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Chapter 7: Commencement (con't.)

The Commencement Proofs were well under way. Already Oriné's squadron had faced and emerged victorious from the Proof of Knowledge and the Proof of Faith. In the former they were each given a Lumidex with a different essay of Sangheili history and told to read it and make corrections within twenty-four hours. Oriné's essay had pertained to the initial discovery of the humans, and he had finished correcting it in eight.

Magister 'Alsakee had beamed when he handed over the device. “I'm sure you have done well as always, Oriné,” he said. “My sister is lucky to have you for a son.”

Oriné bowed. “Thank you, Magister. Are you blessed with children?”

He nodded. “My wife is expected to lay within the month. It is fortunate that my time here takes pause for a while; I will be able to witness my child's hatching with my own eyes.” Oriné had thanked him for all the years of kindness and left after that.

The Proof of Faith had proved a sight more challenging. The Lesser Prophets made them stand in lines, in random order, and one by one recite excerpts of the Divinidex from memory and in order. Oriné had nearly slipped and forgot to include a line, but recovered quickly enough to avoid inciting the Lesser Prophets’ ire. After he finished the Lesser Prophet merely nodded and indicated for the next cadet to continue. Once the Proof was completed no one stepped forward to offer him undue congratulations. Just as well, Oriné thought to himself, Faith is not my strength.

Combat, however, was. The Proof of Combat was located in the Hall of Eternity, the largest in all of Institution, and more importantly, it was reconfigurable. For the Proof of Combat, it had been turned into a lightly forested plain leading into a mock human city. Squadron Twenty-two was to fight another squadron of cadets within; the former was on the offense, the latter defending. It was Twenty-two's duty to completely scour the city in six hours' time. The hall was massive and the city impressive in its size as well, though not so big as to be overwhelming.

However, this time it was made to be more real. Each Elite Junior in the squadron was given a small group of his own, consisting of a Jackal and two Grunts. Though not the first time he had seen a Jackal, it was the first time Oriné had one directly under his command. The Kig-Yar soldiers were over from their own mercenaries' academies, and their performance in following orders would ultimately decide if they were ready for combat. The Unggoy, however, would be sent to the front whether or not they made a “satisfactory” battle. What was riding for them was a position as a Grunt Minor or a Grunt Major.

The arsenal was mostly what was to be expected: training rifles and pistols, plus grenades. The Jackal had his own teal arm-shield that blocked the signals transmitted by the weapons, so it worked according to real combat. It was the same for Oriné's personal shield, though there was no recharging; after a certain number of hits, depending on what area was struck, the shield would fail and he would be defenseless. However, there was an additional armament allowed the Sangheili; most of the Elite Juniors had elected to bring their malier, but Oriné had clipped his twin nadier to his back.

Though the entire squadron had been deployed at the far end of the hall, amidst thin and wiry trees that offered poor cover, they advanced quickly. Oriné, Yarna, and a few of their comrades had elected to lead flanking maneuvers while Olah led the rest of the squadron up the middle to distract the majority of their opponents. The flanking groups had gradually split off so as not to be caught en masse; and though the main force was using the Jackals as a phalanx in the frontal attack, Oriné had his Jackal deactivate his shield for the time being, so as to preserve secrecy.

After several minutes of creeping through the sparse foliage, Oriné's group found themselves on the edge of the city. At first glance no patrol was evident, but they were already an hour and a half into the Proof; it was likely other such groups had been deployed in defensive positions.

“Lyt,” Oriné said, looking back at the Jackal, “can you discern any movement?”

The Kig-Yar mercenary nodded. “In the window, Excellency, you can see how a curtain sways?”

Oriné frowned. “That is only the wind. I meant enemy troop movements.”

“Look closer,” the creature hissed. “It moved against the breeze.” It took the Elite Junior a moment, but finally he saw it. Tentatively he raised his rifle towards it.

“What awaits us?”

“None of my Jackal brethren would make such a mistake,” Lyt said confidently. “And your Elite comrades are far too concerned with glory to hide in such a way. It is only an Unggoy we face, nothing more.” Oriné nodded. Though the mercenary was brutally honest in his manner, he was well educated in scouting.

“Very well,” Oriné replied. He turned back to the Grunts. “Throw a grenade into that window, and be sure to hit it properly! When it goes off, we will have only moments to get to the shadow of an alley.” One of the Grunts nodded and withdrew a training grenade. With a mighty throw the sphere was rendered airborne and fell into the window before a loud explosion was heard. The grenade didn't actually detonate but it mimicked the sound well enough; just as it did, Oriné rushed forward with his group on his heels, making a beeline for a dark alleyway. Once inside they ducked down behind human refuse containers. In the distance Oriné could hear the sounds of the main attack hitting the defensive line: fake artillery sounded, as well as the ring of plasma weapons discharging.

Oriné flattened himself against the wall as the Jackal did the same, but the Grunts' breathers were too bulky to mimic the motion; instead they just crouched down behind a replicated large trash unit. So far no one had come to investigate the sound. The Elite Junior waved his unit forward. Between the buildings the sound of their boots and hooves seemed unbearably loud, but the only other option was running through open ground, which would be suicide behind enemy lines.

He looked around intently for any sign of enemy troops, but none was to be had. Satisfied he waved his troops forward across the street and into the next alley. When they arrived, Oriné realized that by using that tactic he could leapfrog his way up the avenue and flank the enemy as they repelled the main attack force.

But why not just run up the middle of the street? He considered that thought. Many Sangheili warriors he knew of would do something such as that; after all, it seemed clear enough. But upon looking up, the Elite Junior realized how ineffective a tactic it would be. The windows overlooking the open space had a great view if he ordered such a maneuver, and though nothing could stop a possible sniper from reporting them, running from cover to cover would certainly reduce their chances of getting shot.

With care the group continued their way through the streets, not meeting any resistance. But with every step the sound of simulated battle grew louder. He waved down his comrades, giving a hand signal to tell them to check their noise levels. Peeking around a corner, he spied a group of Elite Juniors with their Grunts and Jackals running past towards the edge of the city. At first Oriné puzzled as to why they hadn't seen him, but then realized he had fortunately stopped in a shadow. He looked down at his armor, realizing that though it was still glittery, the color was muted and his opponents were looking for the bright emerald of armor caught in the artificial sunlight.

Oriné waited only a moment before shouting out the order to open fire. Surprised, many of the other cadets turned and brought up their training rifles, but Oriné's squadron was already firing. Several Grunts and Jackals fell under the simulated barrage, their training equipment paralyzing them as they were “killed.” A few Elites had the misfortune of being too distant from cover and were similarly cut down, but many were able to dive out of the way. The return fire was erratic and uncoordinated, the commander obviously having not properly planned for the attack. A distance away Oriné heard Yarna's own group performing their own surprise attack from the opposite flank, and at the same time the fire from the main forces intensified. Caught by three fronts, the wiser students in the opposing squadron recalled their units while they still had the chance; those who had glory on their minds as opposed to victory were quickly cut down.

Oriné's own squad mates poured in through the opening, and he could see Olah leading the charge, his rifle in hand and his malier on his back. The squadron commander ran at the head of the spear maneuver, firing his weapon at the retreating enemy. As he passed, Oriné's squad fell into place beside his commander, and Yarna did the same but a second later.

“Who do you believe we fight?” Oriné asked.

Olah grunted. “Squadron Seventeen, I think.”

At this Yarna let out a hearty laugh. “Seventeen against us? They haven't a chance!” Several of the cadets in earshot let out a battle cry at the words, Oriné lending his voice. The Unggoy cowed slightly at the noise, but several found courage enough to add their own high-pitched snarling to the din; the Kig-Yar, however, held back, remaining silent.

The push into the city was relatively easy from that point. A few of Squadron Seventeen's groups hid in buildings and harried the troops as they passed, but by and large Squadron Twenty-two's entry went unimpeded.

