoke:

Oriné? The Elite Junior’s head snapped up. How did this figure know his name? Oriné, my friend, is that you?

Oriné held out his arms as if to embrace the figure of light.

A chime shattered the dream, and Oriné jumped awake, his head coming up and smacking into the force-field mere inches above it. He fell back down, stunned and confused; where was he? What was this coffin he was trapped in? For a moment his mind panicked and he began to thrash about; then reality came back to him and he calmed down, but his eyes were still wide and his body soaked with perspiration.

He glanced around and saw his comrades also awakened and confused. Checking the time as displayed by his bunk, it was a full two hours before they usually got up. One sight, however, caught all their eyes. The Major stood in the doorway of the room, glaring at them, his hand resting on the chime console set into the door frame. It was only accessible to instructors and administrative personnel.

“Rise, cadets,” he growled. They obliged, though not by choice. One by one the rows deactivated their bubbles and walked over their comrades to the door. As Oriné reached the bottom he yawned and stretched, gravitating towards Yarna ‘Orgalmee.

“Do you know what’s going on?” he asked. The other Sangheili merely shook his head.

“Don your armor, and be quick about it!” The Major’s order was followed to the letter without question, and in the space of one minute all of the Elite Juniors were dressed in their emerald-green armor and standing at attention. “You will now follow me.” They complied.

The walk was short, and when it reached its conclusion they found themselves in front of the armory. Once the door slid open they filed in and stood at perfect attention while the Major addressed two Minors quietly and sent them scurrying off to fetch something. As soon as they were gone the crimson armored Elite turned to regard the students.

“Remove your helmets,” he instructed, and they did so. “These will no longer suit you. As of this moment you are considered Rank One, and will thusly no longer use simulation equipment for your personal training.” One of the Minors reappeared and walked about, collecting all the helmets and depositing them on a hovering tray. “New ones shall be distributed momentarily. Right now, however, we must install new equipment in your armor.” The Minor collecting helmets completed his task and returned to the Major’s side while the second came through a doorway, pulling a container behind him on gravity treads. The first one stepped forward and cleared his throats.

“We will now install your shield and active camouflage generators,” he said. “Approach one at a time as we call your name and we shall endeavor to make this go as quickly as possible.” They began calling names, but Oriné soon lost himself in daydreams. Rank One! This was it. The final leg of his journey, and by far the hardest. From the stories he had heard told from the Elite Minors stationed at Institution, this was the time that he would have to prove himself. Live fire exercises, vehicular training, platoon tactics, command exams... and, once he had overcome them all, Commencement: his beginning as a soldier of the Holy Covenant. What glories awaited him on the front lines? How many foes would fall before him? How much closer would he grow to the glorious Forerunners?

“Oriné ‘Fulsamee!” The sound of his name pulled him back to reality, and he mechanically marched towards the front. Upon his arrival they indicated for him to turn around; he did, and immediately the two Minors set to work upon his armor. He felt them tug and pull, and heard something beep in response. They fumbled with something for a moment behind him before he felt a pressure push into his back, an increased weight just behind his shoulders, and a satisfied sigh cascaded over his neck. “Finished. You may return to your place.” He did so, and watched as Yarna received his generator as well.

Once all fifty cadets had their generators in place the Major stepped forth into the limelight again. “Bring up your wrist units. If you’ll notice, the standing option has been removed and replaced with your generator status. Please take note that this is only the hardware condition; the percentage strength shall be covered later.

“From this menu you can activate and deactivate your shields and camouflage, but in a moment I will show you a better method. For now, however, use this control to activate your shields.” Oriné reached down, as all his comrades did, and touched a finger to the appropriate icon. Suddenly an electrical charge surged down his spine, and he clenched his mandibles against the sensation. A few of his friends hissed in surprise, but most stayed quiet. A film was briefly visible over his arms and hands but quickly faded.

“Your shields have now activated,” the Major continued, “and are now protecting you with the Forerunners’ brilliance. Fear not the discomfort you just experienced, for you will become acclimated to it; that feeling will even become a relief. The shield works in harmony with itself; if you try to bring your hand to any part of your body you shall find passage uninhibited. However, try to lay a hand on your closest comrade.”

Oriné reached over to touch the shoulder of the nearest cadet but quickly found his hand deflected, a sharp shimmer flickering over both his friend’s upper torso and his own hand. He pulled back, anxious. “The shields are not yet in tune with each other, but once they establish their network they will function perfectly.”

Once more the Major turned to an Elite Minor and nodded; the soldier turned and produced a helmet from the container. It had slightly different contours, an extra spike in the back and the wings on the side swept out a bit more. The Elite Juniors could only speculate the significance.

“Distribute these,” he ordered, and the two Minors set about giving each cadet a new helmet. When Oriné received his he turned it over in his hands, admiring the shining newness, but also locating the most important design change: on the inside, set into the lining, was a peculiar array.

“Place them upon your heads,” the Major instructed. There were several audible snaps as the shielding overlapped the armor, but the helmets fit snugly. “Activate the button hidden behind the right protective wing.” They did so, reaching up their hands and pushing against the necessary toggle. Immediately a blinding light filled Oriné’s vision and he cried out in surprise, unable to contain himself. It vanished quickly, but suddenly there were... things in front of his eyes.

“This is the holographic display. It is generated by the helmet. In the bottom left corner of the image is your shield generator and motion tracker. Weapon, ammunition, and grenade counts will be displayed along the top; the suit will automatically detect what weapon you are holding and create a network with its onboard computer to monitor the amount of charge left in the battery. There is also a small orb just off of the top left corner; when this is highlighted your active camouflage will be engaged.” The Major began pacing. “When it is engaged, your shields will be automatically deactivated, and their power rerouted to keeping your camouflage on. When you reactivate your shields and turn off your camouflage, the shields will have no power for a short time while the armor recycles it. You must give it a chance to recharge.”

The Major stopped and looked out at the group of Elites. A disquieting expression passed over his face; if Oriné didn’t know better he would have sworn it was a smirk. “Your armor systems will require testing. An exercise has been prepared for you. Proceed to the Hall of Honor, you will be briefed there.” The Major and his two attendant Minors took their leaves, and the students turned and left the armory.

As they moved through the hallway, Oriné’s eyes drifted to his own motion tracker. There was a central yellow dot that he assumed was himself, and then forty-nine other yellow dots at various points around him. Allies, he realized. The suits networked with each other, making contact and identifying themselves as friends. He supposed that to identify enemies the same process was invoked, but a lack of response or an incorrectly encrypted one would result in the system being tagged as hostile. What had the Major called it, a “motion tracker?” So it sends the signal based on movement.

Oriné was so fascinated with the new device that he hardly noticed it when they were in the Hall of Honor. Faux human buildings had been built here, reaching an average of three stories; it had been designed to follow the standard, seemingly senseless order the structures could be found in on their planets.

The Major walked out from between two alleys, followed by his two Minors. Each of them carried a bundle of maliers. “Take one,” he ordered, and the Elite Juniors walked forward and grabbed one each. They returned to their places and put themselves into proper formation.

“Now we will begin,” he said, signaling the two Minors to leave. “Standard combat, but now you fight until you cannot lift your weapon. There are no more standings, only pain and glory.” He walked until he stood at the exit to the Hall. Glancing over his shoulder, he shouted, “Begin!”

Immediately there was a swirl of activity. Oriné was barely able to raise his malier in time to block the swing of a nearby cadet, but he parried and struck out at his comrade; the shaft slid off the shield of his opponent, stopping the actual harmful metal but not the kinetic force. His opponent reeled back and Oriné pressed the advantage until he was struck in the side by another cadet. Roaring, the Elite Junior rounded and slammed his malier into his attacker's face.

It was a bloodthirsty melee. There was no strategy in anyone's motions, just random beating and deflecting of staves. At any one point Oriné had no idea who he was attacking or defending against; there was only combat. Yet it was too much. He had to clear a path, or just clear his head. The fighting was fierce, but eventually Oriné began to see less and less cadets on the streets. Suitably beaten ones dragged themselves into the shelter of buildings, cradling wounded and broken limbs. Dropped, bloody maliers covered the ground.

After a good while of fighting, Oriné was able to appraise himself. A few bruises, and he had perhaps strained his left wrist, but beyond that he was thankfully intact. Not many still stood, but the battle had spread out; fighting was continuing in other boulevards, in alleys, inside buildings. Considering his options, the Elite Junior decided to pursue opponents on the other side of a building. He took a step towards the entrance, but thought better; inside was bound to be a death trap, and the two story building wouldn't be hard to go around. So he changed direction and headed for the alley next to it.

When he entered the shadow of the structure, a sudden chill washed over him. There was no sound, but a sensation built on the back of his neck; warily he glanced up and saw a shape falling towards him. Instinctively he dived to the side and brought up his weapon, prepared to fight; Olah 'Seroumee glared at him.

The battle began there in the alley. Olah charged but Oriné deflected it, turning and striking the Sangheili in the shoulder as he passed. His shields flared blue, but the other Elite Junior paid no heed, spun on his heel and lashed out, catching Oriné in the ribs. He doubled over in pain but recovered enough to parry Olah's next blow, the sound of metal impacting metal ringing through the closed space.

