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Chapter 2: Halo

When the dropship doors fell open, Oriné 'Fulsamee's motions were mechanical and rehearsed. Immediately he barked and gestured for the Unggoy to fall in line, and gave them a quick inspection. One's posture was drooping and another didn't have his weapon at the ready. To each he gave a stern reprimand combined with a verbal threat to set them straight; much to his surprise, however, Rurut, who had followed him after the rendezvous on the ship Twisted Faith, was in perfect form.

As the dropship ascended back into the sky, Oriné saw Yarna giving the same riot act to all three of his Grunts. Once he had finished, they jogged over to Oriné's lance, Yarna inhaling deeply.

"This air is fine air," he said, smiling.

"It is the oxygen of the Gods, my friend," Oriné replied. "The Forerunners themselves breathed this wondrous atmosphere while they made their Grand Designs." Yarna nodded, and the pair took a moment to look around. The Sprit had deposited them next to one of several key outposts across the ring, but it was an outpost in name only. In truth, it was a Forerunner structure that the Covenant had commandeered for their purposes, built of the strange and molecularly perfect stone that so frequented their installations and artifacts throughout the universe. It was at once angular and graceful, with two prongs rising out of the top of the structure, reaching for the heavens. A moment later, there was a rushing sound and a blue pulse fired from within. Every so often, it pulsed again. Over the horizon, the Sangheili could see sympathetic energy rising in exact timing with that of this building.

"What is that?" Rurut squeaked.

"I do not know," Oriné replied, unsure of whether to be frightened or in awe.

Besides the structure and its queer energy pulses, the entire area was beautiful. It appeared at all levels to be a livable, inhabitable planet. There was soil beneath his hooves, fresh air in his nostrils, and even a breeze. All sorts of plant life grew and there was even some limited "indigenous" fauna, though it was mostly limited to birds, insects for pollination, and some very small lizard-like animals that liked shade. There was even diffuse sky radiation caused by solar light from a nearby star; the installation itself hovered in the LaGrange point between a planet and its solitary moon.

But the most dominating part of the landscape was the horizon, or lack thereof. As the inhabitable part of the ring was on the inside, Oriné could see clear to the part where the ring began to slant up and steeply arched overhead, coming down behind him for an equally impressive effect. Whenever he looked at it he found himself overcome with a sense of intense reverence and vertigo, a dangerous combination.

However, Oriné was fortunately prevented from further suffering the effect by a call to attention. Immediately he straightened as a Sangheili in golden armor, an Elite Zealot, came into view. When he drew closer, Oriné could see that the markings on his armor gave him the rank of Field Commander. He stood a bit straighter.

The Zealot came to a stop before him and looked over the squad. He huffed. "Are you the only survivors of your squad?"

"No, Excellency," Oriné answered, raising his voice to speak over the hum of another Spirit landing nearby. "We were merely separated from the bulk."

"Is your Major among them?"

Oriné hesitated a moment. "No, Excellency, Major 'Gerrolee was still aboard the human ship when we were given the order to disembark. We believe he is dead."

The Zealot was silent for a moment, but then clicked his lower mandibles, the equivalent of a shrug. "Your names?" The pair recited their names and ranks quickly, but Oriné saw recognition flash in the Field Commander's eyes as he spoke his own name.

"Go inside," the golden-armored Sangheili said. "You have a four hour rest cycle. Use it wisely: eat a ration pack, get some sleep. There is a barracks set up inside. Your Unggoy may recharge their methane tanks within." He made to move on to the newly arrived dropship but didn't take his eyes off of Oriné. "When your cycle has completed, 'Fulsamee, meet me on the top of the structure."

The two Elite Minors affirmed and the Zealot left. As the Unggoy hurried inside to enjoy every second of rest they could, shepherded by Yarna, Oriné stared after the retreating Field Commander. It was odd, he knew, to be so summoned by a warrior of such a higher rank than himself, but it wasn't the first time he was treated beyond his station.

Regardless, I would be foolish to waste my rest cycle dwelling on such matters, he decided, turning to go inside. He cast one last glance at this new world around him. Recognition buzzed in the back of his mind, but he still did not understand this ring for what it was.

Not yet.

//

Though the privacy of the individual tent was more than most Sangheili were afforded on the battlefield, Esam 'Mijumee rarely found himself appreciating it. At the moment he was so incredibly absorbed in his work, analyzing the mosaic from earlier in the day, that he failed to notice when Esli 'Sarodee pushed aside the plastic flap, said hello, and dragged a chair across the ground to sit nearby.

It wasn't until Esli made an off-color comment about the sleeping habits of the Minor Inquisitor that Esam was finally made aware, quite suddenly, of his friend's presence.

"You startled me," he explained breathily, recomposing himself and the analyzer on the table. Esli gave him a look.

"I take it you have found something interesting, then?"

"Are not all the creations of the great Forerunner worthy of my undivided attention?"

There was the snort of a barely contained laugh. "Were you not the one who spent five minutes looking at an artifact fresh from the front lines and promptly abandoned it in order to find 'better entertainment'?"

Esam huffed. "Perhaps, but that was a common inscription detailing a custom we already have vast records of within the archives. And for those five minutes, the insipid little rock had my attention."

"A Minor Prophet had to be called in to order to force you back to your station."

"But he was quite understanding when I told him of my plight."

"He forced you to take an Oath of Fasting for a week."

The Inquisitor grumbled and turned his attention back to the scanner. There was a minute or two of silence before Esli spoke up again: "The human ship came down while we were in the cavern."

Esam's head perked up. "Is that what that sound was?"

"What sound?"

"I was outside—scouting for other entrances, you see—and I heard a terrible booming noise. I had thought it was another Scarab malfunction."

Esli shook his head. "The Prophet has decreed all Scarabs be removed from the ring. He does not wish one's tunneling laser to accidentally damage some fragile array buried beneath the ground. The only way we are going subterranean is by using a pre-existing passage."

The Inquisitor could agree with that. It was too risky using one of the behemoth mining machines for something as delicate as an excavation of such a holy relic. Somewhere within this installation was the secret to begin the Great Journey.