After about an hour and a half of fighting, Squadron Twenty-two had finally managed to secure the city except for their final objective: the enemy squadron's headquarters. It was located in a large two-story human building, with large pillars in the front and a decorative dome atop it. Olah sent scouts around the building to look for possible entry points, but none were apparent; only windows high up on the second story were visible, and without piton guns reserved for the Special Operations, they were inaccessible..

“Very well,” the squadron commander growled. “We shall commence a frontal attack.” He motioned for two groups to go in first and check out the initial area they would encounter; as the cadets ascended the steps, Oriné stood back and wondered why they had not been attacked. A few rifle-wielding students in the front doorways could hold off any number of advances from the attacking force. Furthermore, though Unggoy and Sangheili were plentiful, why had they not yet found...?

A cry rose from the groups sent forward. All eyes were immediately upon them, but there was a loud noise and suddenly the cadets at the doorway spasmed and crumpled to the ground. Two Hunter pairs appeared behind them; one pair jogged out of the building, pushing aside the incapacitated cadets as they did so, while the other remained in the doorway, adopting a defensive position and raising their fake Fuel Rod Cannons.

Chaos began to take hold, most of the groups panicking and beginning to run every which way. The Grunts seemed especially receptive, many dropping their weapons and running around in circles while waving their arms in the air. Oriné was so preoccupied trying to keep his group in line and his own mind calm that he barely registered Olah's call for grenades. He unhooked one from his belt, primed it, and threw. The grenades all bounced off the Hunters' armor plating, being just training grenades and unable to fuse to anything; they detonated on the ground, causing more harm than good. The armored Lekgolo continued their advance, firing from their cannons and decimating entire groups at a time.

Survivors scrambled to get behind cover, a few recollecting themselves enough to offer suppressing fire, but the shots had little to no effect on the massive beasts. Oriné watched helplessly as one of them took aim at his group; he and Lyt dived away in time, but his two Grunts were caught in the simulated blast and were rendered useless. The Elite Junior managed to scramble behind a wall before the Hunter could draw a bead on him, but he did not know where the Jackal had gone.

Perhaps he has been hit, he thought. Looking at the holographic HUD, he paled when he saw his shields had been reduced to a third of their power. For a moment he considered using his active camouflage, but then remembered it had been disabled for the Proof. Something about being unfair, he could not properly remember; the craze of the battle at hand was clouding his mind. He tried to fight through the fog, remember what his training told him to do, but the cloud was too thick. His arms felt heavy and unresponsive. Were it not for the surprised gasp that filled the air, he may have closed his eyes and pretended to be dead.

At the noise he peeked around the wall and saw that Olah 'Seroumee was standing alone in the middle of the open, the two Hunters a safe distance back. The armored spikes on their backs were raised in alarm, and though their weapons were aimed right at the Sangheili neither of them was firing. Even the pair at the entrance to the building had ceased their barrage.

Oriné saw that Olah's rifle lay discarded nearby, but the cadet smoothly reached behind him and drew his malier. With practiced ease he slid into a martial stance, prepared for a melee battle. The two Hunters exchanged looks, hesitating. Perhaps they feared injuring the Sangheili in a melee duel, or maybe they were simply incredulous at what was happening before them. Either way the lack of action was enough to motivate Olah into action: in a single leap he was right in front of the Lekgolo. They took a step back, clearly surprised, but the cadet simply slid to one side and jumped off the heel of one hoof, getting behind one of them. With a precise blow he struck the Hunter in the exposed orange flesh of its “back,” making it stumble forward; a second forced the Hunter down, and it did not rise again. The other, recovering enough of its wits, charged forward, but Olah merely sidestepped the blind rush and repeated the maneuver, bringing down the second one. Neither of them made to get up, but audible groans could be heard.

By now the students behind cover began cheering, their morale restored. Oriné and his comrades raised their rifles and began firing on the surprised pair in the doorway, catching them by surprise and forcing them back. As one they charged up the stairs and into the building, swarming over the dangerously armored Lekgolo. While firing on the crowd, but with significantly less composure than before, more of the cadets got in behind them and attacked their weak backs. Less than a minute later both lay incapacitated on the ground.

That was when Squadron Seventeen's trap was sprung. Out of the shadows cast by the high windows the other squadron struck, catching Squadron Twenty-two in a dangerous crossfire. A few groups managed to make it to cover, but several, including Oriné, were caught in the open. With no other alternative the Elite Junior stood his ground, firing back with his rifle. His shields rang with alarm as they were steadily drained, so he took to moving about, ducking and sidestepping randomly in order to reduce the number of hits he took.

His shields were near depleted when a shape lunged out of the darkness. Barely having time to react, Oriné dropped his rifle instinctively and leaped back. As it came into the light, Oriné realized just who the shadow was.

“Rtas!” The older Elite Junior was holding his own nadier, whirling them about and striking at Oriné. Ducking and dodging he was able to avoid his friend's attacks, but a lucky strike hit him in the side, bringing his shields down to zero.

There was no time for words. Oriné spun away from another blow and drew his own dueling rods, raising them and blocking a double downward swing. The rods bounced off each other, jarring their forearms, but quickly the two swung again. Oriné forced his opponent into the defensive, making several fruitless strikes towards Rtas's abdominals; the Elite Junior reciprocated in kind, but was likewise blocked. All around them the battle raged, but out of respect none of the combatants were firing at the pair locked in a duel, it being too sacred a thing to interrupt. The two cadets fell into an awkward dance, both having skill yet lacking the grace that came with experience. They twirled and jumped over obstacles, ducking each other’s blows and lashing out whenever possible.

Duck. Thrust. Parry. Thrust. Slash, thought Oriné, though words were beyond him at this point. He did not think, he just acted. Slash. Cross. Back. Step. Thrust. Parry. Parry! PARRY! Suddenly his arms seemed sluggish, stiff; they were not bringing the weapons back to deflect Rtas's incoming attack. Yet, at the last second, Oriné's body moved of its own volition, sliding him barely out of the way as his opponent put all his weight behind the thrust. As if the Forerunners were guiding his very movements his arms whistled through the empty air, Rtas sliding by in slow motion. The nadier reversed in his hands and he struck hard against the back of his friend's helmet. Rtas's scant shielding vanished and he fell forward, paralyzed.

Oriné sighed in relief, and slowly came back to the world. All around him, Squadron Seventeen either lay on the ground, incapacitated, or stood with their arms raised in surrender. They dropped their rifles and kicked them towards the center. Puzzled, the Elite Junior analyzed what remained of the battle-lines: Seventeen had them surrounded and outnumbered. Why were they admitting defeat?

A shrill tone blasted through the Hall of Eternity, sounding the end of the exercise. The cadets relaxed, and those on the ground groggily got to their feet. Several of their former opponents came and congratulated the members of Squadron Twenty-two, including Rtas, once he was upright again.

“That was an expert feint,” the other Elite Junior said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You have never done that when we trained.”

That is because before today, I had no idea it was possible. Instead of saying so, he only nodded and muttered something affirmative under his breath. Eventually the Major's voice boomed through their radios, ordering them to clear the battlefield before the next pair of squadrons up for their Proof of Combat entered.

As Oriné left Lyt suddenly materialized at his elbow. Suppressing his surprise, Oriné turned to see the Jackal giving him a stiff nod. “That was masterfully done,” he hissed in his harsh tongue.

“What do you mean?” Oriné was still at a loss why the other squadron had abandoned what could have been certain victory.

The Kig-Yar clucked. “Eliminating their squadron commander,” he said. “It is an honor usually reserved for your own squadron commander, is it not?”

Oriné felt himself go pale. Rtas had been Seventeen's squadron commander? He had not realized. Suddenly he remembered being pressed up against a wall by Olah, malier slowly grinding his windpipe inwards. With wide eyes he looked over to where his own squadron commander was standing, silently hoping he would not look in his direction. Yet the older Sangheili did, and for a moment Oriné was seized with fear; but then Olah nodded, ever so slightly. Oriné relaxed. It was all right.