There was a strange look in Olah's eyes, Oriné could see. Something was guiding his actions, influencing his moves; he got so caught up in trying to determine what it was that he lost his advantage, Olah levying a savage attack and sending Oriné's malier skittering away. With a single movement Olah slammed Oriné against the wall, holding his malier hard against his throat and pushing. His shields absorbed the attack for but a moment, but they failed, and then the metal was against his bare neck.

“I was told to kill you today,” Olah growled softly. The pressure increased and Oriné struggled to free himself, eyes wide. Am I to die here, and the hands of a comrade? “I was told to make it look like an accident, make it look like I had simply gotten carried away in a training exercise.” For a moment, Oriné felt his windpipe start to collapse; his eyes began to black out. But just when he was certain he was going to die the pressure disappeared and he collapsed onto his hands and knees on the ground. He waited for the deathblow, but it didn't come.

Terrified, Oriné looked up. Olah stood there, clutching his malier in his hand. “But you have your honor, and I have mine,” he said. “I won't kill you today.” The cadet stalked off, but paused at the exit to the street. He looked back. “By the end of this, though, you may wish that I had.”

——

Training was tougher, even more so than after the transition from Rank Three to Rank Two. In Faith, entire chapters of the Forerunner Divinidex were to be memorized and recited, word for word, in front of a Lesser Prophet. Oriné often struggled up until the minute before he was called forward to memorize the passages. Despite many slips and mistakes, however, he somehow miraculously managed to slip through. In Knowledge, the focus was finally coming around to the humans. Human history was a common lecture topic and often took up great deals of time, as much had been gleaned from historical archives in captured museums prior to the glassing of a planet. “Elite Inquisitors are responsible for bringing us this information,” Magister 'Alsakee said one day, looking directly at Oriné as he said it. “We should be thankful for having it, because without it, insights into things such as human battle doctrine and philosophy wouldn't be possible.”

In Combat, things were accelerated dramatically. One of the newest additions to the roster was zero-gravity training, involving donning Elite Ranger suits and venturing into the space beyond Institution. At first the lessons revolved around getting a feel for space and basic maneuvering: the idea of up and down was quickly forced from the cadets' minds by their trainers. It was a trap, they were told; the best option was to locate any two objects and arbitrarily mark them as the direction of up and down. That way they would avoid becoming caught in such a horizontal mentality when fighting. After that came advanced maneuvering and combat. Oriné failed miserably in every aspect of space battle; during training exercises he was assigned by his teammates to be a stationary gun, which suited him just fine.

Regular vehicle training was implemented too, demanding the cadets demonstrate mastery of the various vehicles at the Covenant’s disposal: Ghosts and Wraiths were the primary offensive vehicles, the small and maneuverable Ghost scout craft being a popular choice among speed-loving Elites while the heavy and armored Wraith mortar tank was picked for its offensive capability. Banshee fliers were mandated for operation, but the Spirit-class dropships were available if brave trainees wanted to try flying one. Many attempted it but only a few were any good at it; they were selected for continued training as pilots. Several prototype vehicles were also on display, but none were yet approved for operation by Juniors. When not training, however, they could go down and watch them be tested: Oriné found himself to be drawn to what seemed to be a militarized version of a Chimera. There was room for a single driver at the front and, for the mounted plasma turret on the back, a gunner; but along the wings, above where hover units were stored, there was room for two soldiers to sit and be able to brandish weapons. It seemed vaguely reminiscent of the human Warthog.

The other major change in Combat was the introduction of live weapon training. Each squadron had time to go down to the firing range and test the weapons available to them once they were on the battlefield. The plasma rifle was the primary weapon of the Elites, firing blue blobs of energy rapidly and, if the operator was not careful, overheating the unit and burning one's hand. Twice Oriné was dismissed to the infirmary where he had to have a quick-acting healing salve applied. Besides that there was the Needler, also available to infantry, which fired purple crystalline needles that could home in on targets and exploded upon burying themselves in a surface. A plasma pistol was essentially a scaled-down plasma rifle, but with a charge function. Oriné had little taste for either the Needler or the pistol because of their lack of stopping power. The only other weapon there was available to test-fire was the Fuel Rod Gun, firing an arcing glob of green radiation that could destroy Hunter plate. Two other weapons were there, but they were prototypes and like the vehicles were not available to cadets.

However, for a brief time an additional exercise was added to the Combat roster. Oriné and the rest of Squadron Twenty-two shuffled into the armory. Set up against the far wall was a set of Elite armor, uncolored and unshielded. One of the trainers paced back and forth.

“Welcome to the live fire test,” he said. “Here we will demonstrate the destructive power of human weapons.” He walked to a depository set into the wall and slid the door into the wall, revealing a locker of human weapons within. He removed a human assault rifle.

“This is the current standard of human frontline troops,” he began, flipping it over in his hands. “I'm aware that it is considered dishonorable to use a human weapon, but it is not forbidden in the Divinidex, so I will be able to show you exactly what to expect from one of these weapons.” With that, he strode so he was standing about three yards from the armor on the wall, raised the weapon, and held down the trigger. A stream of solid-state projectiles flew from the barrel and struck the armor, enveloping it in smoke. After a while the gun clicked repeatedly, signaling that it was empty. He tossed the rifle aside.

“Look at the armor,” he said as the smoke cleared. “As you can see, these bullets do not penetrate too deeply on their own, but there are a lot of them. It takes an average of one 'clip,' as the humans say, which amounts to sixty rounds, to drain your shields; while the armored parts of your body, such as your chest, back, arms, and legs have little to worry about, there is still the problem of more lightly armored areas, such as your neck and face.” The trainer continued with the demonstration, showing off weapons like the pistol, which fired powerful semi-automatic rounds, to the deadly and formidable shotgun that tore up anything at close range.

Finally, he walked to the front of the armory and pressed a button against the wall, the molested armor falling loose from its magnetic holds and clattering to the deck. He glanced at it for a moment. “Now, by the Head Master's recent decree, all squadrons are to 'experience' the feeling of a human round hitting your shields.” A wave of shock and tension passed through the crowd of cadets, but the trainer raised his hand to maintain order. “It is risky, yes, but we will only fire one round from the pistol at your chest, which is the most shielded. The bullet will not penetrate.” Unease was still very much present in the room. No one stepped forth to volunteer.

“Understandable,” the trainer muttered, then produced a Lumidex. “Very well. A name will be chosen at random by the computer. The first to be shot... er, to experience the battlefield will be... Oriné 'Fulsamee!”

Obligingly, but with no lack of apprehension, Oriné stepped forward from the crowd. He trudged forward until he stood at the front of the group, stood straight, and waited for the command. Outwardly he hoped he appeared confident; inside he was frightened and fearful. What if his shields failed? What if there was a mistake?

He was afforded no time to voice these concerns. The trainer picked up a pistol and took aim right at Oriné's chest. “Activate your shields, please,” he ordered, and Oriné did as he was told. There was a crackle down his spine, but by now he had gotten used to the sensation, and actually found it marginally pleasant. The trainer double-checked his aim, looked down the sights of the weapon, and pulled the trigger. Suddenly pain exploded across Oriné's chest, white overcoming his eyes, but a second later his vision returned. There was no more air in his lungs; he had to draw a breath in consciously before he fell. The shield bar in the corner of his eyes was half-empty, and his hand instinctively went to the place where the bullet hit.

Except it hadn't. There was no hole exposing his vulnerable innards. His shields had held. On the floor was a flattened solid round, shining dully in the armory light. Looking around, he saw his comrades looking at him in a mixture of admiration and fear. Finally he nodded to them that he was all right.

“Well done,” the trainer said, and then waved him down. He picked up his Lumidex again. “Any volunteers now? No? Then the next cadet will be...” His voice trailed off and he frowned. “Oriné 'Fulsamee?” He looked around. “Wasn't he just up here?” Several Elites nodded yes, Oriné most fervently. The trainer shrugged. “An overlooked glitch, I suppose. Let's try it again.” Yet no matter how many times he tried to select a name randomly, the computer always gave him the same name: Oriné 'Fulsamee. After several minutes an Elite Minor technician was called for and the squadron dismissed.

As they left, Oriné overheard the conversation between the trainer and the Minor. “Is the program faulty?” the cobalt-armored Elite asked.

“No, it can't be,” the trainer replied. “The Head Master himself oversaw the final encoding.”

——

“We have been at war with the humans for several years now,” Magister 'Alsakee said, pacing in front of a blank holographic screen. “In that time, we have learned much about them: their hygiene, their physical anatomy, their genetic makeup, and even their mating habits.” Several of the Rank Ones who made up the audience shuddered at the memory of that particular lecture. “However, one thing that we rarely consider is how much we have learned from them.”

Runes faded into view on the screen and quickly turned into individual scenes of combat, visual footage captured by soldiers of the Covenant. “Though no self-respecting commander would ever admit it,” the Magister continued, “our own tactics have benefited greatly from observing humans in combat.”