When the Fleet of Burning Judgment stumbled across Halo during a routine scouting mission, one of the first things accomplished was a thorough seismic scan. Before even the first Cleric had dared set a foot on such revered ground, the Inquisitors had known that beneath Halo's sublime surface was a network of tunnels and unimaginably complex machinery. Several hotspots had been isolated as potential energy generators, perhaps the key to the Great Journey or the mythical "weapon" said to be stored on the holy rings. So far, although several teams had been delegated to locate the control room for these generators, their purpose had not yet been confirmed. It was all random speculation, and particularly random for the higher ranks. Esam was just supposed to continue with his interpretation work, which suited him just fine. It was an area he was intimately familiar with.

"Take a look at this," he said, moving aside and gesturing for Esli to take his place.

The other Sangheili looked into the analyzer and hummed. "A sun surrounded by seven rings and with a glyph in the middle." He pursed his mandibles as he pulled his head up. "I don't recognize the marker, but the sun is representative of life, is it not?"

"It is," Esam agreed, "but it's also known for other connotations, specifically destruction." The Forerunner had established their hieroglyphics on multiple levels, including the spiritual and pragmatic. A symbol like the sun represented life spiritually, as only habitable planets could be found circling stars of certain characteristics; likewise, it could mean destruction from a practical point of view, as a star was composed of burning gases held at crushing degrees of pressure. There were still other interpretations as well.

"But the symbol," he muttered, "I'm unfamiliar with it. It has reminiscent characteristics of the glyph for 'catastrophe,' but the detail on the inside suggests something more leeching and gradual than sudden and terrible."

Esli leaned back. "Is there any precedent of similarity to draw upon?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Esam answered, which decidedly meant "no." He had graduated top of his class in cryptography and the history of cryptography; even Major Inquisitors came to him when they needed assistance deciphering particularly daunting mosaics. "However, it certainly speaks to me of a warning. I suppose I'll need to translate further to understand it."

"Well, be quick about it," Esli said, standing and stretching. "Night is already falling here and the Overseer wishes to move on to a new site tomorrow."

"But we have hardly finished with this one! Surely no one has finished their interpretations yet."

The Sangheili shrugged. "He has promised us time to continue working on them, but wishes to finish cataloguing as swiftly as possible. Word has it that some humans have survived the crash and have begun to interfere with our work here on the ring."

Conceding the point, Esam bid goodnight to his friend and turned back to the analyzer one more time. It still rested on the unknown glyph. A leeching catastrophe, a warning, he thought. Drumming his fingers on the counter for a moment, he logged the meaning as "parasite" and deactivated his Lumidex, vowing to fix it later. It was time for sleep.

//

When Oriné emerged onto the upper platform of the structure, he noted that the sun had begun to "set" on this part of the ring. The sky was aflame, giving him conflicting feelings of alarm at the idea and calm at the sight. It was quite lovely, and reflected neatly off the golden armor of the Elite Zealot who stood at the edge. Quietly approaching, not wishing to disturb any private thoughts the Field Commander might be nursing, Oriné stopped a pace behind the Sangheili. From where he stood, he saw that sentries patrolled the forest surrounding the base while a handful of Unggoy struggled to set up work lights around and throughout the perimeter.

After a moment, the Zealot spoke: "What is your relation to Orna 'Fulsamee?"

Slightly startled, Oriné recomposed himself. Everyone seemed to know of his brother. "I am his younger brother, Excellency."

"He is quite skilled."

"Yes, Excellency, my Lineage was truly blessed by his achievements." He paused. "Do you... have news of him?"

The Zealot turned his head to look at the young Sangheili, an odd look in his eyes. "What is the last of him you heard?"

"That he had become a Supreme Commander. The news brought great elation to my mother and father during a time of great hardship, but I have heard nothing more on the subject since. I don't know where he is."

Nodding, the Field Commander turned back to the view. The sun was halfway below the horizon; the work lights came on, illuminating the area in harsh white light. "Do not fear for him. He is quite an able commander and will be safe. He may save us all one day." Oriné was unsure how to reply. The silence persisted for a while longer until the Zealot again spoke: "What was your mission aboard the human ship?"

"Excellency," Oriné began, "our mission was to locate and neutralize one of the human Demons. Most of them were destroyed in combat on the world Reach, but we had intelligence that one escaped to that ship. Major 'Gerrolee's lance was tasked with finding the cryogenic storage bay and killing it while it slept."

The Zealot turned on his heel suddenly and quickly, catching Oriné by surprise. His eyes blazed in the coming night, but not with fury. "We have had several reports of this Demon being active on Halo, engaging our forces in hit-and-run operations, rescuing the humans and bringing them to a base of theirs that they took from us. How did you fail in your mission?"

Oriné's mandibles worked to find an answer, but none was immediately forthcoming. He hadn't dwelt much on the idea of what went wrong. "I suppose," he began uncertainly, "that our plan depended on it not being deployed. We believed—wrongly, it seems—that the humans would use the Demon only as a last-ditch effort. That oversight cost us the mission, and Major 'Gerrolee his life." He bowed his head. "I am deeply ashamed, Excellency. Please, if you wish to punish me..."

"Punish you?" When he looked up, Oriné saw a sly and amused grin on the Field Commander's face. "That is a good tactical analysis of both your mission and your shortcomings. I am proud that you would accept responsibility for that failure, but the fault lies in the planning, not in the execution. Had our intelligence been correct, the Demon would be slain."

Reassured, Oriné resumed his more confident posture. The Zealot nodded. "The humans have become scattered across Halo, separated but far from beaten. Aside from the guerilla tactics of the Demon, there have been many strikes against our outposts across the ring. Most have been simple harassment or supply seizures, but a few have been hindering, especially attacks on Inquisitor forces already dispersed."

Oriné cocked his head. "Inquisitors, Excellency?"

"Yes," the Zealot replied, "the Fleet of Particular Justice was not the first here; only a few days ago, the Fleet of Burning Judgment came across this place. This is one of the sacred rings, those spoken of in the Divinidex."

Shock leaped into the Elite Minor's mind. This was one of the sacred rings? One of the true Halos? He could not believe he had not recognized it for what it was. Unbidden, the passage surfaced in his thoughts and shoved its way through his mandibles:

What hope has this alliance
If we cannot conquer
Doubt of faith, not each other—
If our belief should falter?

But put an ear to the stones
Of this Holy City
Inside their voices echo still—
"Seven rings begin the Journey!"

The Field Commander echoed the last line and chuckled. "I could not believe it myself. I had never believed we may come before the brink of the Great Journey in my life time, but it seems I was mistaken. As were we all."