As they filed out the Major met them in the corridor. “Squadron Twenty-two was the victor today,” he said in his loud, deep voice, “but both sides fought with great honor. Do not fear this Proof, young ones, for you have passed.

“Commencement is in two days. Good luck to you all.”

——

Yarna 'Orgalmee stood in front of the reflective hologram, fidgeting with his armor. It was brand new, which meant it was stiff as a board and about as easy to move around in. Anxiously he stretched and flexed his shoulders, trying to get them to loosen up before suddenly remembering that he would have to maintain a harsh at-attention pose for the entire ceremony. So what's the point?

He glanced back over the room, where forty-eight of his comrades were having similar problems. They moved about awkwardly but were going back and forth, congratulating each other on a job well done. Inwardly they all wished it was over and done with so they could go to the gala and the feast, and then to their ships; no one really wanted to be in their armor right now.

Except there was something to be proud of in the armor. Yarna looked back at his reflection and smiled. The armor was a deep cobalt blue, nicely reflecting the light cast by the overhead lamps.

Suddenly the hologram blurred as a shape appeared behind him; Yarna turned and saw Oriné 'Fulsamee, standing at attention but grinning so fiercely that the other worried one of his mandibles might break off.

“Well?” Oriné asked. “Tell me truly, dear Yarna, do I look fearsome enough to drive fear into the hearts of humans?”

Yarna grinned sardonically in return. “You could glass a planet with a look, Oriné. What of myself?”

His friend pretended to scrutinize him heavily, clicking his mandibles and pantomiming distress. “Blue does not accent your skin very well, I'm afraid. Perhaps you should go back to green?” Yarna punched him in the arm, but not hard enough to cause any actual damage. In truth, everyone was giddy with horror at the thought: after roughly three long years condemned to Institution, they were finally going to be shipped out. Their military careers began now.

“Were your parents able to attend?” Yarna asked.

Oriné winced visibly. “Unfortunately, no. They could not afford the passage. But they have given me their assurances that they will be watching via feed, so they will be with me in spirit.” Yarna nodded, not wishing to discuss it further. Out of everyone in the room, Oriné had the most to worry about; his affair with the Head Master's daughter was well known. None of his comrades blamed him; they all agreed that Ekla had been at fault, and had even been leading him on the entire time. Though he remained quiet about it, Yarna sensed that he still held feelings for her deep within his heart. Many of the cadets who passed him grabbed his shoulder and said comforting words, but it was clear that he was incredibly nervous.

He has every right to be, Yarna thought. Oriné had fought with honor and courage in all his time at Institution, never faltering but that once. Surely the Head Master would see what a valuable soldier he would be, and perhaps at worst send him on a two-month tour in the Moon Guard. It was rumored that he wasn't going to allow Oriné to be promoted, but because he defeated the enemy squadron leader, the Head Master had no choice but to allow it or make himself look poor. Then again, Ekla had been his daughter, not only his flesh and blood but a valuable political bargaining chip. She could be married off to cement ties between families or to patch up slights and misgivings, but few takers would be interested in “soiled” goods.

Yarna shook his head. The realm of politics made him ill. How his father could be drawn to it, he'd never know. Perhaps he'd ask him tonight; both his father and mother would be in attendance.

Across the room the door hummed as it opened, and two figures dressed in the crimson armor of the Elite Major strode in. The first was the Sangheili known only as “the Major,” as he had never offered his real name, and none of the then-Elite Juniors had been privileged to know it; none of them really wanted to anyway. The second figure was far more familiar: Olah 'Seroumee. For his consistently outstanding performance in every field he was bypassing the Elite Minor rank.

At their entry, every Sangheili in the room dropped what they were doing and saluted the pair rigidly. They were no longer cadets, green rookies fresh from Jisako; when in the presence of their superiors, not even the subtle nudging and whispered jokes were allowed. They were Elite Juniors no longer.

Now they were Elite Minors.

It was not the Major who spoke, but Olah. “Warriors, your ears!” The soldiers remained quiet and attentive. “We are about to begin commencement. Follow me to the grand assembly hall.” He turned and strode out of the room. The Elite Minors hastily arranged themselves into a neat, tight formation appropriate for walking through the halls, and filed out of the room. Most of them would return to gather various items after the Commencement but before the gala. Their assignments would include a ship they would reside on, and they could have their possessions sent to their cabins.

They marched through the halls, passing several of the faculty and staff who paused to watch. A few favored them with half-bows or nods of approval, but most just looked on and smiled. Yarna did not move his head, but rotated his eyes to watch; he couldn't acknowledge them, for doing so would be improper.

When they ceased, they found themselves to be third in line, with two squadrons up ahead. As a fourth fell in behind them, Yarna took the opportunity to briefly touch foreheads with Oriné.

“Do not despair,” he whispered. “All is not lost. You are a warrior of our Lords, with all their strength.” Oriné nodded in return, but didn't say anything, returning his gaze forward. Yarna's lingered on his friend's features, but did the same after only a moment's hesitation. The wait was long, and as they waited Yarna could not help but fill his head with thoughts and daydreams of glory. Marching on new worlds, slaying heretical humans, watching as they burned to cinders under orbital bombardment... all the while his own honor would grow and grow. And one day, after hard work and sacrifice, he would be offered the coveted position of Honor Guard. He tried to imagine himself in the red and gold of the station, with the glowing flashes adorning his helmet and pauldrons, holding the ceremonial spear; but the idea excited him too much, and he found himself fidgeting. Quickly he corrected his posture and recomposed himself. His hopes would only become a reality if he fought and gained favor with the Hierarchs and the Forerunners.

Up ahead a shout rang out, and the squadron commanders, all Elite Majors, relayed the order to the warriors. “Prepare!” Olah shouted. “On my signal, march!” No signal seemed to be required, in actuality, for as soon as the line ahead of them moved the rest followed suit. In such a formation did they march into the majestic hall, with all the eyes of the Covenant upon them, it felt like. In actuality, it was probably a much smaller fraction.

Utter discipline was maintained in the lines, and the pace was constant and quick. Somewhere up ahead, probably on the main dais, someone blew a war horn, a long and low note that hovered over their heads. Yarna was aware of the crowds on all sides, but dared not turn to look or even rotate his eye. He was situated in the middle of a line with Oriné to his left anyhow, and wouldn't be able to see much of anything.

They soon came to a stop, turned, and began filling in close to the dais. It was the same round central platform they had witnessed upon their first arrival, Yarna realized, thinking back to so long ago. He had been scrawny then, he and all his comrades, all only a few weeks removed from Jisako. Surprise flashed across his mind; had it really been three years since then? A year and a half for Rank Three, and then about equal time of nine months for Ranks Two and One. Had their training been accelerated? His father always spoke of the four to five years he had spent here. There was a pang of worry in his mind as he wondered why new soldiers would be needed so soon, but he quickly banished it. It would not do to think of such things, especially now.

There was a Prophet on the platform, but he was unfamiliar and certainly much older than Regret had been. He wore the robes of a Hierarch, however. Beside him stood a councilor that he likewise didn't recognize, the Fleet Master Lyos 'Vadumee, and a figure clad in golden armor with emerald trim, with a matching cloak. It took him a moment to realize the figure was the Head Master of Institution. Unconsciously he glanced at Oriné, who was himself staring at the powerful figure standing upon the dais, but the cloaked official was too wrapped up in his conversation with the other three figures present to notice the slack-jawed looks of two Minors among thousands.

Finally all the soldiers were where they needed to be, in a circular formation around the platform and looking up. Last-minute nudges, forehead touches, and words of luck were quickly exchanged, but all fell silent as the Head Master strode forward. He looked out over the sea of former students and spectators, nodding with approval. Taking a step back he was in the direct center of the platform; the other figures filed off the stage, taking their places right at the base.