Oriné sat in the third row and was considerably intrigued. Human tactics employed by Covenant warriors? All he could imagine were Elites fleeing haplessly from their stations, which warranted a frown. Such an image seemed completely inaccurate, not at all what he would think of a Sangheili warrior. He immediately banished the picture from his mind. He would not stand it.

'Alsakee smiled, looking over the incredulous faces of the cadets. “Do you not believe me?” The screen faded to a model of a Sangheili soldier, dressed in the cobalt armor of an Elite Minor. “The tactics of sniping, flanking, and taking cover have been well-known battlefield maneuvers since war was first created.” The model lay down in a prone position, holding an invisible gun, before jumping up and hiding behind an invisible wall. “For millennia, the Covenant has employed such tactics on the battlefield, though not quite to the same effectiveness as the humans.” Several of the audience members murmured to each other, not properly understanding what the Magister was getting at.

“Please observe this footage taken during battle on the human world known as Jericho Seven.” The screen changed again, this time showing the clear video of a battle taken in the midst of combat. The image bobbed up and down as it moved forward, but only slightly; the Ossoona in charge of recording the data must have been quite experienced. Speeding up, the footage advanced to the appropriate place: a group of humans, prone behind what remained of a wall. It could hardly have been six inches in height, yet simply by using it to help minimize their profile and exposed area infinitesimally they were avoiding being struck by the incoming plasma fire. One pulled and primed one of their fragmentation grenades, throwing it over the miniscule barricade. An explosion sounded moments later, and the plasma fire stopped completely. One of the humans peeked over the incline and let out a cheer.

The video changed, this time showing possibly the same Ossoona moving with a squadron of other Covenant. Suddenly there was a loud cracking sound and the Elite Minor who was leading the squad crumpled to the ground. The camera immediately began to shake as the Ossoona moved to cover, perhaps because he had been caught in the open without his active camouflage, but the sound of more sniper fire was easily heard. For a moment a Jackal was caught in frame, and just as he appeared his head exploded. When the camera looked away, the image froze, settling on a half-destroyed building. Scrutinizing the image closely, Oriné could see a slight vapor trail in the air leading back to a shadow on the fourth floor.

“From analyzing this,” Magister 'Alsakee continued, “our own troops have been able to formulate similar strategies.” The image changed again, this time becoming a video of Covenant warriors lying in wait. A single Warthog appeared, moving down a road between two buildings. As it passed between two alleys, a pair of plasma grenades flew from the shadows and attached to the front wheels, detonating in a cloud of sapphire flame and vaporizing half the vehicle. The audience of students cheered at the sight, and another video appeared: this time, two squads of Covenant soldiers were trying to advance down a street but stationary guns deployed by the humans were preventing them from moving. One of the Elites gave a garbled order to a Jackal, who nodded and began scaling the building with his partner. They reached the top without being spotted, moved along the top of the building until they were over the humans' position, and began firing down at them. The distraction was all the other warriors needed as they broke cover and advanced quickly.

The video faded and the holographic projector hummed down. Magister 'Alsakee paced in front of it. “The humans are heretics, have no doubt, but in their testing of our faith we can learn much. Even in space they have proven to be quite cunning, with maneuvers such as the 'Kiiz Loop'.

“The next lesson for today concerns the anatomy and edibility of certain flora and fauna on the human planets...”

——

The lessons in Combat, Faith, and Knowledge were long, brutal, and often; when the call came for squadron twenty-two to regroup in their quarters it had been a relief, but the walk back was painful for the students who were almost constantly bruised and sore.

As he shuffled into his place in the line of students, Oriné was not surprised to once again see the Major standing before them. His crimson armor was as radiant as ever, his face as chiseled and unreadable, and his stance rigid enough that it made people cringe to look at. Briefly the young Elite Junior wondered if he would ever learn the Major's name.

When everybody was assembled, the Major began to pace and speak. “I'm aware that your leave is coming up, but there is something that must be discussed prior to that, and that is your commencement assignments.

“Following your successful completion of training here, you will undergo the commencement ceremony. During the ceremony your achievements will be announced and judged, your dedications will be brought to light, and, most importantly, you will receive your assignment.”

He stopped pacing and shot a glare into the cadet line-up. “Those of you fortunate enough to have a sponsor within the fleet will be assigned to that warrior’s ship and that will be the end of that. You shall have nothing to worry about.” Oriné noticed a few shoulders droop in relief before recovering.

The Major continued both his walk and his speech. “For the rest of you, there are two likely deployments: the front lines, and Institution. The front lines are fairly self-explanatory: you will be on human worlds, fighting for the Forerunners, their artifacts, and the sake of the Great Journey. This is also the most likely assignment, and I can guarantee that ninety percent of the cadets who will be promoted to Elite Minor will be sent to the front lines. You will be placed in a lance; a few students will be promoted to Elite Major, and they will have much bigger responsibilities.

“The second likely deployment will be here, at Institution. The reasons for being assigned here are numerous and plentiful, mostly pertaining to either a need for Elite attendants or the Head Master feeling a student needs additional discipline.” He paused for only a second, but to the Elite Juniors it was easily discernible, a habit they had come to notice and understand in their several years at Institution. “It is not a permanent assignment, and following the completion of a 'satisfactory' stay you will be sent to the front.” As he said it, he turned away and looked to the wall. For a moment his gaze remained firmly affixed there, and his shoulders shook perceptibly; but when he looked back, his glare was as fierce and venomous as ever.

“Be warned, though,” he said, “those are only the most likely deployments. There are other possibilities, such as being assigned to a scouting ship or to High Charity, but these are all honorable paths to follow.”

Yarna, who was several Sangheili down the line from Oriné, stepped forward. The Major turned towards him and nodded. “Excellency,” the Elite Junior said, “are there any dishonorable deployments?”

“Yes,” the Elite Major replied, “but straight out of Institution there are few. You might be given the assignment of what is called the 'Moon Guard'. It may sound strange and exotic, but it means nothing more than being deployed to an outpost located on a moon within our own space. Those are reserved for troublemakers and suspected traitors who might be sympathetic towards the humans. With enough work and valor, however, you could be rotated out and to the front lines.”

The Major resumed his pace, but it was much slower and menacing, and coming towards Oriné. “Another possibility is being posted on survey duty. While a Surveyor your unenviable task will essentially be Inquisitorial follow-up; you will spend most of your time scanning and cataloging destroyed human planets, searching for missed sections and possible things of interest. However, you will likely never know combat unless you're facing surviving humans.”

He was almost in front of Oriné. “The third possible dishonorable deployment is duty in a gulag. Human prisoners are sent there to be interrogated and... executed.” There was a curios emphasis that left Oriné feeling uneasy. “Gulags are not located on planets for tactical reasons, and are instead free-floating space stations located in the rear lines. If you are sent there, you will never see combat, and will almost certainly never be transferred out. It is a dead end, and a terrible place to be.”

By now the Major was standing directly in front of Oriné. He looked down the line that Oriné occupied. “You will, however, most likely not have to worry about these situations, so long as you have not seen fit to slight a higher official.” It seemed like his cold eyes had settled on Oriné. His hearts sank. “If you have, pray that the Great Journey may sweep through soon after, that you will not be sullied and weighed down by your heresies and unable to be taken into godhood.

“Inoculations begin next week. Dismissed.”

——

It was nearly time for leave.

Oriné found himself unable to focus after the lecture from the Major. He was consumed by grief and fear, both regretting his affair with Ekla on High Charity and resenting the society that caused it. There was little he could do, however. The weeks wore on and his fatigue grew: he managed to fail a spot-examination in Faith, was “killed” nearly every day in Combat, and fell into a fitful sleep during a Knowledge lecture. Magister 'Alsakee had noticed and placed a bowl full of water on the slumbering Sangheili's lap; when he woke up the bowl tipped over and spilled on his armor. Everyone laughed, even Oriné, though it had been a pathetic, exhausted laughter.

Most students claimed the same when he admitted his weariness, though for them it was simply having spent years in Institution’s walls doing nothing but training. They wished to get out and enjoy themselves. Leave was nearly there, and all the students became antsy and unable to focus on their work; it was nothing new. “It happens to us all,” 'Alsakee had told them after a particularly violent display of restlessness had wound up rendering a Lumidex airborne aimed for his head. He had dodged successfully.

The inoculations were painful as well. The Elite Juniors had blood samples taken and evaluated for a disease risk factor. Most Sangheili had a high disease tolerance when compared to other races, and it was true that a lucky few would not need inoculations and would be able to develop their own immunity rapidly upon exposure. Everyone else was given a plethora of vaccines based on their own risks.

Somehow Oriné was evaluated as an extremely high risk and was required to have each and every shot available, though the precise number escaped him. He had lost count around fourteen. Yet it made no sense: when he had been younger there had been no problem with disease. He never caught anything more serious than a flu. Prior to his departure to Jisako his father had insisted he be tested, and the results came back as low risk.

He asked a Healer one day while he was getting his dose for something called “meezelz”.

“When we drew your blood we sent it to the lab here in the station,” the Healer replied.

“How did it get back to you?”

“They transmitted the results over the network.”

“Could they have been intercepted and changed?”