So many thoughts and emotions collided in Oriné's mind that he could not think straight. All he could manage was to ask: "What's our assignment, Excellency?"

"Because the Inquisitors must do their holy work, protecting them is our top priority. I am dispatching your lance, under your command, to the cruiser Truth and Reconciliation. She took heavy damage in the battle above the ring and was forced to land for repairs, but is now the headquarters for Inquisition forces across Halo. You will go there, be attached to an Inquisition team, and serve as part of their guardian force."

Oriné affirmed his orders and received his departure details: a group of Spirits would be delivering supplies to assist with the repair. His lance would board one and ride in with the rest of the regular work force. The flight would be leaving soon, so he had to quickly brief and arm his teammates.

As he went, however, all he could hear was a single thought, one voice shouting into the void:

Sister, you were wrong.

//

A small, private office had been prepared inside the base for Field Commander Ignil 'Quarmee. A desk with full holographic capability and a gravity chair had been moved in for his convenience, and it was at this desk he sat, working on a report to send to the Prophet. His talk with young Oriné 'Fulsamee had been interesting, but there was much work to be done.

Occasionally, however, he looked up and allowed himself to be distracted by the room in which he was situated. It was, like most Forerunner installations, a very pale grey with intricate markings all over the walls, ceilings, and floors. Two grates, about thirty centimeters across, ran all the way around the room, behind which a white light shone, giving him adequate illumination, soft in its indirectness. His eyes traced all the details, drinking them in; he had been told the Inquisitors had already mapped the room, so it was of little consequence if he decided to cover any of the walls up with personal decoration, but he couldn't bear to do it. He only allowed the desk and chair. No trophies.

Calm chiming interrupted his thoughts, and he realized it was coming from the door. Engaging the holographic desk, 'Quarmee saw that an armored Sangheili was waiting patiently outside. The hologram was blue-tinted, but the Field Commander knew who it was; he had been expecting him.

"Enter," he called out, and the Elite in the hologram stepped forward and the door slid open. 'Quarmee turned off the image and sat straighter in his chair as the black-armored Operative walked up to his desk and gave a slight bow.

"Field Commander," said the dark, muscular Sangheili, "I thank you for taking the time to meet with me."

'Quarmee did not get up. "You were quite insistent on this conference. I assume you wish to get to the matter quickly?" The Operative looked at him, eyes flashing. The Field Commander was being very brash by dismissing the usual formalities of such a meeting. The Operative straightened and clicked his mandibles.

"Very well," he said. "In order to further increase the likelihood of finding the means with which to activate the Sacred Ring and begin the Great Journey, the Prophet has ordered additional Special Operations personnel be deployed on Halo."

The Field Commander frowned. He had been attached to the Fleet of Burning Judgment, an Inquisitorial force, by the High Council of Masters. Though announced as a routine scouting mission, the Councilors had made it clear to all Zealot-ranked Elites that this expedition had another purpose: to gain the favor of the Hierarchs for their race and thus condemn the Jiralhanae.

It was no secret that the Brutes had been gaining more and more favor with the High Prophets, and the Elites were beginning to feel the pressure. It was up to them to find a way to curry support, and having found Halo, the sacred ring, 'Quarmee knew they could have done little better.

Unfortunately, a human ship pursued by the Fleet of Particular Justice had bumbled into them, and not only had the Supreme Commander taken control of the limited naval forces available to them but suddenly the Lesser Prophet, who had been accompanying him, felt as if he were in charge of the Inquisitors and all their data. It was only a matter of time before he began to take credit for all their findings, toning down the crucial involvement of the Sangheili and distorting the reports to the Hierarchs.

Still, the military's meddlesome involvement was beginning to give 'Quarmee a headache. "You do not need my permission to deploy more units," the Field Commander said, fighting the urge to massage his temples. "The realm of Special Operations falls out of my jurisdiction."

"Commander 'Vadumee has an issue with the Prophet's orders," the Operative continued. "There are no reserve Special Operations units available, as most ships remained behind around the human world Reach to assist with its destruction. We are also missing a great deal of equipment. Here"—he drew a previously unnoticed Lumidex from the back of his belt and placed it on the desk—"is a list of materials and personnel we require."

Picking up the handheld unit, 'Quarmee looked over it with a critical eye. "You ask for many things, warrior. Carbines, beam rifles, Spectres... the list goes on, and then you ask for the ability to remove soldiers from my command and transfer them to 'Vadumee's control?"

The Operative nodded. "We have armor enough for several more lances, and 'Vadumee has split up most of the intact units to act as instructors. As for the equipment, we are severely lacking in these things, as they are..."

"Deployed against the humans on Reach," 'Quarmee finished. He sighed, set the Lumidex aside, and steepled his fingers on the desk. "I'm afraid I have disappointing news for you, warrior. There are not many regular Infantry soldiers in this fleet, as we are largely an Inquisitorial force and none of the Inquisitors can be conscripted. Your warriors will have to come from Particular Justice, instead. In addition, we have none of the equipment or vehicles you ask for."

At this, the Operative looked dubious. "None of it?"

Picking up the Lumidex, 'Quarmee began going down the list. "Carbines and beam rifles are infantry weapons, and as I said, Burning Judgment in an Inquisitor fleet. We limit ourselves to plasma rifles and pistols for their lighter weight. And why would we carry Fuel Rod Guns if our objective is to study, not destroy? Sniper towers are also on that list, though we do have a few but they are currently deployed. In addition, the Needler rifle variant was deemed unnecessary, as the pistol version works just as well."

He scrolled on. "Gravity pitons, empowered batteries for simultaneous shielding and camouflage, atmospherically sealed helmets? These are Special Operations equipment, and we do not carry them. For vehicles we have Ghosts and Shadows, though the local terrain prevents the troop transports from being at all effective. We do not have Spectres; we do not even have Chimeras. And Phantoms? Before we left on this mission, even the conversion of the civilian model was not yet available." He slid the Lumidex towards the Operative. "It is my understanding that the Fleet of Particular Justice has several fully stocked armories and vehicle depots. Have you ever considered asking your own people for the materials you seek?"