“Warriors,” the Head Master began. His voice was of a surprising tenor, a higher pitch than what was expected. “Please, allow me be the first to congratulate you on your successful completion of training. It has been a hard and harrowing journey through the art of Combat, over the mountain of Knowledge, and down the road of Faith. You should be commended for your speedy and total mastery of these concepts that were lain before you when you were new, the soft skin of youth only having just been hardened by the harsh desert winds. Now you shall carry the weapons of a warrior, the tools of our Sacred Lords, and with them you shall purge the galaxy of all heresy.

“Our war with the humans draws closer to its end, we can all sense it. And with their destruction we will come one step closer to the Great Journey. You will be the soldier to end it. With the training you’ve had here, you shall have the power to destroy all heresy in the galaxy, and pave the way for the Great Journey.” A mighty cry erupted from the horde of soldiers, shouting their enthusiasm. A grace passed over the Head Master’s face as he stepped back. Fleet Master ‘Vadumee came forward.

“In ancient times, when a Sangheili warrior proved himself through battle he would be given a new, unblooded sword,” the massive Elite said. “We no longer have any use of metal blades, but the tradition remains.” He nodded upwards; a large case floated down in a wave of inverted gravity. He stepped aside as it alighted on the dais. The aged Prophet floated up on his gravity throne, waved his hand over the case and muttered a prayer. He nodded back to the Head Master, who once again stepped forward.

“As we announce your name, step forward and accept your assignment and sword,” he said. A hologram flickered to life in front of his eyes and he began to scan through it. He called out a name, and the named Sangheili would step up onto the dais. ‘Vadumee would bellow his achievements and assignment, the councilor would hand him his sword from the case, and the Head Master would say something to the Elite. With that he would step down, return to his place in line, and wait.

The process was long and arduous, and Yarna found his attention beginning to wander. Dimly he was aware of the Fleet Master’s son being given high honors, being an Elite Major, but it wasn’t until he heard Olah’s name called that he returned to the world.

They’re on our line now, he realized as he watched the crimson-armored Sangheili march up to the platform. As he stepped up he bowed quickly to both the Head Master and the Fleet Master.

“Olah ‘Seroumee commences with High Honors as an Elite Major,” ‘Vadumee called out, “as the squadron commander for the esteemed Squadron Twenty-two, he has commanded over one hundred successful missions and led his warriors against all manner of opponents. He is to be assigned to the holy carrier Transcendent Voyager, to be deployed in action on the front lines in the S’gor Legion.” Olah bowed and walked to the councilor, who withdrew a sword from the case and handed it over. Bowing again, he made his way past the Head Master who said something to him and made his way down.

Two names later, and Yarna heard his name. Struggling to keep his pace measured and even he strode towards the dais. As he went he saw out of the corner of his eye the Prophet slumped in his chair, seemingly asleep. However, he dared not turn his head to look; to draw attention to him would be dishonorable. Instead he managed to make it up to the platform and manage his bows.

“Yarna ‘Orgalmee is commencing with Honors as an Elite Minor,” Fleet Master ‘Vadumee said, “as a prominent member of Squadron Twenty-two. He has fought in over one hundred battles and come out in honorable triumph in sixty-four of them. He shall be assigned to the holy carrier Transcendent Voyager, to be deployed against heresy in the S’gor Legion.” Yarna bowed, took his sword, and walked up to the Head Master.

“You have done well, young warrior,” the elder Sangheili assured him. However, a dark look flashed in his eyes as he continued. “Be wary of whom you keep as a friend.” A chill settled in his stomach, but he managed to bow and retreat from the dais. As he took his place, however, he heard Oriné’s name.

To his credit, the younger Elite Minor did not flinch as he walked up to the platform, nor did he quake as he took his place before the Fleet Master and bowed to both him and the Head Master. For a moment, a pained expression crossed Lyos ‘Vadumee’s face. But he quickly composed himself, puffed out his chest, and bellowed.

“Oriné ‘Fulsamee is commencing with High Honors as an Elite Minor, as a critical member of Squadron Twenty-two. He has, in his hundreds of battles, fought with only honor, chivalry, and distinction. He has shown proficiency with his rifle and his malier, and on four separate occasions he succeeded in besting other squadron commanders.” For a moment, Yarna’s spirits lifted. It was an impressive battle record, even for only simulated encounters. Surely the Head Master could not waste such talent?

The stricken look returned to ‘Vadumee’s face. “He shall be assigned to the cruiser Blind Devotion, and will serve on the orbital station Devil’s Gulag to punish captured heretics.”

Yarna’s stomach dropped, and he caught the subtle exasperation of his squad mates out of the corner of his eye. Gulag duty. They had been cautioned against it, as the most dishonorable duty that could be issued at the Commencement ceremonies. Time seemed to move slowly as Oriné bowed, retrieved his sword, and bowed to the Head Master. It didn’t appear that the elder Sangheili said anything; all that Yarna could see was a vicious scowl on his face. Oriné stepped down and walked back to his spot.

The rest of the ceremony went completely past Yarna. He could only look at his friend, trying to discern his mood. However, the younger Elite Minor had no facial expression: he only stared dead ahead with what looked like intent interest. Yarna didn’t know what to do. He dared not nudge him, not while they were at attention.

Final words were given by the Fleet Master and the Head Master, the latter of which sounded almost relieved. With a bark, ‘Vadumee dismissed the former cadets, and revelry broke out on the spot. The spectators surged forward to embrace family members who had been now officially promoted, while well-wishers formed a ring around the massive crowd. As the chaos erupted Yarna almost immediately lost track of Oriné; whether he had managed to slip through the people or just simply vanished, he didn’t know.

Before he could look, however, a powerful hand seized him from behind and turned him around, two powerful arms seizing him in an embrace. He squawked in surprise before realizing the person who had hugged him was his mother.

“Oh, my son! My wonderful son!” Oslu Gal cried, wetness in her eyes. “You have done so well! Your father is so proud! The slaves at home gossip constantly about how great a warrior you will become!”

“Mother!” He struggled to free himself before the big woman finally let go. “Is father here?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, but he has gone to speak with his councilor friend and Fleet Master ‘Vadumee. He has our assurances that he will be at the feast, however.” Oh yes, the feast, Yarna reminded himself. Though he could not see Oriné in the crowd mixed with civilians and soldiers, perhaps he would be at the feast.

However, he did not appear. The families of the now-promoted soldiers were ushered into the incredibly large Hall of Eternity, where they had fought their final battle and which was now reconfigured to feed thousands of mouths. Grand tapestries depicting various famous warriors who had graduated from Institution and their most glorious moments hung from the ceiling, waving and flickering occasionally as the generators showed their age. The courses were vibrant, delicious gourmet, a far cry from what was usually served in the cadets’ cafeterias. At various tables different holographic recordings of key moments in battles played, drawing the scrutiny of veteran Elites and causing jests and arguments to break out among the new soldiers.

As his father got into the wine and began scouring the recordings for his son, Yarna searched frantically for Oriné. A great many of the recordings featuring Squadron Twenty-two openly displayed his valor, and all around Yarna’s comrades were questioning the sense in allowing such an accomplished cadet to be shuffled to the rear. Yet despite all the misgivings present, the soldier in question was nowhere to be found.

After only a short time he excused himself and began to stalk through the corridors. He recalled the fond memories he had formed not so long ago, with his comrades in arms and specifically with Oriné. Unconsciously he made his way back to the bunk room. It was eerily empty, though the personal items of everybody was still present, still slightly skewed out of place as if they were all going to return at any moment and go to sleep at curfew.

That is, everybody’s belongings except for one. Oriné’s Lumidex, nadier, and his peculiar human book were gone.