“I suppose, but why would anyone want to do that? If you suspect something is amiss, you're more than welcome to visit the laboratory and check the results yourself. But there's no harm in getting all the shots, even if you don't need them.”

Oriné told himself that he would check the lab, but in the end he never did. He was often sore following his inoculation sessions, and always tired from the stress. All he did instead was think of the enemy he had made himself and which of the horrible fates would fall to him.

Finally, however, it came time for leave, and with it a different bunch of mixed emotions. The destination for the students would be High Charity, the holy city, and the city where Ekla and her family made their home. Oriné would be glad to be away from Institution, he knew, but what would he do if he saw Ekla again? Or her mother? Or, Gods forbid, her father? The latter wasn't a rational worry, as Ekla's father would still be at Institution, but there was a possibility that he'd be closer than he'd like: it was tradition that the top three students in a squadron would have the honor of staying in the Head Master's manor. Everyone else would be put up in barracks.

Before boarding the Phantoms to take them to the ship which would, in turn, go to High Charity, the students were being stopped and instructed individually by the Major. Oriné couldn't hear what he was saying, and all too soon it was his turn.

“Oriné 'Fulsamee,” the Major muttered upon stopping him. “I understand you had an eventful stay at High Charity last time you were there.”

The Elite Junior fidgeted. “Yes, Excellency.”

The Major grunted. “We shall be sure not to have a repeat of that. You are to be assigned to barracks, where hopefully any disorderly conduct will be squashed by the authority there.” He nodded and motioned Oriné onward, and the young cadet went. I have built an unsavory reputation for myself, he thought solemnly. I deserve every word.

——

High Charity had not changed since his last visit. The Forerunner ship still stood in the center, crowds still swarmed in the streets, and everything was just as grand as he remembered... but the grandiosity hardly penetrated his skin.

It had been different experiencing the city alone. He had stopped to admire the smaller things, such as the way a tree swayed in the wind, an insect that crawled across a flat surface, or just the simple atmosphere. Yet, in a group, Oriné found that his priorities were different. He and his comrades were constantly searching for a means of entertainment or amusement as opposed to relaxation or enlightenment. At one point he directed them towards the Kig-Yar sweets shop that he had found last time, and the group of seven that accompanied him quickly set about diminishing their accounts. Properly fed they resumed their pace through the city.

There were many attractions that appealed to the cadets, one of which was the ability to rent Eidolons and go for a ride. Eidolons were demilitarized Ghosts with much steeper swept wings and less armor, but retaining the maneuverability and speed of their armed counterparts. In the evening the group of Elite Juniors would take their out and race them through the empty streets, often earning chastisements from the soldiers set to watch over them. Yet the speed was intoxicating, and they would sneak out and repeat the act every night.

Ekla, however, dominated Oriné's mind. At every turn he expected to see her, for her to jump with delight and run up so they could embrace again. Everything he saw reminded him of her, and he saw her in every face of every stranger. Several times he held back from running forward and embracing a female from behind, observing and finally deciding that the woman was not his lost love.

One night Yarna had caught him lingering outside the barracks after they had gotten back from a particularly high-speed race that left the older Sangheili as the winner. He snuck up behind him and gave him a violent push. Oriné nearly lost his balance but stepped out with one hoof to catch himself. He turned around and growled a challenge.

Yarna merely shrugged. “Why do you pine for her?”

“I love her,” Oriné replied, flexing his hands.

“Do you? How can you be certain?” A dark look filled Yarna's eyes. “Does she love you?”

Oriné didn't reply in words; how could his friend possibly understand? Instead he swung out a fist, aiming for Yarna's head. The other Sangheili ducked and got inside Oriné's defensive area. He sniffed. “Have you been indulging, my dear friend?”

He had. Oriné had gone to the temple where Ekla studied in hopes of finding her, but after two hours of searching the grounds he had determined she wasn't there. After that he had found a pub and had a few bowls of wine. He was far from drunk, but there was a tingling sensation in his brain.

The emerald-armored Elite jumped back and swung again, this time aiming low, but Yarna merely stepped back. Oriné stepped forward and kicked, catching the other in his chest, but the older Elite Junior moved with the blow, turned around faster than the eye could see, and caught his friend's ankle. Caught in an awkward and unbalanced position all Oriné could do was hop and look indignant.

“Are you ready to calm down?”

“No.”

“Then I'll just hold you here until you are.”

They maintained their position for a good five minutes before finally Oriné's shoulders sagged. “Release me.”

Yarna did so. Oriné did not try to attack again, merely turning away and continuing to sulk. Despite his best attempts, however, his friend was quite belligerent. “What is it that troubles you so, my friend?”

A sigh exploded from between Oriné's mandibles. “We hadn't even time to say parting words. How does she really feel? Does she wish to see me again at all? Was she punished for our affair? Where is she now?” It felt like a fantastic weight had been placed on his shoulders. “I wish I could speak to her again.”

Yarna was silent, but a moment later his hand appeared on Oriné's arm. “We do not always receive the closure we search for in our lives,” he said sagely, though in a careful and calm voice. “If you are sure of your feelings towards her, be confident in those. If you cannot find her, then so be it. But do not forget yourself: you are a warrior first. You must fight for the Covenant. Duty to females comes second.”

Oriné nodded. There was truth and wisdom in Yarna's words. Without quarrel he allowed his friend to lead him inside, where their friends were engaging in games of Rocnas'al between the Elite Minors who already staffed the building and the Juniors who were staying for the duration of their leave.

“Oriné!” One of the cadets waved to him. “Quickly, we need your help! These scoundrels are leading by three games, and we must put them in their place.”

Despite himself a smile came to his face and Oriné nodded, walking over to take up a board and challenge any who dared come forward. By the end of the night, the Elite Juniors had won by two games, and Oriné was recognized as the undefeated champion of Rocnas'al.

The rest of the two weeks went by quickly. Though he had not forgotten about Ekla, Oriné found himself to be more and more distracted and entertained by the company of his comrades. Together they toured almost all of the lower districts, meeting new people and experiencing new things. A few dared express an unwillingness to leave, but it wasn't sincere: they would be soldiers; that was the way of things.

On the day of their departure, Oriné broke off from the group long enough to go again to the museums. Much to his dismay, however, he found the Hall of Heresy had been closed. The building it once occupied was empty, totally devoid of the intrigue that had once pervaded the place.

“What happened to it?” Oriné asked a passing Sangheili.

“It was decided the Hall cast the humans in too favorable a light,” the stranger replied, shrugging his shoulders. “The displays were removed and the curator was charged with heresy. He may be released, but his honor will be too far gone to recover.”

Heresy, Oriné thought as he left. It was a terrible charge. Those who stood accused were jailed and tried; in the unlikely event that they were found innocent, nobody ever looked at them the same way again. Their Lineage fell to dishonor, and unless it was recovered through penance, it would never return. The Elite Junior felt pity for the curator.

When the ship left, the incident with the museum was fresh in his mind, but Ekla was even more so. Oriné gazed longingly out of a window on the observation deck, watching High Charity slowly shrink behind them. Though the image was holographically generated, he felt as though he could reach out and touch it, perhaps seize Ekla and pull her away with him.

But she is gone, he told himself finally, pressing a hand against the transparent material. Inwardly he tried to come up with something poetic to add to the moment, but his mind was blank. There was no thought, no feeling... strangely, none of the grief he had felt only moments before remained.

He stayed but a moment, then removed his hand and walked away.

Description
Chapter 7: Commencement

Fear gripped Oriné ‘Fulsamee as he walked through the halls of Institution. Every shadow seemed to take a twisted, demonic form, with claws that reached out to tear him to shreds. His eyes darted around nervously, looking for whatever it was that made his neck tingle so; but there was nothing, just him and the empty corridor.

Since his return, he had not felt at peace. Upon learning of Ekla’s true identity as the daughter of Institution’s Head Master he constantly expected swift death to fall upon him. His unease was only made greater by the fact that, so far, no reprimand had been delivered. For such a dishonorable action anyone would be punished, and Oriné did not think himself to be free of that rule of society. So why had there been no retribution? Nightmares filled his slumber, of him being dragged from his bed and publicly tortured, of him being thrown into an airlock and ejected into space, of him being stripped naked and forced to fight against a Yorahii in a small, cramped space, alone and destitute. The worst, however, were the dreams where he was dragged into the Chamber of the Head Master and placed before his mercy. He was always veiled in shadows, possessing a deep voice and shining, blood-red eyes that cut through the mystique surrounding him. Always he would speak, but Oriné couldn’t understand the words; they made no sense. Finally the shadows surrounding the figure would expand and swallow him whole, and he would wake in a cold sweat.

The journey through the corridor was complete. A door slid aside and Oriné entered his squad’s quarters. Several of the Sangheili within called out greetings, but he just nodded back and made his way towards his bunk. Around him his comrades were preparing for sleep; a few tooled through their Lumidexes for a few more moments before finally putting them down. They removed their armor, except for the dermo-suits, and climbed to their appropriate positions, with those in the first row of bunks settling in before everyone else, activating their gravity step, and the second row doing the same, and so on. Oriné was on the third row of five, and thus had to climb into his own bunk, lie down, activate the force-field, and watch nervously as his squad mates climbed over him to get to their own beds. Would that be how the Head Master was to kill him? Deactivate the field just as someone was walking over, his hoof coming down on Oriné’s head and killing him?