Clearly the black-armored Elite was agitated, but 'Quarmee maintained his pressing stare. "We queried our own stores before coming to you, Field Commander," the Operative began, "and we are as lacking as you. The vehicle depots contain only Ghosts, Wraiths, and Banshees; the fleet did not take on troop vehicles as it did not expect this sort of action. Most of the ships with Special Operations equipment remained behind." He took a deep breath. "And though you do not have a dedicated infantry unit under your command at this time, you are in charge of all infantry in this sector."

"When a ranking Field Master is absent, yes."

"Therefore I must at least demand you allow me to observe the infantry and choose who among them to train for Special Operations."

'Quarmee thought about it for a moment. They were not truly his soldiers, so why should he care? The quick answer was that he didn't. "Very well. Do as you wish, warrior, but do not trouble again to ask for this equipment. I do not have it, nor does any other Zealot."

The Operative bowed and retrieved his Lumidex. As he turned to leave, however, there was an urgent beeping from the desk. Overcome with curiosity, the dark Sangheili remained while 'Quarmee silenced the alarm and examined the priority message that had just been transmitted over the Battle Net. When he read it, he involuntarily and loudly sucked in air between his mandibles.

"By the Prophets," he hissed.

//

The Spirit dropship sailed silently through the night air. Within, Oriné and his comrades looked out of the slots at the dark landscape, illuminated faintly by the light of the gas giant's moon. However, when the craft banked for a turn, Oriné could see the retreating form of Halo and the illuminated part of the ring up ahead; he figured some of the light was generated by that reflection.

Rurut the Grunt was in the troop slot next to his. Oriné glanced over and saw him fidgeting uncomfortably. The Sangheili reached over and tapped the metal above the Unggoy's head, making him twitch suddenly and look at his superior.

"Is something wrong?" Oriné asked. "Do the magnets hold you too tight?"

"Thank you for your concern, Excellency, I am unworthy," the small alien replied. "I merely... have a feeling, that's all."

"A feeling?"

"Yes," Rurut replied, eyes focused on the inner hull. "I feel that something horrible is going to happen very soon... or perhaps already has."

Before Oriné could query further, a chime sounded in his helmet. Reaching up a hand to key in, he realized it was a broadcast across the entire ship. "Warriors," said the pilot, "we will be forced to adjust our course and land on the ground near the Truth and Reconciliation."

There was silence as Oriné waited for his commanding officer to respond, but with a start he realized he was the ranking Sangheili present. Clearing his throat he touched his radio. "For what reason?"

"The ship has been attacked by the humans. Information is very panicked and poorly sorted, but from the sound of it they were able to cause immense damage to the hangar bays." The pilot paused. "An approach vector taking us down near the gravity lift has been approved. Standby for deployment."

It was several minutes before the ship touched down. When the doors opened, Oriné and his lance jumped out, weapons held at the ready. There was no telling what might have been waiting for them, but when their eyes settled on the scene around them they realized they had expected everything but this.

Everywhere there was blood. Having been on several battlefields, Oriné expected no less; but here, beneath the belly of one of the Covenant's own cruisers, it was extensive. Spotlights illuminated pools of violet, the lifeblood of Sangheili warriors, trickling down inclines and soaking into the dirt. He fought hard against the image of such liquid nourishing insects and plant-life, but couldn't force the picture from his mind. Even then the gore of his species was not the most prevalent: iridescent blue blood seemed to smear every rock and tree, spattered across walls and equipment with abandon. Dark purple blood of the Kig-Yar, differentiated from the Sangheili by smell alone, mixed with its caste equal indiscriminately. And, much to the Elite Minor's surprise, around the base of the gravity lift was the unmistakable orange blood of Lekgolo, the Covenant's mighty Hunters.

But only here and there was the distinctive crimson blood of humans.

All around, soldiers had apparently been tasked with cleanup. Jackals and Grunts heaped bodies together with little care for dignity or honor. Most species were clumped together, but a separate pile had been set aside for Elites; beyond that, there was no special care involved. Yarna growled and moved to berate a nearby Kig-Yar worker for his lack of respect, but Oriné caught his eye and shook his head. There were more important things to focus on.

As they descended the slope towards the gravity lift, the unit caught sight of something unprecedented: a team of Unggoy was struggling to move a deceased pair of Hunters. The massive creatures in blue armor were, in truth, conglomerations of eel-like worms called Lekgolo that shared neural pathways and could build themselves into whatever form was needed for the Covenant. The only two forms Oriné had ever experienced were the Hunter and Scarab gestalts, both expertly suited for combat, but he had been told others existed on the Lekgolo home world Te. As some Grunts tried to deconstruct the armor, others used small prods to deliver mild electric shocks to the expired worms, forcing them to slide apart.

Once they reached the lift, they were stopped by a flippant Unggoy in silver armor. He spoke without honorifics, and at first Oriné was vexed: Grunts were little more than slaves and cannon fodder in the Covenant, and though he disliked titles he knew their purpose was to promote the proper respect among the ranks.

But the silver armor made any lecture he could give die in his throat. This was a Grunt Ultra, an Operative of the Prophet Blessed. Oriné technically outclassed him socially, but as far as rank went he had to comply.

"Are you part of the work force?" The Unggoy sniffled behind his breather.

"No," Oriné said. "We are infantry, from Particular Justice. We were transferred here to begin an assignment guarding Inquisitors."

The small alien consulted a Lumidex in his hand. "What sector?"

"Our last location was Outpost Eleven-Four."

"You were under Field Commander 'Quarmee, then," the Unggoy muttered before turning his eyes up to Oriné again. "Your orders have been countermanded. Under the authority of the Ship Commander, you and your lance are to join other infantry units in conducting a section-by-section search of the cruiser, looking for any humans or traps still aboard."

"The Ship Commander? What of the Ship Master?"

"He was killed in the attack."

The rest of Oriné's lance fell into file, preparing to ascend the gravity lift. Oriné hesitated for a moment. "How did this attack come to happen?"

"We are still investigating," the Unggoy said, "but so far it appears that the humans' objective was to rescue their Ship Master, whom we captured shortly after their ship crashed on the ring."

The Elite Minor glanced around. "Humans did all this?"

A dangerous glint appeared in the Grunt Ultra's eyes. "They had a Demon with them."

//

The news of the assault against the Truth and Reconciliation spread through the fleet like wildfire. That the humans had been able to recover from their impromptu landing and then attack a well-defended Covenant cruiser with minimal loss of life would have been amazing enough, but the fact that these two events had happened within a day was enough to throw most of the higher echelons of command into an uproar.