Description
Chapter 7: Commencement (con't.)

The Commencement Proofs were well under way. Already Oriné's squadron had faced and emerged victorious from the Proof of Knowledge and the Proof of Faith. In the former they were each given a Lumidex with a different essay of Sangheili history and told to read it and make corrections within twenty-four hours. Oriné's essay had pertained to the initial discovery of the humans, and he had finished correcting it in eight.

Magister 'Alsakee had beamed when he handed over the device. “I'm sure you have done well as always, Oriné,” he said. “My sister is lucky to have you for a son.”

Oriné bowed. “Thank you, Magister. Are you blessed with children?”

He nodded. “My wife is expected to lay within the month. It is fortunate that my time here takes pause for a while; I will be able to witness my child's hatching with my own eyes.” Oriné had thanked him for all the years of kindness and left after that.

The Proof of Faith had proved a sight more challenging. The Lesser Prophets made them stand in lines, in random order, and one by one recite excerpts of the Divinidex from memory and in order. Oriné had nearly slipped and forgot to include a line, but recovered quickly enough to avoid inciting the Lesser Prophets’ ire. After he finished the Lesser Prophet merely nodded and indicated for the next cadet to continue. Once the Proof was completed no one stepped forward to offer him undue congratulations. Just as well, Oriné thought to himself, Faith is not my strength.

Combat, however, was. The Proof of Combat was located in the Hall of Eternity, the largest in all of Institution, and more importantly, it was reconfigurable. For the Proof of Combat, it had been turned into a lightly forested plain leading into a mock human city. Squadron Twenty-two was to fight another squadron of cadets within; the former was on the offense, the latter defending. It was Twenty-two's duty to completely scour the city in six hours' time. The hall was massive and the city impressive in its size as well, though not so big as to be overwhelming.

However, this time it was made to be more real. Each Elite Junior in the squadron was given a small group of his own, consisting of a Jackal and two Grunts. Though not the first time he had seen a Jackal, it was the first time Oriné had one directly under his command. The Kig-Yar soldiers were over from their own mercenaries' academies, and their performance in following orders would ultimately decide if they were ready for combat. The Unggoy, however, would be sent to the front whether or not they made a “satisfactory” battle. What was riding for them was a position as a Grunt Minor or a Grunt Major.

The arsenal was mostly what was to be expected: training rifles and pistols, plus grenades. The Jackal had his own teal arm-shield that blocked the signals transmitted by the weapons, so it worked according to real combat. It was the same for Oriné's personal shield, though there was no recharging; after a certain number of hits, depending on what area was struck, the shield would fail and he would be defenseless. However, there was an additional armament allowed the Sangheili; most of the Elite Juniors had elected to bring their malier, but Oriné had clipped his twin nadier to his back.

Though the entire squadron had been deployed at the far end of the hall, amidst thin and wiry trees that offered poor cover, they advanced quickly. Oriné, Yarna, and a few of their comrades had elected to lead flanking maneuvers while Olah led the rest of the squadron up the middle to distract the majority of their opponents. The flanking groups had gradually split off so as not to be caught en masse; and though the main force was using the Jackals as a phalanx in the frontal attack, Oriné had his Jackal deactivate his shield for the time being, so as to preserve secrecy.

After several minutes of creeping through the sparse foliage, Oriné's group found themselves on the edge of the city. At first glance no patrol was evident, but they were already an hour and a half into the Proof; it was likely other such groups had been deployed in defensive positions.

“Lyt,” Oriné said, looking back at the Jackal, “can you discern any movement?”

The Kig-Yar mercenary nodded. “In the window, Excellency, you can see how a curtain sways?”

Oriné frowned. “That is only the wind. I meant enemy troop movements.”

“Look closer,” the creature hissed. “It moved against the breeze.” It took the Elite Junior a moment, but finally he saw it. Tentatively he raised his rifle towards it.

“What awaits us?”

“None of my Jackal brethren would make such a mistake,” Lyt said confidently. “And your Elite comrades are far too concerned with glory to hide in such a way. It is only an Unggoy we face, nothing more.” Oriné nodded. Though the mercenary was brutally honest in his manner, he was well educated in scouting.

“Very well,” Oriné replied. He turned back to the Grunts. “Throw a grenade into that window, and be sure to hit it properly! When it goes off, we will have only moments to get to the shadow of an alley.” One of the Grunts nodded and withdrew a training grenade. With a mighty throw the sphere was rendered airborne and fell into the window before a loud explosion was heard. The grenade didn't actually detonate but it mimicked the sound well enough; just as it did, Oriné rushed forward with his group on his heels, making a beeline for a dark alleyway. Once inside they ducked down behind human refuse containers. In the distance Oriné could hear the sounds of the main attack hitting the defensive line: fake artillery sounded, as well as the ring of plasma weapons discharging.

Oriné flattened himself against the wall as the Jackal did the same, but the Grunts' breathers were too bulky to mimic the motion; instead they just crouched down behind a replicated large trash unit. So far no one had come to investigate the sound. The Elite Junior waved his unit forward. Between the buildings the sound of their boots and hooves seemed unbearably loud, but the only other option was running through open ground, which would be suicide behind enemy lines.

He looked around intently for any sign of enemy troops, but none was to be had. Satisfied he waved his troops forward across the street and into the next alley. When they arrived, Oriné realized that by using that tactic he could leapfrog his way up the avenue and flank the enemy as they repelled the main attack force.

But why not just run up the middle of the street? He considered that thought. Many Sangheili warriors he knew of would do something such as that; after all, it seemed clear enough. But upon looking up, the Elite Junior realized how ineffective a tactic it would be. The windows overlooking the open space had a great view if he ordered such a maneuver, and though nothing could stop a possible sniper from reporting them, running from cover to cover would certainly reduce their chances of getting shot.

With care the group continued their way through the streets, not meeting any resistance. But with every step the sound of simulated battle grew louder. He waved down his comrades, giving a hand signal to tell them to check their noise levels. Peeking around a corner, he spied a group of Elite Juniors with their Grunts and Jackals running past towards the edge of the city. At first Oriné puzzled as to why they hadn't seen him, but then realized he had fortunately stopped in a shadow. He looked down at his armor, realizing that though it was still glittery, the color was muted and his opponents were looking for the bright emerald of armor caught in the artificial sunlight.

Oriné waited only a moment before shouting out the order to open fire. Surprised, many of the other cadets turned and brought up their training rifles, but Oriné's squadron was already firing. Several Grunts and Jackals fell under the simulated barrage, their training equipment paralyzing them as they were “killed.” A few Elites had the misfortune of being too distant from cover and were similarly cut down, but many were able to dive out of the way. The return fire was erratic and uncoordinated, the commander obviously having not properly planned for the attack. A distance away Oriné heard Yarna's own group performing their own surprise attack from the opposite flank, and at the same time the fire from the main forces intensified. Caught by three fronts, the wiser students in the opposing squadron recalled their units while they still had the chance; those who had glory on their minds as opposed to victory were quickly cut down.

Oriné's own squad mates poured in through the opening, and he could see Olah leading the charge, his rifle in hand and his malier on his back. The squadron commander ran at the head of the spear maneuver, firing his weapon at the retreating enemy. As he passed, Oriné's squad fell into place beside his commander, and Yarna did the same but a second later.

“Who do you believe we fight?” Oriné asked.

Olah grunted. “Squadron Seventeen, I think.”

At this Yarna let out a hearty laugh. “Seventeen against us? They haven't a chance!” Several of the cadets in earshot let out a battle cry at the words, Oriné lending his voice. The Unggoy cowed slightly at the noise, but several found courage enough to add their own high-pitched snarling to the din; the Kig-Yar, however, held back, remaining silent.

The push into the city was relatively easy from that point. A few of Squadron Seventeen's groups hid in buildings and harried the troops as they passed, but by and large Squadron Twenty-two's entry went unimpeded.