That’s ridiculous, the rational part of his mind told him. The Head Master didn’t have remote controls for the force-fields, and even if he somehow programmed it to accidentally fail, such an accident would surely hurt but would not be fatal. Still, the Elite Junior felt paranoia seize him and he pressed himself deeper into the padding.

Sleep came quickly, and mercifully the dream of meeting the Head Master did not come. It was a dream Oriné had not yet experienced: he stood at the edge of a great circular platform, with a similar-yet-smaller one above and, if he looked through carefully carved holes in the floor, one below. Everything was matte grey. Surrounding him were Sangheili, but they were... fuzzy, distorted, as if they weren’t actually there but instead somehow imprinted upon the air. Each had battle wounds, mortal bludgeons from the looks of them; they were ghosts, Oriné quickly realized.

He began to walk between them, and as he passed, each looked at him. Injustice, they all cried out, but there was no sound. The Elite Junior continued to move about them, stepping between the phantoms as if he was looking for something; but he did not know what he searched for.

Blasphemy, one “said” as he passed it, and he stopped. A diabolical trick, a betrayal of faith, but no faith in the betrayal. Sensing that was all he would hear he moved on.

Lies of truth, another said.

Promises of sacrilege.

The Age of Annihilation.

Oriné was confused. They spoke in riddles, and he walked on as if he searched for something. Suddenly a new phantom appeared, fading into view near the center, but this one was different: he was bathed in golden light. Unconsciously the Elite Junior moved towards it.

As he approached, he felt... familiarity. He could not understand, but it was there, tickling his mind, guiding him towards this being. When he was near, it spoke:

Oriné? The Elite Junior’s head snapped up. How did this figure know his name? Oriné, my friend, is that you?

Oriné held out his arms as if to embrace the figure of light.

A chime shattered the dream, and Oriné jumped awake, his head coming up and smacking into the force-field mere inches above it. He fell back down, stunned and confused; where was he? What was this coffin he was trapped in? For a moment his mind panicked and he began to thrash about; then reality came back to him and he calmed down, but his eyes were still wide and his body soaked with perspiration.

He glanced around and saw his comrades also awakened and confused. Checking the time as displayed by his bunk, it was a full two hours before they usually got up. One sight, however, caught all their eyes. The Major stood in the doorway of the room, glaring at them, his hand resting on the chime console set into the door frame. It was only accessible to instructors and administrative personnel.

“Rise, cadets,” he growled. They obliged, though not by choice. One by one the rows deactivated their bubbles and walked over their comrades to the door. As Oriné reached the bottom he yawned and stretched, gravitating towards Yarna ‘Orgalmee.

“Do you know what’s going on?” he asked. The other Sangheili merely shook his head.

“Don your armor, and be quick about it!” The Major’s order was followed to the letter without question, and in the space of one minute all of the Elite Juniors were dressed in their emerald-green armor and standing at attention. “You will now follow me.” They complied.

The walk was short, and when it reached its conclusion they found themselves in front of the armory. Once the door slid open they filed in and stood at perfect attention while the Major addressed two Minors quietly and sent them scurrying off to fetch something. As soon as they were gone the crimson armored Elite turned to regard the students.

“Remove your helmets,” he instructed, and they did so. “These will no longer suit you. As of this moment you are considered Rank One, and will thusly no longer use simulation equipment for your personal training.” One of the Minors reappeared and walked about, collecting all the helmets and depositing them on a hovering tray. “New ones shall be distributed momentarily. Right now, however, we must install new equipment in your armor.” The Minor collecting helmets completed his task and returned to the Major’s side while the second came through a doorway, pulling a container behind him on gravity treads. The first one stepped forward and cleared his throats.

“We will now install your shield and active camouflage generators,” he said. “Approach one at a time as we call your name and we shall endeavor to make this go as quickly as possible.” They began calling names, but Oriné soon lost himself in daydreams. Rank One! This was it. The final leg of his journey, and by far the hardest. From the stories he had heard told from the Elite Minors stationed at Institution, this was the time that he would have to prove himself. Live fire exercises, vehicular training, platoon tactics, command exams... and, once he had overcome them all, Commencement: his beginning as a soldier of the Holy Covenant. What glories awaited him on the front lines? How many foes would fall before him? How much closer would he grow to the glorious Forerunners?

“Oriné ‘Fulsamee!” The sound of his name pulled him back to reality, and he mechanically marched towards the front. Upon his arrival they indicated for him to turn around; he did, and immediately the two Minors set to work upon his armor. He felt them tug and pull, and heard something beep in response. They fumbled with something for a moment behind him before he felt a pressure push into his back, an increased weight just behind his shoulders, and a satisfied sigh cascaded over his neck. “Finished. You may return to your place.” He did so, and watched as Yarna received his generator as well.

Once all fifty cadets had their generators in place the Major stepped forth into the limelight again. “Bring up your wrist units. If you’ll notice, the standing option has been removed and replaced with your generator status. Please take note that this is only the hardware condition; the percentage strength shall be covered later.

“From this menu you can activate and deactivate your shields and camouflage, but in a moment I will show you a better method. For now, however, use this control to activate your shields.” Oriné reached down, as all his comrades did, and touched a finger to the appropriate icon. Suddenly an electrical charge surged down his spine, and he clenched his mandibles against the sensation. A few of his friends hissed in surprise, but most stayed quiet. A film was briefly visible over his arms and hands but quickly faded.

“Your shields have now activated,” the Major continued, “and are now protecting you with the Forerunners’ brilliance. Fear not the discomfort you just experienced, for you will become acclimated to it; that feeling will even become a relief. The shield works in harmony with itself; if you try to bring your hand to any part of your body you shall find passage uninhibited. However, try to lay a hand on your closest comrade.”

Oriné reached over to touch the shoulder of the nearest cadet but quickly found his hand deflected, a sharp shimmer flickering over both his friend’s upper torso and his own hand. He pulled back, anxious. “The shields are not yet in tune with each other, but once they establish their network they will function perfectly.”

Once more the Major turned to an Elite Minor and nodded; the soldier turned and produced a helmet from the container. It had slightly different contours, an extra spike in the back and the wings on the side swept out a bit more. The Elite Juniors could only speculate the significance.

“Distribute these,” he ordered, and the two Minors set about giving each cadet a new helmet. When Oriné received his he turned it over in his hands, admiring the shining newness, but also locating the most important design change: on the inside, set into the lining, was a peculiar array.

“Place them upon your heads,” the Major instructed. There were several audible snaps as the shielding overlapped the armor, but the helmets fit snugly. “Activate the button hidden behind the right protective wing.” They did so, reaching up their hands and pushing against the necessary toggle. Immediately a blinding light filled Oriné’s vision and he cried out in surprise, unable to contain himself. It vanished quickly, but suddenly there were... things in front of his eyes.

“This is the holographic display. It is generated by the helmet. In the bottom left corner of the image is your shield generator and motion tracker. Weapon, ammunition, and grenade counts will be displayed along the top; the suit will automatically detect what weapon you are holding and create a network with its onboard computer to monitor the amount of charge left in the battery. There is also a small orb just off of the top left corner; when this is highlighted your active camouflage will be engaged.” The Major began pacing. “When it is engaged, your shields will be automatically deactivated, and their power rerouted to keeping your camouflage on. When you reactivate your shields and turn off your camouflage, the shields will have no power for a short time while the armor recycles it. You must give it a chance to recharge.”

The Major stopped and looked out at the group of Elites. A disquieting expression passed over his face; if Oriné didn’t know better he would have sworn it was a smirk. “Your armor systems will require testing. An exercise has been prepared for you. Proceed to the Hall of Honor, you will be briefed there.” The Major and his two attendant Minors took their leaves, and the students turned and left the armory.

As they moved through the hallway, Oriné’s eyes drifted to his own motion tracker. There was a central yellow dot that he assumed was himself, and then forty-nine other yellow dots at various points around him. Allies, he realized. The suits networked with each other, making contact and identifying themselves as friends. He supposed that to identify enemies the same process was invoked, but a lack of response or an incorrectly encrypted one would result in the system being tagged as hostile. What had the Major called it, a “motion tracker?” So it sends the signal based on movement.

Oriné was so fascinated with the new device that he hardly noticed it when they were in the Hall of Honor. Faux human buildings had been built here, reaching an average of three stories; it had been designed to follow the standard, seemingly senseless order the structures could be found in on their planets.

The Major walked out from between two alleys, followed by his two Minors. Each of them carried a bundle of maliers. “Take one,” he ordered, and the Elite Juniors walked forward and grabbed one each. They returned to their places and put themselves into proper formation.

“Now we will begin,” he said, signaling the two Minors to leave. “Standard combat, but now you fight until you cannot lift your weapon. There are no more standings, only pain and glory.” He walked until he stood at the exit to the Hall. Glancing over his shoulder, he shouted, “Begin!”