As Operative Ionill 'Ongyomee walked the corridors and surveyed the damage caused by the humans, he wondered just how badly the Covenant had underestimated them, and once again he wished that he had better equipment and more Special Operations personnel to utilize.

Corridors torn apart by plasma, bullets, and explosions spoke volumes of the brutal style of the infantry, the lack of finesse they used. Had better weapons been available, he thought, the collateral damage could have been reduced. For example, the Carbine was deadly accurate and powerful without leaving the unsightly burns that now criss-crossed the hallway. However, the few Carbines available to the fleet had all been requisitioned by the Lesser Prophet's Honor Guard, stating that exact reason as to why they required them to protect the Holy One.

Ionill stopped to admire a series of ragged Needler punctures in the wall before continuing on his way.

Commander 'Vadumee had radioed the Operative just a few moments after the bulletin went out about the Reconciliation. The Elite Ultra assigned Ionill to the ship in order to oversee the security sweep and use it as a base of operations for training the new Special Operations units. Other Operatives had been sent here as well; it was clear the surviving crew was uncomfortable with so many of the Prophet Blessed walking around. They were renowned for their fanaticism and devotion to duty, something that made the Kig-Yar flinch whenever 'Ongyomee happened to pass by. Such things gave him a small, guilty amount of satisfaction.

His quarters were only a short walk from his current location, and when he arrived at the door he found it unlocked and the bed and desk already prepared. Much like Commander 'Quarmee's desk, the entire surface was a Lumidex, and Ionill found his mission details already uploaded and blinking, awaiting his confirmation. He bade the door close and lock, and then regarded the missive in secrecy.

The Inquisitorial forces already present had made significant headway in their short time on the ring and had narrowed down the surface into several areas of interest, possibly pertaining to the control room where the Great Journey could begin. Knowing their prowess and efficiency, the Prophet decreed that Special Operations teams be dispatched to each location to assess them and secure any information that could lead to Halo's activation.

Unfortunately, that had been the only wise thing decreed by His Holiness so far. His next action had been to break up most of the handful of already existing Special Operations units so that those Operatives could act as instructors; his reasoning had been that little combat would require their attention, so only a few units needed to be left intact. The corollary of this was that, as the tasks did not require combat, the Special Operations units to be formed from the regular infantry didn't need the same exhaustive training regime as most Operatives.

The Prophet was somehow under the illusion that with only a few days' training and new black armor, standard troops could suddenly become hardened Operatives. Ionill recalled with mixed feelings of nostalgia and revulsion his own education at a war college: weeks spent in the field, learning the art of disappearing, the difficulty of suppressing the values of honor that had been instilled in him since birth. He remembered with unnecessary clarity the torture training, when he was held in place by crude but strong bonds and tested for his endurance, then pushed beyond the limit. His instructors would starve him, beat him, force him to run obstacle courses while flawlessly reciting word-for-word the Divinidex. Live-fire combat training was standard, and the accidents therein were considered learning experiences. By the end, he knew exactly how long his shields, his armor, his flesh would last under sustained fire from all known weapons, and he knew by heart where each piece of equipment was on his combat harness, and where any piece of equipment he didn't have standard would go when he used it. He had suffered from so much anxiety and stress while training that, when it came time for his first mission and real humans were shooting at him, the experience was almost enjoyable.

Somehow the Prophet expected him to be able to instill those experiences into a group of newcomers in only a few days. It was an impossible task. Every few moments Ionill found himself hoping that an Inquisitor out in the field would just find the "Deify All" button and push it, ending this torment.

Settling himself in a chair provided to him, the Operative began cycling through the exhaustive list of infantry candidates. No one had seen fit to run a standard screening process, so he (and all the other recruiters) faced the entire catalog of troops in the fleet. As he worked he kept a text-only Battle Net channel open to the other Operatives engaged in this task, swapping notes and names as each reviewed the cases available.

After several hours of work, mind-numbing evaluation sometimes punctuated by bitter quips with peers and the occasional refreshment brought to him by a Grunt, Ionill had sifted through hundreds of service dossiers of Sangheili and Unggoy; Kig-Yar he had discounted immediately for being too bloodthirsty to be effective, and Lekgolo for obvious reasons. He marked the names of those he thought could fit well into the service for follow-up evaluation; later, he and the other recruiters would meet and discuss their potential candidates, deciding who among their lists of qualified warriors would be further screened.

He was close to finishing when he came upon one of the remaining Sangheili he hadn't yet decided on: Oriné 'Fulsamee. Quickly scanning over the Elite Minor's achievement record, he noticed that the young Sangheili had been on the front for a few years already without any rumblings of promotion, and thus almost dismissed him immediately. Just before sending the name into the "Unfit for Service" group, however, he caught sight of the marks of honor the warrior had earned and stayed his hand.

Young 'Fulsamee, it seemed, had earned a high honor marking within his first month of service, one equated with saving the life of someone vastly superior in rank to himself. Apparently the rescued party, a Zealot-level commander, had recommended 'Fulsamee for advancement to Elite Major the next day, but it had been silenced quickly by a communication sent from the Head Master of Institution, the deep-space war college open only to Sangheili who were considered of high quality.

Now Ionill was intrigued. He opened the full dossier of 'Fulsamee's career and found himself immersed in a story of disappointment, heresy, and passion. Aside from being sentenced to gulag duty following his affair with the Head Master's daughter, 'Fulsamee had apparently distinguished himself in combat on three separate worlds. Another movement for advancement, this time pushed by Major Olah 'Seroumee, was again stopped dead in its tracks when 'Fulsamee's twin sister was found guilty of heresy and the Lineage lost its honor. Oriné had spent the last few years fighting on several fronts with only one shore leave to speak of.

So motivated to restore his family's honor that he disregards personal advancement to gain it back? The Operative was shocked. Such behavior was rare in the infantry. The list of combat merits the young warrior's peers had filed was quite long, many times citing Resolute Unit's victory having hinged on his performance. And yet one Major Tokla 'Gerrolee hadn't mentioned a word of it to his superiors. It is warriors such as that who prevent the ascension of those truly worthy.

'Fulsamee seemed an obvious choice. After a quick exchange of comments, Ionill learned that of the Operatives currently reviewing data, only four had bothered to look into the Elite Minor's history, but all of those who did had approved the warrior.