After about an hour and a half of fighting, Squadron Twenty-two had finally managed to secure the city except for their final objective: the enemy squadron's headquarters. It was located in a large two-story human building, with large pillars in the front and a decorative dome atop it. Olah sent scouts around the building to look for possible entry points, but none were apparent; only windows high up on the second story were visible, and without piton guns reserved for the Special Operations, they were inaccessible..

“Very well,” the squadron commander growled. “We shall commence a frontal attack.” He motioned for two groups to go in first and check out the initial area they would encounter; as the cadets ascended the steps, Oriné stood back and wondered why they had not been attacked. A few rifle-wielding students in the front doorways could hold off any number of advances from the attacking force. Furthermore, though Unggoy and Sangheili were plentiful, why had they not yet found...?

A cry rose from the groups sent forward. All eyes were immediately upon them, but there was a loud noise and suddenly the cadets at the doorway spasmed and crumpled to the ground. Two Hunter pairs appeared behind them; one pair jogged out of the building, pushing aside the incapacitated cadets as they did so, while the other remained in the doorway, adopting a defensive position and raising their fake Fuel Rod Cannons.

Chaos began to take hold, most of the groups panicking and beginning to run every which way. The Grunts seemed especially receptive, many dropping their weapons and running around in circles while waving their arms in the air. Oriné was so preoccupied trying to keep his group in line and his own mind calm that he barely registered Olah's call for grenades. He unhooked one from his belt, primed it, and threw. The grenades all bounced off the Hunters' armor plating, being just training grenades and unable to fuse to anything; they detonated on the ground, causing more harm than good. The armored Lekgolo continued their advance, firing from their cannons and decimating entire groups at a time.

Survivors scrambled to get behind cover, a few recollecting themselves enough to offer suppressing fire, but the shots had little to no effect on the massive beasts. Oriné watched helplessly as one of them took aim at his group; he and Lyt dived away in time, but his two Grunts were caught in the simulated blast and were rendered useless. The Elite Junior managed to scramble behind a wall before the Hunter could draw a bead on him, but he did not know where the Jackal had gone.

Perhaps he has been hit, he thought. Looking at the holographic HUD, he paled when he saw his shields had been reduced to a third of their power. For a moment he considered using his active camouflage, but then remembered it had been disabled for the Proof. Something about being unfair, he could not properly remember; the craze of the battle at hand was clouding his mind. He tried to fight through the fog, remember what his training told him to do, but the cloud was too thick. His arms felt heavy and unresponsive. Were it not for the surprised gasp that filled the air, he may have closed his eyes and pretended to be dead.

At the noise he peeked around the wall and saw that Olah 'Seroumee was standing alone in the middle of the open, the two Hunters a safe distance back. The armored spikes on their backs were raised in alarm, and though their weapons were aimed right at the Sangheili neither of them was firing. Even the pair at the entrance to the building had ceased their barrage.

Oriné saw that Olah's rifle lay discarded nearby, but the cadet smoothly reached behind him and drew his malier. With practiced ease he slid into a martial stance, prepared for a melee battle. The two Hunters exchanged looks, hesitating. Perhaps they feared injuring the Sangheili in a melee duel, or maybe they were simply incredulous at what was happening before them. Either way the lack of action was enough to motivate Olah into action: in a single leap he was right in front of the Lekgolo. They took a step back, clearly surprised, but the cadet simply slid to one side and jumped off the heel of one hoof, getting behind one of them. With a precise blow he struck the Hunter in the exposed orange flesh of its “back,” making it stumble forward; a second forced the Hunter down, and it did not rise again. The other, recovering enough of its wits, charged forward, but Olah merely sidestepped the blind rush and repeated the maneuver, bringing down the second one. Neither of them made to get up, but audible groans could be heard.

By now the students behind cover began cheering, their morale restored. Oriné and his comrades raised their rifles and began firing on the surprised pair in the doorway, catching them by surprise and forcing them back. As one they charged up the stairs and into the building, swarming over the dangerously armored Lekgolo. While firing on the crowd, but with significantly less composure than before, more of the cadets got in behind them and attacked their weak backs. Less than a minute later both lay incapacitated on the ground.

That was when Squadron Seventeen's trap was sprung. Out of the shadows cast by the high windows the other squadron struck, catching Squadron Twenty-two in a dangerous crossfire. A few groups managed to make it to cover, but several, including Oriné, were caught in the open. With no other alternative the Elite Junior stood his ground, firing back with his rifle. His shields rang with alarm as they were steadily drained, so he took to moving about, ducking and sidestepping randomly in order to reduce the number of hits he took.

His shields were near depleted when a shape lunged out of the darkness. Barely having time to react, Oriné dropped his rifle instinctively and leaped back. As it came into the light, Oriné realized just who the shadow was.

“Rtas!” The older Elite Junior was holding his own nadier, whirling them about and striking at Oriné. Ducking and dodging he was able to avoid his friend's attacks, but a lucky strike hit him in the side, bringing his shields down to zero.

There was no time for words. Oriné spun away from another blow and drew his own dueling rods, raising them and blocking a double downward swing. The rods bounced off each other, jarring their forearms, but quickly the two swung again. Oriné forced his opponent into the defensive, making several fruitless strikes towards Rtas's abdominals; the Elite Junior reciprocated in kind, but was likewise blocked. All around them the battle raged, but out of respect none of the combatants were firing at the pair locked in a duel, it being too sacred a thing to interrupt. The two cadets fell into an awkward dance, both having skill yet lacking the grace that came with experience. They twirled and jumped over obstacles, ducking each other’s blows and lashing out whenever possible.

Duck. Thrust. Parry. Thrust. Slash, thought Oriné, though words were beyond him at this point. He did not think, he just acted. Slash. Cross. Back. Step. Thrust. Parry. Parry! PARRY! Suddenly his arms seemed sluggish, stiff; they were not bringing the weapons back to deflect Rtas's incoming attack. Yet, at the last second, Oriné's body moved of its own volition, sliding him barely out of the way as his opponent put all his weight behind the thrust. As if the Forerunners were guiding his very movements his arms whistled through the empty air, Rtas sliding by in slow motion. The nadier reversed in his hands and he struck hard against the back of his friend's helmet. Rtas's scant shielding vanished and he fell forward, paralyzed.

Oriné sighed in relief, and slowly came back to the world. All around him, Squadron Seventeen either lay on the ground, incapacitated, or stood with their arms raised in surrender. They dropped their rifles and kicked them towards the center. Puzzled, the Elite Junior analyzed what remained of the battle-lines: Seventeen had them surrounded and outnumbered. Why were they admitting defeat?

A shrill tone blasted through the Hall of Eternity, sounding the end of the exercise. The cadets relaxed, and those on the ground groggily got to their feet. Several of their former opponents came and congratulated the members of Squadron Twenty-two, including Rtas, once he was upright again.

“That was an expert feint,” the other Elite Junior said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You have never done that when we trained.”

That is because before today, I had no idea it was possible. Instead of saying so, he only nodded and muttered something affirmative under his breath. Eventually the Major's voice boomed through their radios, ordering them to clear the battlefield before the next pair of squadrons up for their Proof of Combat entered.

As Oriné left Lyt suddenly materialized at his elbow. Suppressing his surprise, Oriné turned to see the Jackal giving him a stiff nod. “That was masterfully done,” he hissed in his harsh tongue.

“What do you mean?” Oriné was still at a loss why the other squadron had abandoned what could have been certain victory.

The Kig-Yar clucked. “Eliminating their squadron commander,” he said. “It is an honor usually reserved for your own squadron commander, is it not?”