Immediately there was a swirl of activity. Oriné was barely able to raise his malier in time to block the swing of a nearby cadet, but he parried and struck out at his comrade; the shaft slid off the shield of his opponent, stopping the actual harmful metal but not the kinetic force. His opponent reeled back and Oriné pressed the advantage until he was struck in the side by another cadet. Roaring, the Elite Junior rounded and slammed his malier into his attacker's face.

It was a bloodthirsty melee. There was no strategy in anyone's motions, just random beating and deflecting of staves. At any one point Oriné had no idea who he was attacking or defending against; there was only combat. Yet it was too much. He had to clear a path, or just clear his head. The fighting was fierce, but eventually Oriné began to see less and less cadets on the streets. Suitably beaten ones dragged themselves into the shelter of buildings, cradling wounded and broken limbs. Dropped, bloody maliers covered the ground.

After a good while of fighting, Oriné was able to appraise himself. A few bruises, and he had perhaps strained his left wrist, but beyond that he was thankfully intact. Not many still stood, but the battle had spread out; fighting was continuing in other boulevards, in alleys, inside buildings. Considering his options, the Elite Junior decided to pursue opponents on the other side of a building. He took a step towards the entrance, but thought better; inside was bound to be a death trap, and the two story building wouldn't be hard to go around. So he changed direction and headed for the alley next to it.

When he entered the shadow of the structure, a sudden chill washed over him. There was no sound, but a sensation built on the back of his neck; warily he glanced up and saw a shape falling towards him. Instinctively he dived to the side and brought up his weapon, prepared to fight; Olah 'Seroumee glared at him.

The battle began there in the alley. Olah charged but Oriné deflected it, turning and striking the Sangheili in the shoulder as he passed. His shields flared blue, but the other Elite Junior paid no heed, spun on his heel and lashed out, catching Oriné in the ribs. He doubled over in pain but recovered enough to parry Olah's next blow, the sound of metal impacting metal ringing through the closed space.

There was a strange look in Olah's eyes, Oriné could see. Something was guiding his actions, influencing his moves; he got so caught up in trying to determine what it was that he lost his advantage, Olah levying a savage attack and sending Oriné's malier skittering away. With a single movement Olah slammed Oriné against the wall, holding his malier hard against his throat and pushing. His shields absorbed the attack for but a moment, but they failed, and then the metal was against his bare neck.

“I was told to kill you today,” Olah growled softly. The pressure increased and Oriné struggled to free himself, eyes wide. Am I to die here, and the hands of a comrade? “I was told to make it look like an accident, make it look like I had simply gotten carried away in a training exercise.” For a moment, Oriné felt his windpipe start to collapse; his eyes began to black out. But just when he was certain he was going to die the pressure disappeared and he collapsed onto his hands and knees on the ground. He waited for the deathblow, but it didn't come.

Terrified, Oriné looked up. Olah stood there, clutching his malier in his hand. “But you have your honor, and I have mine,” he said. “I won't kill you today.” The cadet stalked off, but paused at the exit to the street. He looked back. “By the end of this, though, you may wish that I had.”

——

Training was tougher, even more so than after the transition from Rank Three to Rank Two. In Faith, entire chapters of the Forerunner Divinidex were to be memorized and recited, word for word, in front of a Lesser Prophet. Oriné often struggled up until the minute before he was called forward to memorize the passages. Despite many slips and mistakes, however, he somehow miraculously managed to slip through. In Knowledge, the focus was finally coming around to the humans. Human history was a common lecture topic and often took up great deals of time, as much had been gleaned from historical archives in captured museums prior to the glassing of a planet. “Elite Inquisitors are responsible for bringing us this information,” Magister 'Alsakee said one day, looking directly at Oriné as he said it. “We should be thankful for having it, because without it, insights into things such as human battle doctrine and philosophy wouldn't be possible.”

In Combat, things were accelerated dramatically. One of the newest additions to the roster was zero-gravity training, involving donning Elite Ranger suits and venturing into the space beyond Institution. At first the lessons revolved around getting a feel for space and basic maneuvering: the idea of up and down was quickly forced from the cadets' minds by their trainers. It was a trap, they were told; the best option was to locate any two objects and arbitrarily mark them as the direction of up and down. That way they would avoid becoming caught in such a horizontal mentality when fighting. After that came advanced maneuvering and combat. Oriné failed miserably in every aspect of space battle; during training exercises he was assigned by his teammates to be a stationary gun, which suited him just fine.

Regular vehicle training was implemented too, demanding the cadets demonstrate mastery of the various vehicles at the Covenant’s disposal: Ghosts and Wraiths were the primary offensive vehicles, the small and maneuverable Ghost scout craft being a popular choice among speed-loving Elites while the heavy and armored Wraith mortar tank was picked for its offensive capability. Banshee fliers were mandated for operation, but the Spirit-class dropships were available if brave trainees wanted to try flying one. Many attempted it but only a few were any good at it; they were selected for continued training as pilots. Several prototype vehicles were also on display, but none were yet approved for operation by Juniors. When not training, however, they could go down and watch them be tested: Oriné found himself to be drawn to what seemed to be a militarized version of a Chimera. There was room for a single driver at the front and, for the mounted plasma turret on the back, a gunner; but along the wings, above where hover units were stored, there was room for two soldiers to sit and be able to brandish weapons. It seemed vaguely reminiscent of the human Warthog.

The other major change in Combat was the introduction of live weapon training. Each squadron had time to go down to the firing range and test the weapons available to them once they were on the battlefield. The plasma rifle was the primary weapon of the Elites, firing blue blobs of energy rapidly and, if the operator was not careful, overheating the unit and burning one's hand. Twice Oriné was dismissed to the infirmary where he had to have a quick-acting healing salve applied. Besides that there was the Needler, also available to infantry, which fired purple crystalline needles that could home in on targets and exploded upon burying themselves in a surface. A plasma pistol was essentially a scaled-down plasma rifle, but with a charge function. Oriné had little taste for either the Needler or the pistol because of their lack of stopping power. The only other weapon there was available to test-fire was the Fuel Rod Gun, firing an arcing glob of green radiation that could destroy Hunter plate. Two other weapons were there, but they were prototypes and like the vehicles were not available to cadets.

However, for a brief time an additional exercise was added to the Combat roster. Oriné and the rest of Squadron Twenty-two shuffled into the armory. Set up against the far wall was a set of Elite armor, uncolored and unshielded. One of the trainers paced back and forth.

“Welcome to the live fire test,” he said. “Here we will demonstrate the destructive power of human weapons.” He walked to a depository set into the wall and slid the door into the wall, revealing a locker of human weapons within. He removed a human assault rifle.

“This is the current standard of human frontline troops,” he began, flipping it over in his hands. “I'm aware that it is considered dishonorable to use a human weapon, but it is not forbidden in the Divinidex, so I will be able to show you exactly what to expect from one of these weapons.” With that, he strode so he was standing about three yards from the armor on the wall, raised the weapon, and held down the trigger. A stream of solid-state projectiles flew from the barrel and struck the armor, enveloping it in smoke. After a while the gun clicked repeatedly, signaling that it was empty. He tossed the rifle aside.

“Look at the armor,” he said as the smoke cleared. “As you can see, these bullets do not penetrate too deeply on their own, but there are a lot of them. It takes an average of one 'clip,' as the humans say, which amounts to sixty rounds, to drain your shields; while the armored parts of your body, such as your chest, back, arms, and legs have little to worry about, there is still the problem of more lightly armored areas, such as your neck and face.” The trainer continued with the demonstration, showing off weapons like the pistol, which fired powerful semi-automatic rounds, to the deadly and formidable shotgun that tore up anything at close range.

Finally, he walked to the front of the armory and pressed a button against the wall, the molested armor falling loose from its magnetic holds and clattering to the deck. He glanced at it for a moment. “Now, by the Head Master's recent decree, all squadrons are to 'experience' the feeling of a human round hitting your shields.” A wave of shock and tension passed through the crowd of cadets, but the trainer raised his hand to maintain order. “It is risky, yes, but we will only fire one round from the pistol at your chest, which is the most shielded. The bullet will not penetrate.” Unease was still very much present in the room. No one stepped forth to volunteer.

“Understandable,” the trainer muttered, then produced a Lumidex. “Very well. A name will be chosen at random by the computer. The first to be shot... er, to experience the battlefield will be... Oriné 'Fulsamee!”

Obligingly, but with no lack of apprehension, Oriné stepped forward from the crowd. He trudged forward until he stood at the front of the group, stood straight, and waited for the command. Outwardly he hoped he appeared confident; inside he was frightened and fearful. What if his shields failed? What if there was a mistake?

He was afforded no time to voice these concerns. The trainer picked up a pistol and took aim right at Oriné's chest. “Activate your shields, please,” he ordered, and Oriné did as he was told. There was a crackle down his spine, but by now he had gotten used to the sensation, and actually found it marginally pleasant. The trainer double-checked his aim, looked down the sights of the weapon, and pulled the trigger. Suddenly pain exploded across Oriné's chest, white overcoming his eyes, but a second later his vision returned. There was no more air in his lungs; he had to draw a breath in consciously before he fell. The shield bar in the corner of his eyes was half-empty, and his hand instinctively went to the place where the bullet hit.