Now he need only be tested.

Description
Chapter 2: Halo

When the dropship doors fell open, Oriné 'Fulsamee's motions were mechanical and rehearsed. Immediately he barked and gestured for the Unggoy to fall in line, and gave them a quick inspection. One's posture was drooping and another didn't have his weapon at the ready. To each he gave a stern reprimand combined with a verbal threat to set them straight; much to his surprise, however, Rurut, who had followed him after the rendezvous on the ship Twisted Faith, was in perfect form.

As the dropship ascended back into the sky, Oriné saw Yarna giving the same riot act to all three of his Grunts. Once he had finished, they jogged over to Oriné's lance, Yarna inhaling deeply.

"This air is fine air," he said, smiling.

"It is the oxygen of the Gods, my friend," Oriné replied. "The Forerunners themselves breathed this wondrous atmosphere while they made their Grand Designs." Yarna nodded, and the pair took a moment to look around. The Sprit had deposited them next to one of several key outposts across the ring, but it was an outpost in name only. In truth, it was a Forerunner structure that the Covenant had commandeered for their purposes, built of the strange and molecularly perfect stone that so frequented their installations and artifacts throughout the universe. It was at once angular and graceful, with two prongs rising out of the top of the structure, reaching for the heavens. A moment later, there was a rushing sound and a blue pulse fired from within. Every so often, it pulsed again. Over the horizon, the Sangheili could see sympathetic energy rising in exact timing with that of this building.

"What is that?" Rurut squeaked.

"I do not know," Oriné replied, unsure of whether to be frightened or in awe.

Besides the structure and its queer energy pulses, the entire area was beautiful. It appeared at all levels to be a livable, inhabitable planet. There was soil beneath his hooves, fresh air in his nostrils, and even a breeze. All sorts of plant life grew and there was even some limited "indigenous" fauna, though it was mostly limited to birds, insects for pollination, and some very small lizard-like animals that liked shade. There was even diffuse sky radiation caused by solar light from a nearby star; the installation itself hovered in the LaGrange point between a planet and its solitary moon.

But the most dominating part of the landscape was the horizon, or lack thereof. As the inhabitable part of the ring was on the inside, Oriné could see clear to the part where the ring began to slant up and steeply arched overhead, coming down behind him for an equally impressive effect. Whenever he looked at it he found himself overcome with a sense of intense reverence and vertigo, a dangerous combination.

However, Oriné was fortunately prevented from further suffering the effect by a call to attention. Immediately he straightened as a Sangheili in golden armor, an Elite Zealot, came into view. When he drew closer, Oriné could see that the markings on his armor gave him the rank of Field Commander. He stood a bit straighter.

The Zealot came to a stop before him and looked over the squad. He huffed. "Are you the only survivors of your squad?"

"No, Excellency," Oriné answered, raising his voice to speak over the hum of another Spirit landing nearby. "We were merely separated from the bulk."

"Is your Major among them?"

Oriné hesitated a moment. "No, Excellency, Major 'Gerrolee was still aboard the human ship when we were given the order to disembark. We believe he is dead."

The Zealot was silent for a moment, but then clicked his lower mandibles, the equivalent of a shrug. "Your names?" The pair recited their names and ranks quickly, but Oriné saw recognition flash in the Field Commander's eyes as he spoke his own name.

"Go inside," the golden-armored Sangheili said. "You have a four hour rest cycle. Use it wisely: eat a ration pack, get some sleep. There is a barracks set up inside. Your Unggoy may recharge their methane tanks within." He made to move on to the newly arrived dropship but didn't take his eyes off of Oriné. "When your cycle has completed, 'Fulsamee, meet me on the top of the structure."

The two Elite Minors affirmed and the Zealot left. As the Unggoy hurried inside to enjoy every second of rest they could, shepherded by Yarna, Oriné stared after the retreating Field Commander. It was odd, he knew, to be so summoned by a warrior of such a higher rank than himself, but it wasn't the first time he was treated beyond his station.

Regardless, I would be foolish to waste my rest cycle dwelling on such matters, he decided, turning to go inside. He cast one last glance at this new world around him. Recognition buzzed in the back of his mind, but he still did not understand this ring for what it was.

Not yet.

//

Though the privacy of the individual tent was more than most Sangheili were afforded on the battlefield, Esam 'Mijumee rarely found himself appreciating it. At the moment he was so incredibly absorbed in his work, analyzing the mosaic from earlier in the day, that he failed to notice when Esli 'Sarodee pushed aside the plastic flap, said hello, and dragged a chair across the ground to sit nearby.

It wasn't until Esli made an off-color comment about the sleeping habits of the Minor Inquisitor that Esam was finally made aware, quite suddenly, of his friend's presence.

"You startled me," he explained breathily, recomposing himself and the analyzer on the table. Esli gave him a look.

"I take it you have found something interesting, then?"

"Are not all the creations of the great Forerunner worthy of my undivided attention?"

There was the snort of a barely contained laugh. "Were you not the one who spent five minutes looking at an artifact fresh from the front lines and promptly abandoned it in order to find 'better entertainment'?"

Esam huffed. "Perhaps, but that was a common inscription detailing a custom we already have vast records of within the archives. And for those five minutes, the insipid little rock had my attention."

"A Minor Prophet had to be called in to order to force you back to your station."

"But he was quite understanding when I told him of my plight."

"He forced you to take an Oath of Fasting for a week."

The Inquisitor grumbled and turned his attention back to the scanner. There was a minute or two of silence before Esli spoke up again: "The human ship came down while we were in the cavern."

Esam's head perked up. "Is that what that sound was?"

"What sound?"

"I was outside—scouting for other entrances, you see—and I heard a terrible booming noise. I had thought it was another Scarab malfunction."

Esli shook his head. "The Prophet has decreed all Scarabs be removed from the ring. He does not wish one's tunneling laser to accidentally damage some fragile array buried beneath the ground. The only way we are going subterranean is by using a pre-existing passage."

The Inquisitor could agree with that. It was too risky using one of the behemoth mining machines for something as delicate as an excavation of such a holy relic. Somewhere within this installation was the secret to begin the Great Journey.