Oriné felt himself go pale. Rtas had been Seventeen's squadron commander? He had not realized. Suddenly he remembered being pressed up against a wall by Olah, malier slowly grinding his windpipe inwards. With wide eyes he looked over to where his own squadron commander was standing, silently hoping he would not look in his direction. Yet the older Sangheili did, and for a moment Oriné was seized with fear; but then Olah nodded, ever so slightly. Oriné relaxed. It was all right.

As they filed out the Major met them in the corridor. “Squadron Twenty-two was the victor today,” he said in his loud, deep voice, “but both sides fought with great honor. Do not fear this Proof, young ones, for you have passed.

“Commencement is in two days. Good luck to you all.”

——

Yarna 'Orgalmee stood in front of the reflective hologram, fidgeting with his armor. It was brand new, which meant it was stiff as a board and about as easy to move around in. Anxiously he stretched and flexed his shoulders, trying to get them to loosen up before suddenly remembering that he would have to maintain a harsh at-attention pose for the entire ceremony. So what's the point?

He glanced back over the room, where forty-eight of his comrades were having similar problems. They moved about awkwardly but were going back and forth, congratulating each other on a job well done. Inwardly they all wished it was over and done with so they could go to the gala and the feast, and then to their ships; no one really wanted to be in their armor right now.

Except there was something to be proud of in the armor. Yarna looked back at his reflection and smiled. The armor was a deep cobalt blue, nicely reflecting the light cast by the overhead lamps.

Suddenly the hologram blurred as a shape appeared behind him; Yarna turned and saw Oriné 'Fulsamee, standing at attention but grinning so fiercely that the other worried one of his mandibles might break off.

“Well?” Oriné asked. “Tell me truly, dear Yarna, do I look fearsome enough to drive fear into the hearts of humans?”

Yarna grinned sardonically in return. “You could glass a planet with a look, Oriné. What of myself?”

His friend pretended to scrutinize him heavily, clicking his mandibles and pantomiming distress. “Blue does not accent your skin very well, I'm afraid. Perhaps you should go back to green?” Yarna punched him in the arm, but not hard enough to cause any actual damage. In truth, everyone was giddy with horror at the thought: after roughly three long years condemned to Institution, they were finally going to be shipped out. Their military careers began now.

“Were your parents able to attend?” Yarna asked.

Oriné winced visibly. “Unfortunately, no. They could not afford the passage. But they have given me their assurances that they will be watching via feed, so they will be with me in spirit.” Yarna nodded, not wishing to discuss it further. Out of everyone in the room, Oriné had the most to worry about; his affair with the Head Master's daughter was well known. None of his comrades blamed him; they all agreed that Ekla had been at fault, and had even been leading him on the entire time. Though he remained quiet about it, Yarna sensed that he still held feelings for her deep within his heart. Many of the cadets who passed him grabbed his shoulder and said comforting words, but it was clear that he was incredibly nervous.

He has every right to be, Yarna thought. Oriné had fought with honor and courage in all his time at Institution, never faltering but that once. Surely the Head Master would see what a valuable soldier he would be, and perhaps at worst send him on a two-month tour in the Moon Guard. It was rumored that he wasn't going to allow Oriné to be promoted, but because he defeated the enemy squadron leader, the Head Master had no choice but to allow it or make himself look poor. Then again, Ekla had been his daughter, not only his flesh and blood but a valuable political bargaining chip. She could be married off to cement ties between families or to patch up slights and misgivings, but few takers would be interested in “soiled” goods.

Yarna shook his head. The realm of politics made him ill. How his father could be drawn to it, he'd never know. Perhaps he'd ask him tonight; both his father and mother would be in attendance.

Across the room the door hummed as it opened, and two figures dressed in the crimson armor of the Elite Major strode in. The first was the Sangheili known only as “the Major,” as he had never offered his real name, and none of the then-Elite Juniors had been privileged to know it; none of them really wanted to anyway. The second figure was far more familiar: Olah 'Seroumee. For his consistently outstanding performance in every field he was bypassing the Elite Minor rank.

At their entry, every Sangheili in the room dropped what they were doing and saluted the pair rigidly. They were no longer cadets, green rookies fresh from Jisako; when in the presence of their superiors, not even the subtle nudging and whispered jokes were allowed. They were Elite Juniors no longer.

Now they were Elite Minors.

It was not the Major who spoke, but Olah. “Warriors, your ears!” The soldiers remained quiet and attentive. “We are about to begin commencement. Follow me to the grand assembly hall.” He turned and strode out of the room. The Elite Minors hastily arranged themselves into a neat, tight formation appropriate for walking through the halls, and filed out of the room. Most of them would return to gather various items after the Commencement but before the gala. Their assignments would include a ship they would reside on, and they could have their possessions sent to their cabins.

They marched through the halls, passing several of the faculty and staff who paused to watch. A few favored them with half-bows or nods of approval, but most just looked on and smiled. Yarna did not move his head, but rotated his eyes to watch; he couldn't acknowledge them, for doing so would be improper.

When they ceased, they found themselves to be third in line, with two squadrons up ahead. As a fourth fell in behind them, Yarna took the opportunity to briefly touch foreheads with Oriné.

“Do not despair,” he whispered. “All is not lost. You are a warrior of our Lords, with all their strength.” Oriné nodded in return, but didn't say anything, returning his gaze forward. Yarna's lingered on his friend's features, but did the same after only a moment's hesitation. The wait was long, and as they waited Yarna could not help but fill his head with thoughts and daydreams of glory. Marching on new worlds, slaying heretical humans, watching as they burned to cinders under orbital bombardment... all the while his own honor would grow and grow. And one day, after hard work and sacrifice, he would be offered the coveted position of Honor Guard. He tried to imagine himself in the red and gold of the station, with the glowing flashes adorning his helmet and pauldrons, holding the ceremonial spear; but the idea excited him too much, and he found himself fidgeting. Quickly he corrected his posture and recomposed himself. His hopes would only become a reality if he fought and gained favor with the Hierarchs and the Forerunners.

Up ahead a shout rang out, and the squadron commanders, all Elite Majors, relayed the order to the warriors. “Prepare!” Olah shouted. “On my signal, march!” No signal seemed to be required, in actuality, for as soon as the line ahead of them moved the rest followed suit. In such a formation did they march into the majestic hall, with all the eyes of the Covenant upon them, it felt like. In actuality, it was probably a much smaller fraction.

Utter discipline was maintained in the lines, and the pace was constant and quick. Somewhere up ahead, probably on the main dais, someone blew a war horn, a long and low note that hovered over their heads. Yarna was aware of the crowds on all sides, but dared not turn to look or even rotate his eye. He was situated in the middle of a line with Oriné to his left anyhow, and wouldn't be able to see much of anything.

They soon came to a stop, turned, and began filling in close to the dais. It was the same round central platform they had witnessed upon their first arrival, Yarna realized, thinking back to so long ago. He had been scrawny then, he and all his comrades, all only a few weeks removed from Jisako. Surprise flashed across his mind; had it really been three years since then? A year and a half for Rank Three, and then about equal time of nine months for Ranks Two and One. Had their training been accelerated? His father always spoke of the four to five years he had spent here. There was a pang of worry in his mind as he wondered why new soldiers would be needed so soon, but he quickly banished it. It would not do to think of such things, especially now.

There was a Prophet on the platform, but he was unfamiliar and certainly much older than Regret had been. He wore the robes of a Hierarch, however. Beside him stood a councilor that he likewise didn't recognize, the Fleet Master Lyos 'Vadumee, and a figure clad in golden armor with emerald trim, with a matching cloak. It took him a moment to realize the figure was the Head Master of Institution. Unconsciously he glanced at Oriné, who was himself staring at the powerful figure standing upon the dais, but the cloaked official was too wrapped up in his conversation with the other three figures present to notice the slack-jawed looks of two Minors among thousands.

Finally all the soldiers were where they needed to be, in a circular formation around the platform and looking up. Last-minute nudges, forehead touches, and words of luck were quickly exchanged, but all fell silent as the Head Master strode forward. He looked out over the sea of former students and spectators, nodding with approval. Taking a step back he was in the direct center of the platform; the other figures filed off the stage, taking their places right at the base.