Except it hadn't. There was no hole exposing his vulnerable innards. His shields had held. On the floor was a flattened solid round, shining dully in the armory light. Looking around, he saw his comrades looking at him in a mixture of admiration and fear. Finally he nodded to them that he was all right.

“Well done,” the trainer said, and then waved him down. He picked up his Lumidex again. “Any volunteers now? No? Then the next cadet will be...” His voice trailed off and he frowned. “Oriné 'Fulsamee?” He looked around. “Wasn't he just up here?” Several Elites nodded yes, Oriné most fervently. The trainer shrugged. “An overlooked glitch, I suppose. Let's try it again.” Yet no matter how many times he tried to select a name randomly, the computer always gave him the same name: Oriné 'Fulsamee. After several minutes an Elite Minor technician was called for and the squadron dismissed.

As they left, Oriné overheard the conversation between the trainer and the Minor. “Is the program faulty?” the cobalt-armored Elite asked.

“No, it can't be,” the trainer replied. “The Head Master himself oversaw the final encoding.”

——

“We have been at war with the humans for several years now,” Magister 'Alsakee said, pacing in front of a blank holographic screen. “In that time, we have learned much about them: their hygiene, their physical anatomy, their genetic makeup, and even their mating habits.” Several of the Rank Ones who made up the audience shuddered at the memory of that particular lecture. “However, one thing that we rarely consider is how much we have learned from them.”

Runes faded into view on the screen and quickly turned into individual scenes of combat, visual footage captured by soldiers of the Covenant. “Though no self-respecting commander would ever admit it,” the Magister continued, “our own tactics have benefited greatly from observing humans in combat.”

Oriné sat in the third row and was considerably intrigued. Human tactics employed by Covenant warriors? All he could imagine were Elites fleeing haplessly from their stations, which warranted a frown. Such an image seemed completely inaccurate, not at all what he would think of a Sangheili warrior. He immediately banished the picture from his mind. He would not stand it.

'Alsakee smiled, looking over the incredulous faces of the cadets. “Do you not believe me?” The screen faded to a model of a Sangheili soldier, dressed in the cobalt armor of an Elite Minor. “The tactics of sniping, flanking, and taking cover have been well-known battlefield maneuvers since war was first created.” The model lay down in a prone position, holding an invisible gun, before jumping up and hiding behind an invisible wall. “For millennia, the Covenant has employed such tactics on the battlefield, though not quite to the same effectiveness as the humans.” Several of the audience members murmured to each other, not properly understanding what the Magister was getting at.

“Please observe this footage taken during battle on the human world known as Jericho Seven.” The screen changed again, this time showing the clear video of a battle taken in the midst of combat. The image bobbed up and down as it moved forward, but only slightly; the Ossoona in charge of recording the data must have been quite experienced. Speeding up, the footage advanced to the appropriate place: a group of humans, prone behind what remained of a wall. It could hardly have been six inches in height, yet simply by using it to help minimize their profile and exposed area infinitesimally they were avoiding being struck by the incoming plasma fire. One pulled and primed one of their fragmentation grenades, throwing it over the miniscule barricade. An explosion sounded moments later, and the plasma fire stopped completely. One of the humans peeked over the incline and let out a cheer.

The video changed, this time showing possibly the same Ossoona moving with a squadron of other Covenant. Suddenly there was a loud cracking sound and the Elite Minor who was leading the squad crumpled to the ground. The camera immediately began to shake as the Ossoona moved to cover, perhaps because he had been caught in the open without his active camouflage, but the sound of more sniper fire was easily heard. For a moment a Jackal was caught in frame, and just as he appeared his head exploded. When the camera looked away, the image froze, settling on a half-destroyed building. Scrutinizing the image closely, Oriné could see a slight vapor trail in the air leading back to a shadow on the fourth floor.

“From analyzing this,” Magister 'Alsakee continued, “our own troops have been able to formulate similar strategies.” The image changed again, this time becoming a video of Covenant warriors lying in wait. A single Warthog appeared, moving down a road between two buildings. As it passed between two alleys, a pair of plasma grenades flew from the shadows and attached to the front wheels, detonating in a cloud of sapphire flame and vaporizing half the vehicle. The audience of students cheered at the sight, and another video appeared: this time, two squads of Covenant soldiers were trying to advance down a street but stationary guns deployed by the humans were preventing them from moving. One of the Elites gave a garbled order to a Jackal, who nodded and began scaling the building with his partner. They reached the top without being spotted, moved along the top of the building until they were over the humans' position, and began firing down at them. The distraction was all the other warriors needed as they broke cover and advanced quickly.

The video faded and the holographic projector hummed down. Magister 'Alsakee paced in front of it. “The humans are heretics, have no doubt, but in their testing of our faith we can learn much. Even in space they have proven to be quite cunning, with maneuvers such as the 'Kiiz Loop'.

“The next lesson for today concerns the anatomy and edibility of certain flora and fauna on the human planets...”

——

The lessons in Combat, Faith, and Knowledge were long, brutal, and often; when the call came for squadron twenty-two to regroup in their quarters it had been a relief, but the walk back was painful for the students who were almost constantly bruised and sore.

As he shuffled into his place in the line of students, Oriné was not surprised to once again see the Major standing before them. His crimson armor was as radiant as ever, his face as chiseled and unreadable, and his stance rigid enough that it made people cringe to look at. Briefly the young Elite Junior wondered if he would ever learn the Major's name.

When everybody was assembled, the Major began to pace and speak. “I'm aware that your leave is coming up, but there is something that must be discussed prior to that, and that is your commencement assignments.

“Following your successful completion of training here, you will undergo the commencement ceremony. During the ceremony your achievements will be announced and judged, your dedications will be brought to light, and, most importantly, you will receive your assignment.”

He stopped pacing and shot a glare into the cadet line-up. “Those of you fortunate enough to have a sponsor within the fleet will be assigned to that warrior’s ship and that will be the end of that. You shall have nothing to worry about.” Oriné noticed a few shoulders droop in relief before recovering.

The Major continued both his walk and his speech. “For the rest of you, there are two likely deployments: the front lines, and Institution. The front lines are fairly self-explanatory: you will be on human worlds, fighting for the Forerunners, their artifacts, and the sake of the Great Journey. This is also the most likely assignment, and I can guarantee that ninety percent of the cadets who will be promoted to Elite Minor will be sent to the front lines. You will be placed in a lance; a few students will be promoted to Elite Major, and they will have much bigger responsibilities.

“The second likely deployment will be here, at Institution. The reasons for being assigned here are numerous and plentiful, mostly pertaining to either a need for Elite attendants or the Head Master feeling a student needs additional discipline.” He paused for only a second, but to the Elite Juniors it was easily discernible, a habit they had come to notice and understand in their several years at Institution. “It is not a permanent assignment, and following the completion of a 'satisfactory' stay you will be sent to the front.” As he said it, he turned away and looked to the wall. For a moment his gaze remained firmly affixed there, and his shoulders shook perceptibly; but when he looked back, his glare was as fierce and venomous as ever.

“Be warned, though,” he said, “those are only the most likely deployments. There are other possibilities, such as being assigned to a scouting ship or to High Charity, but these are all honorable paths to follow.”

Yarna, who was several Sangheili down the line from Oriné, stepped forward. The Major turned towards him and nodded. “Excellency,” the Elite Junior said, “are there any dishonorable deployments?”

“Yes,” the Elite Major replied, “but straight out of Institution there are few. You might be given the assignment of what is called the 'Moon Guard'. It may sound strange and exotic, but it means nothing more than being deployed to an outpost located on a moon within our own space. Those are reserved for troublemakers and suspected traitors who might be sympathetic towards the humans. With enough work and valor, however, you could be rotated out and to the front lines.”

The Major resumed his pace, but it was much slower and menacing, and coming towards Oriné. “Another possibility is being posted on survey duty. While a Surveyor your unenviable task will essentially be Inquisitorial follow-up; you will spend most of your time scanning and cataloging destroyed human planets, searching for missed sections and possible things of interest. However, you will likely never know combat unless you're facing surviving humans.”

He was almost in front of Oriné. “The third possible dishonorable deployment is duty in a gulag. Human prisoners are sent there to be interrogated and... executed.” There was a curios emphasis that left Oriné feeling uneasy. “Gulags are not located on planets for tactical reasons, and are instead free-floating space stations located in the rear lines. If you are sent there, you will never see combat, and will almost certainly never be transferred out. It is a dead end, and a terrible place to be.”

By now the Major was standing directly in front of Oriné. He looked down the line that Oriné occupied. “You will, however, most likely not have to worry about these situations, so long as you have not seen fit to slight a higher official.” It seemed like his cold eyes had settled on Oriné. His hearts sank. “If you have, pray that the Great Journey may sweep through soon after, that you will not be sullied and weighed down by your heresies and unable to be taken into godhood.

“Inoculations begin next week. Dismissed.”

——

It was nearly time for leave.