When the Fleet of Burning Judgment stumbled across Halo during a routine scouting mission, one of the first things accomplished was a thorough seismic scan. Before even the first Cleric had dared set a foot on such revered ground, the Inquisitors had known that beneath Halo's sublime surface was a network of tunnels and unimaginably complex machinery. Several hotspots had been isolated as potential energy generators, perhaps the key to the Great Journey or the mythical "weapon" said to be stored on the holy rings. So far, although several teams had been delegated to locate the control room for these generators, their purpose had not yet been confirmed. It was all random speculation, and particularly random for the higher ranks. Esam was just supposed to continue with his interpretation work, which suited him just fine. It was an area he was intimately familiar with.

"Take a look at this," he said, moving aside and gesturing for Esli to take his place.

The other Sangheili looked into the analyzer and hummed. "A sun surrounded by seven rings and with a glyph in the middle." He pursed his mandibles as he pulled his head up. "I don't recognize the marker, but the sun is representative of life, is it not?"

"It is," Esam agreed, "but it's also known for other connotations, specifically destruction." The Forerunner had established their hieroglyphics on multiple levels, including the spiritual and pragmatic. A symbol like the sun represented life spiritually, as only habitable planets could be found circling stars of certain characteristics; likewise, it could mean destruction from a practical point of view, as a star was composed of burning gases held at crushing degrees of pressure. There were still other interpretations as well.

"But the symbol," he muttered, "I'm unfamiliar with it. It has reminiscent characteristics of the glyph for 'catastrophe,' but the detail on the inside suggests something more leeching and gradual than sudden and terrible."

Esli leaned back. "Is there any precedent of similarity to draw upon?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Esam answered, which decidedly meant "no." He had graduated top of his class in cryptography and the history of cryptography; even Major Inquisitors came to him when they needed assistance deciphering particularly daunting mosaics. "However, it certainly speaks to me of a warning. I suppose I'll need to translate further to understand it."

"Well, be quick about it," Esli said, standing and stretching. "Night is already falling here and the Overseer wishes to move on to a new site tomorrow."

"But we have hardly finished with this one! Surely no one has finished their interpretations yet."

The Sangheili shrugged. "He has promised us time to continue working on them, but wishes to finish cataloguing as swiftly as possible. Word has it that some humans have survived the crash and have begun to interfere with our work here on the ring."

Conceding the point, Esam bid goodnight to his friend and turned back to the analyzer one more time. It still rested on the unknown glyph. A leeching catastrophe, a warning, he thought. Drumming his fingers on the counter for a moment, he logged the meaning as "parasite" and deactivated his Lumidex, vowing to fix it later. It was time for sleep.

//

When Oriné emerged onto the upper platform of the structure, he noted that the sun had begun to "set" on this part of the ring. The sky was aflame, giving him conflicting feelings of alarm at the idea and calm at the sight. It was quite lovely, and reflected neatly off the golden armor of the Elite Zealot who stood at the edge. Quietly approaching, not wishing to disturb any private thoughts the Field Commander might be nursing, Oriné stopped a pace behind the Sangheili. From where he stood, he saw that sentries patrolled the forest surrounding the base while a handful of Unggoy struggled to set up work lights around and throughout the perimeter.

After a moment, the Zealot spoke: "What is your relation to Orna 'Fulsamee?"

Slightly startled, Oriné recomposed himself. Everyone seemed to know of his brother. "I am his younger brother, Excellency."

"He is quite skilled."

"Yes, Excellency, my Lineage was truly blessed by his achievements." He paused. "Do you... have news of him?"

The Zealot turned his head to look at the young Sangheili, an odd look in his eyes. "What is the last of him you heard?"

"That he had become a Supreme Commander. The news brought great elation to my mother and father during a time of great hardship, but I have heard nothing more on the subject since. I don't know where he is."

Nodding, the Field Commander turned back to the view. The sun was halfway below the horizon; the work lights came on, illuminating the area in harsh white light. "Do not fear for him. He is quite an able commander and will be safe. He may save us all one day." Oriné was unsure how to reply. The silence persisted for a while longer until the Zealot again spoke: "What was your mission aboard the human ship?"

"Excellency," Oriné began, "our mission was to locate and neutralize one of the human Demons. Most of them were destroyed in combat on the world Reach, but we had intelligence that one escaped to that ship. Major 'Gerrolee's lance was tasked with finding the cryogenic storage bay and killing it while it slept."

The Zealot turned on his heel suddenly and quickly, catching Oriné by surprise. His eyes blazed in the coming night, but not with fury. "We have had several reports of this Demon being active on Halo, engaging our forces in hit-and-run operations, rescuing the humans and bringing them to a base of theirs that they took from us. How did you fail in your mission?"

Oriné's mandibles worked to find an answer, but none was immediately forthcoming. He hadn't dwelt much on the idea of what went wrong. "I suppose," he began uncertainly, "that our plan depended on it not being deployed. We believed—wrongly, it seems—that the humans would use the Demon only as a last-ditch effort. That oversight cost us the mission, and Major 'Gerrolee his life." He bowed his head. "I am deeply ashamed, Excellency. Please, if you wish to punish me..."

"Punish you?" When he looked up, Oriné saw a sly and amused grin on the Field Commander's face. "That is a good tactical analysis of both your mission and your shortcomings. I am proud that you would accept responsibility for that failure, but the fault lies in the planning, not in the execution. Had our intelligence been correct, the Demon would be slain."

Reassured, Oriné resumed his more confident posture. The Zealot nodded. "The humans have become scattered across Halo, separated but far from beaten. Aside from the guerilla tactics of the Demon, there have been many strikes against our outposts across the ring. Most have been simple harassment or supply seizures, but a few have been hindering, especially attacks on Inquisitor forces already dispersed."

Oriné cocked his head. "Inquisitors, Excellency?"

"Yes," the Zealot replied, "the Fleet of Particular Justice was not the first here; only a few days ago, the Fleet of Burning Judgment came across this place. This is one of the sacred rings, those spoken of in the Divinidex."

Shock leaped into the Elite Minor's mind. This was one of the sacred rings? One of the true Halos? He could not believe he had not recognized it for what it was. Unbidden, the passage surfaced in his thoughts and shoved its way through his mandibles:

What hope has this alliance
If we cannot conquer
Doubt of faith, not each other—
If our belief should falter?

But put an ear to the stones
Of this Holy City
Inside their voices echo still—
"Seven rings begin the Journey!"

The Field Commander echoed the last line and chuckled. "I could not believe it myself. I had never believed we may come before the brink of the Great Journey in my life time, but it seems I was mistaken. As were we all."