“Warriors,” the Head Master began. His voice was of a surprising tenor, a higher pitch than what was expected. “Please, allow me be the first to congratulate you on your successful completion of training. It has been a hard and harrowing journey through the art of Combat, over the mountain of Knowledge, and down the road of Faith. You should be commended for your speedy and total mastery of these concepts that were lain before you when you were new, the soft skin of youth only having just been hardened by the harsh desert winds. Now you shall carry the weapons of a warrior, the tools of our Sacred Lords, and with them you shall purge the galaxy of all heresy.

“Our war with the humans draws closer to its end, we can all sense it. And with their destruction we will come one step closer to the Great Journey. You will be the soldier to end it. With the training you’ve had here, you shall have the power to destroy all heresy in the galaxy, and pave the way for the Great Journey.” A mighty cry erupted from the horde of soldiers, shouting their enthusiasm. A grace passed over the Head Master’s face as he stepped back. Fleet Master ‘Vadumee came forward.

“In ancient times, when a Sangheili warrior proved himself through battle he would be given a new, unblooded sword,” the massive Elite said. “We no longer have any use of metal blades, but the tradition remains.” He nodded upwards; a large case floated down in a wave of inverted gravity. He stepped aside as it alighted on the dais. The aged Prophet floated up on his gravity throne, waved his hand over the case and muttered a prayer. He nodded back to the Head Master, who once again stepped forward.

“As we announce your name, step forward and accept your assignment and sword,” he said. A hologram flickered to life in front of his eyes and he began to scan through it. He called out a name, and the named Sangheili would step up onto the dais. ‘Vadumee would bellow his achievements and assignment, the councilor would hand him his sword from the case, and the Head Master would say something to the Elite. With that he would step down, return to his place in line, and wait.

The process was long and arduous, and Yarna found his attention beginning to wander. Dimly he was aware of the Fleet Master’s son being given high honors, being an Elite Major, but it wasn’t until he heard Olah’s name called that he returned to the world.

They’re on our line now, he realized as he watched the crimson-armored Sangheili march up to the platform. As he stepped up he bowed quickly to both the Head Master and the Fleet Master.

“Olah ‘Seroumee commences with High Honors as an Elite Major,” ‘Vadumee called out, “as the squadron commander for the esteemed Squadron Twenty-two, he has commanded over one hundred successful missions and led his warriors against all manner of opponents. He is to be assigned to the holy carrier Transcendent Voyager, to be deployed in action on the front lines in the S’gor Legion.” Olah bowed and walked to the councilor, who withdrew a sword from the case and handed it over. Bowing again, he made his way past the Head Master who said something to him and made his way down.

Two names later, and Yarna heard his name. Struggling to keep his pace measured and even he strode towards the dais. As he went he saw out of the corner of his eye the Prophet slumped in his chair, seemingly asleep. However, he dared not turn his head to look; to draw attention to him would be dishonorable. Instead he managed to make it up to the platform and manage his bows.

“Yarna ‘Orgalmee is commencing with Honors as an Elite Minor,” Fleet Master ‘Vadumee said, “as a prominent member of Squadron Twenty-two. He has fought in over one hundred battles and come out in honorable triumph in sixty-four of them. He shall be assigned to the holy carrier Transcendent Voyager, to be deployed against heresy in the S’gor Legion.” Yarna bowed, took his sword, and walked up to the Head Master.

“You have done well, young warrior,” the elder Sangheili assured him. However, a dark look flashed in his eyes as he continued. “Be wary of whom you keep as a friend.” A chill settled in his stomach, but he managed to bow and retreat from the dais. As he took his place, however, he heard Oriné’s name.

To his credit, the younger Elite Minor did not flinch as he walked up to the platform, nor did he quake as he took his place before the Fleet Master and bowed to both him and the Head Master. For a moment, a pained expression crossed Lyos ‘Vadumee’s face. But he quickly composed himself, puffed out his chest, and bellowed.

“Oriné ‘Fulsamee is commencing with High Honors as an Elite Minor, as a critical member of Squadron Twenty-two. He has, in his hundreds of battles, fought with only honor, chivalry, and distinction. He has shown proficiency with his rifle and his malier, and on four separate occasions he succeeded in besting other squadron commanders.” For a moment, Yarna’s spirits lifted. It was an impressive battle record, even for only simulated encounters. Surely the Head Master could not waste such talent?

The stricken look returned to ‘Vadumee’s face. “He shall be assigned to the cruiser Blind Devotion, and will serve on the orbital station Devil’s Gulag to punish captured heretics.”

Yarna’s stomach dropped, and he caught the subtle exasperation of his squad mates out of the corner of his eye. Gulag duty. They had been cautioned against it, as the most dishonorable duty that could be issued at the Commencement ceremonies. Time seemed to move slowly as Oriné bowed, retrieved his sword, and bowed to the Head Master. It didn’t appear that the elder Sangheili said anything; all that Yarna could see was a vicious scowl on his face. Oriné stepped down and walked back to his spot.

The rest of the ceremony went completely past Yarna. He could only look at his friend, trying to discern his mood. However, the younger Elite Minor had no facial expression: he only stared dead ahead with what looked like intent interest. Yarna didn’t know what to do. He dared not nudge him, not while they were at attention.

Final words were given by the Fleet Master and the Head Master, the latter of which sounded almost relieved. With a bark, ‘Vadumee dismissed the former cadets, and revelry broke out on the spot. The spectators surged forward to embrace family members who had been now officially promoted, while well-wishers formed a ring around the massive crowd. As the chaos erupted Yarna almost immediately lost track of Oriné; whether he had managed to slip through the people or just simply vanished, he didn’t know.

Before he could look, however, a powerful hand seized him from behind and turned him around, two powerful arms seizing him in an embrace. He squawked in surprise before realizing the person who had hugged him was his mother.

“Oh, my son! My wonderful son!” Oslu Gal cried, wetness in her eyes. “You have done so well! Your father is so proud! The slaves at home gossip constantly about how great a warrior you will become!”

“Mother!” He struggled to free himself before the big woman finally let go. “Is father here?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, but he has gone to speak with his councilor friend and Fleet Master ‘Vadumee. He has our assurances that he will be at the feast, however.” Oh yes, the feast, Yarna reminded himself. Though he could not see Oriné in the crowd mixed with civilians and soldiers, perhaps he would be at the feast.

However, he did not appear. The families of the now-promoted soldiers were ushered into the incredibly large Hall of Eternity, where they had fought their final battle and which was now reconfigured to feed thousands of mouths. Grand tapestries depicting various famous warriors who had graduated from Institution and their most glorious moments hung from the ceiling, waving and flickering occasionally as the generators showed their age. The courses were vibrant, delicious gourmet, a far cry from what was usually served in the cadets’ cafeterias. At various tables different holographic recordings of key moments in battles played, drawing the scrutiny of veteran Elites and causing jests and arguments to break out among the new soldiers.

As his father got into the wine and began scouring the recordings for his son, Yarna searched frantically for Oriné. A great many of the recordings featuring Squadron Twenty-two openly displayed his valor, and all around Yarna’s comrades were questioning the sense in allowing such an accomplished cadet to be shuffled to the rear. Yet despite all the misgivings present, the soldier in question was nowhere to be found.

After only a short time he excused himself and began to stalk through the corridors. He recalled the fond memories he had formed not so long ago, with his comrades in arms and specifically with Oriné. Unconsciously he made his way back to the bunk room. It was eerily empty, though the personal items of everybody was still present, still slightly skewed out of place as if they were all going to return at any moment and go to sleep at curfew.

That is, everybody’s belongings except for one. Oriné’s Lumidex, nadier, and his peculiar human book were gone.