Oriné found himself unable to focus after the lecture from the Major. He was consumed by grief and fear, both regretting his affair with Ekla on High Charity and resenting the society that caused it. There was little he could do, however. The weeks wore on and his fatigue grew: he managed to fail a spot-examination in Faith, was “killed” nearly every day in Combat, and fell into a fitful sleep during a Knowledge lecture. Magister 'Alsakee had noticed and placed a bowl full of water on the slumbering Sangheili's lap; when he woke up the bowl tipped over and spilled on his armor. Everyone laughed, even Oriné, though it had been a pathetic, exhausted laughter.

Most students claimed the same when he admitted his weariness, though for them it was simply having spent years in Institution’s walls doing nothing but training. They wished to get out and enjoy themselves. Leave was nearly there, and all the students became antsy and unable to focus on their work; it was nothing new. “It happens to us all,” 'Alsakee had told them after a particularly violent display of restlessness had wound up rendering a Lumidex airborne aimed for his head. He had dodged successfully.

The inoculations were painful as well. The Elite Juniors had blood samples taken and evaluated for a disease risk factor. Most Sangheili had a high disease tolerance when compared to other races, and it was true that a lucky few would not need inoculations and would be able to develop their own immunity rapidly upon exposure. Everyone else was given a plethora of vaccines based on their own risks.

Somehow Oriné was evaluated as an extremely high risk and was required to have each and every shot available, though the precise number escaped him. He had lost count around fourteen. Yet it made no sense: when he had been younger there had been no problem with disease. He never caught anything more serious than a flu. Prior to his departure to Jisako his father had insisted he be tested, and the results came back as low risk.

He asked a Healer one day while he was getting his dose for something called “meezelz”.

“When we drew your blood we sent it to the lab here in the station,” the Healer replied.

“How did it get back to you?”

“They transmitted the results over the network.”

“Could they have been intercepted and changed?”

“I suppose, but why would anyone want to do that? If you suspect something is amiss, you're more than welcome to visit the laboratory and check the results yourself. But there's no harm in getting all the shots, even if you don't need them.”

Oriné told himself that he would check the lab, but in the end he never did. He was often sore following his inoculation sessions, and always tired from the stress. All he did instead was think of the enemy he had made himself and which of the horrible fates would fall to him.

Finally, however, it came time for leave, and with it a different bunch of mixed emotions. The destination for the students would be High Charity, the holy city, and the city where Ekla and her family made their home. Oriné would be glad to be away from Institution, he knew, but what would he do if he saw Ekla again? Or her mother? Or, Gods forbid, her father? The latter wasn't a rational worry, as Ekla's father would still be at Institution, but there was a possibility that he'd be closer than he'd like: it was tradition that the top three students in a squadron would have the honor of staying in the Head Master's manor. Everyone else would be put up in barracks.

Before boarding the Phantoms to take them to the ship which would, in turn, go to High Charity, the students were being stopped and instructed individually by the Major. Oriné couldn't hear what he was saying, and all too soon it was his turn.

“Oriné 'Fulsamee,” the Major muttered upon stopping him. “I understand you had an eventful stay at High Charity last time you were there.”

The Elite Junior fidgeted. “Yes, Excellency.”

The Major grunted. “We shall be sure not to have a repeat of that. You are to be assigned to barracks, where hopefully any disorderly conduct will be squashed by the authority there.” He nodded and motioned Oriné onward, and the young cadet went. I have built an unsavory reputation for myself, he thought solemnly. I deserve every word.

——

High Charity had not changed since his last visit. The Forerunner ship still stood in the center, crowds still swarmed in the streets, and everything was just as grand as he remembered... but the grandiosity hardly penetrated his skin.

It had been different experiencing the city alone. He had stopped to admire the smaller things, such as the way a tree swayed in the wind, an insect that crawled across a flat surface, or just the simple atmosphere. Yet, in a group, Oriné found that his priorities were different. He and his comrades were constantly searching for a means of entertainment or amusement as opposed to relaxation or enlightenment. At one point he directed them towards the Kig-Yar sweets shop that he had found last time, and the group of seven that accompanied him quickly set about diminishing their accounts. Properly fed they resumed their pace through the city.

There were many attractions that appealed to the cadets, one of which was the ability to rent Eidolons and go for a ride. Eidolons were demilitarized Ghosts with much steeper swept wings and less armor, but retaining the maneuverability and speed of their armed counterparts. In the evening the group of Elite Juniors would take their out and race them through the empty streets, often earning chastisements from the soldiers set to watch over them. Yet the speed was intoxicating, and they would sneak out and repeat the act every night.

Ekla, however, dominated Oriné's mind. At every turn he expected to see her, for her to jump with delight and run up so they could embrace again. Everything he saw reminded him of her, and he saw her in every face of every stranger. Several times he held back from running forward and embracing a female from behind, observing and finally deciding that the woman was not his lost love.

One night Yarna had caught him lingering outside the barracks after they had gotten back from a particularly high-speed race that left the older Sangheili as the winner. He snuck up behind him and gave him a violent push. Oriné nearly lost his balance but stepped out with one hoof to catch himself. He turned around and growled a challenge.

Yarna merely shrugged. “Why do you pine for her?”

“I love her,” Oriné replied, flexing his hands.

“Do you? How can you be certain?” A dark look filled Yarna's eyes. “Does she love you?”

Oriné didn't reply in words; how could his friend possibly understand? Instead he swung out a fist, aiming for Yarna's head. The other Sangheili ducked and got inside Oriné's defensive area. He sniffed. “Have you been indulging, my dear friend?”

He had. Oriné had gone to the temple where Ekla studied in hopes of finding her, but after two hours of searching the grounds he had determined she wasn't there. After that he had found a pub and had a few bowls of wine. He was far from drunk, but there was a tingling sensation in his brain.

The emerald-armored Elite jumped back and swung again, this time aiming low, but Yarna merely stepped back. Oriné stepped forward and kicked, catching the other in his chest, but the older Elite Junior moved with the blow, turned around faster than the eye could see, and caught his friend's ankle. Caught in an awkward and unbalanced position all Oriné could do was hop and look indignant.

“Are you ready to calm down?”

“No.”

“Then I'll just hold you here until you are.”

They maintained their position for a good five minutes before finally Oriné's shoulders sagged. “Release me.”

Yarna did so. Oriné did not try to attack again, merely turning away and continuing to sulk. Despite his best attempts, however, his friend was quite belligerent. “What is it that troubles you so, my friend?”

A sigh exploded from between Oriné's mandibles. “We hadn't even time to say parting words. How does she really feel? Does she wish to see me again at all? Was she punished for our affair? Where is she now?” It felt like a fantastic weight had been placed on his shoulders. “I wish I could speak to her again.”

Yarna was silent, but a moment later his hand appeared on Oriné's arm. “We do not always receive the closure we search for in our lives,” he said sagely, though in a careful and calm voice. “If you are sure of your feelings towards her, be confident in those. If you cannot find her, then so be it. But do not forget yourself: you are a warrior first. You must fight for the Covenant. Duty to females comes second.”

Oriné nodded. There was truth and wisdom in Yarna's words. Without quarrel he allowed his friend to lead him inside, where their friends were engaging in games of Rocnas'al between the Elite Minors who already staffed the building and the Juniors who were staying for the duration of their leave.

“Oriné!” One of the cadets waved to him. “Quickly, we need your help! These scoundrels are leading by three games, and we must put them in their place.”

Despite himself a smile came to his face and Oriné nodded, walking over to take up a board and challenge any who dared come forward. By the end of the night, the Elite Juniors had won by two games, and Oriné was recognized as the undefeated champion of Rocnas'al.

The rest of the two weeks went by quickly. Though he had not forgotten about Ekla, Oriné found himself to be more and more distracted and entertained by the company of his comrades. Together they toured almost all of the lower districts, meeting new people and experiencing new things. A few dared express an unwillingness to leave, but it wasn't sincere: they would be soldiers; that was the way of things.

On the day of their departure, Oriné broke off from the group long enough to go again to the museums. Much to his dismay, however, he found the Hall of Heresy had been closed. The building it once occupied was empty, totally devoid of the intrigue that had once pervaded the place.

“What happened to it?” Oriné asked a passing Sangheili.

“It was decided the Hall cast the humans in too favorable a light,” the stranger replied, shrugging his shoulders. “The displays were removed and the curator was charged with heresy. He may be released, but his honor will be too far gone to recover.”

Heresy, Oriné thought as he left. It was a terrible charge. Those who stood accused were jailed and tried; in the unlikely event that they were found innocent, nobody ever looked at them the same way again. Their Lineage fell to dishonor, and unless it was recovered through penance, it would never return. The Elite Junior felt pity for the curator.

When the ship left, the incident with the museum was fresh in his mind, but Ekla was even more so. Oriné gazed longingly out of a window on the observation deck, watching High Charity slowly shrink behind them. Though the image was holographically generated, he felt as though he could reach out and touch it, perhaps seize Ekla and pull her away with him.

But she is gone, he told himself finally, pressing a hand against the transparent material. Inwardly he tried to come up with something poetic to add to the moment, but his mind was blank. There was no thought, no feeling... strangely, none of the grief he had felt only moments before remained.

He stayed but a moment, then removed his hand and walked away.