So many thoughts and emotions collided in Oriné's mind that he could not think straight. All he could manage was to ask: "What's our assignment, Excellency?"

"Because the Inquisitors must do their holy work, protecting them is our top priority. I am dispatching your lance, under your command, to the cruiser Truth and Reconciliation. She took heavy damage in the battle above the ring and was forced to land for repairs, but is now the headquarters for Inquisition forces across Halo. You will go there, be attached to an Inquisition team, and serve as part of their guardian force."

Oriné affirmed his orders and received his departure details: a group of Spirits would be delivering supplies to assist with the repair. His lance would board one and ride in with the rest of the regular work force. The flight would be leaving soon, so he had to quickly brief and arm his teammates.

As he went, however, all he could hear was a single thought, one voice shouting into the void:

Sister, you were wrong.

//

A small, private office had been prepared inside the base for Field Commander Ignil 'Quarmee. A desk with full holographic capability and a gravity chair had been moved in for his convenience, and it was at this desk he sat, working on a report to send to the Prophet. His talk with young Oriné 'Fulsamee had been interesting, but there was much work to be done.

Occasionally, however, he looked up and allowed himself to be distracted by the room in which he was situated. It was, like most Forerunner installations, a very pale grey with intricate markings all over the walls, ceilings, and floors. Two grates, about thirty centimeters across, ran all the way around the room, behind which a white light shone, giving him adequate illumination, soft in its indirectness. His eyes traced all the details, drinking them in; he had been told the Inquisitors had already mapped the room, so it was of little consequence if he decided to cover any of the walls up with personal decoration, but he couldn't bear to do it. He only allowed the desk and chair. No trophies.

Calm chiming interrupted his thoughts, and he realized it was coming from the door. Engaging the holographic desk, 'Quarmee saw that an armored Sangheili was waiting patiently outside. The hologram was blue-tinted, but the Field Commander knew who it was; he had been expecting him.

"Enter," he called out, and the Elite in the hologram stepped forward and the door slid open. 'Quarmee turned off the image and sat straighter in his chair as the black-armored Operative walked up to his desk and gave a slight bow.

"Field Commander," said the dark, muscular Sangheili, "I thank you for taking the time to meet with me."

'Quarmee did not get up. "You were quite insistent on this conference. I assume you wish to get to the matter quickly?" The Operative looked at him, eyes flashing. The Field Commander was being very brash by dismissing the usual formalities of such a meeting. The Operative straightened and clicked his mandibles.

"Very well," he said. "In order to further increase the likelihood of finding the means with which to activate the Sacred Ring and begin the Great Journey, the Prophet has ordered additional Special Operations personnel be deployed on Halo."

The Field Commander frowned. He had been attached to the Fleet of Burning Judgment, an Inquisitorial force, by the High Council of Masters. Though announced as a routine scouting mission, the Councilors had made it clear to all Zealot-ranked Elites that this expedition had another purpose: to gain the favor of the Hierarchs for their race and thus condemn the Jiralhanae.

It was no secret that the Brutes had been gaining more and more favor with the High Prophets, and the Elites were beginning to feel the pressure. It was up to them to find a way to curry support, and having found Halo, the sacred ring, 'Quarmee knew they could have done little better.

Unfortunately, a human ship pursued by the Fleet of Particular Justice had bumbled into them, and not only had the Supreme Commander taken control of the limited naval forces available to them but suddenly the Lesser Prophet, who had been accompanying him, felt as if he were in charge of the Inquisitors and all their data. It was only a matter of time before he began to take credit for all their findings, toning down the crucial involvement of the Sangheili and distorting the reports to the Hierarchs.

Still, the military's meddlesome involvement was beginning to give 'Quarmee a headache. "You do not need my permission to deploy more units," the Field Commander said, fighting the urge to massage his temples. "The realm of Special Operations falls out of my jurisdiction."

"Commander 'Vadumee has an issue with the Prophet's orders," the Operative continued. "There are no reserve Special Operations units available, as most ships remained behind around the human world Reach to assist with its destruction. We are also missing a great deal of equipment. Here"—he drew a previously unnoticed Lumidex from the back of his belt and placed it on the desk—"is a list of materials and personnel we require."

Picking up the handheld unit, 'Quarmee looked over it with a critical eye. "You ask for many things, warrior. Carbines, beam rifles, Spectres... the list goes on, and then you ask for the ability to remove soldiers from my command and transfer them to 'Vadumee's control?"

The Operative nodded. "We have armor enough for several more lances, and 'Vadumee has split up most of the intact units to act as instructors. As for the equipment, we are severely lacking in these things, as they are..."

"Deployed against the humans on Reach," 'Quarmee finished. He sighed, set the Lumidex aside, and steepled his fingers on the desk. "I'm afraid I have disappointing news for you, warrior. There are not many regular Infantry soldiers in this fleet, as we are largely an Inquisitorial force and none of the Inquisitors can be conscripted. Your warriors will have to come from Particular Justice, instead. In addition, we have none of the equipment or vehicles you ask for."

At this, the Operative looked dubious. "None of it?"

Picking up the Lumidex, 'Quarmee began going down the list. "Carbines and beam rifles are infantry weapons, and as I said, Burning Judgment in an Inquisitor fleet. We limit ourselves to plasma rifles and pistols for their lighter weight. And why would we carry Fuel Rod Guns if our objective is to study, not destroy? Sniper towers are also on that list, though we do have a few but they are currently deployed. In addition, the Needler rifle variant was deemed unnecessary, as the pistol version works just as well."

He scrolled on. "Gravity pitons, empowered batteries for simultaneous shielding and camouflage, atmospherically sealed helmets? These are Special Operations equipment, and we do not carry them. For vehicles we have Ghosts and Shadows, though the local terrain prevents the troop transports from being at all effective. We do not have Spectres; we do not even have Chimeras. And Phantoms? Before we left on this mission, even the conversion of the civilian model was not yet available." He slid the Lumidex towards the Operative. "It is my understanding that the Fleet of Particular Justice has several fully stocked armories and vehicle depots. Have you ever considered asking your own people for the materials you seek?"

Clearly the black-armored Elite was agitated, but 'Quarmee maintained his pressing stare. "We queried our own stores before coming to you, Field Commander," the Operative began, "and we are as lacking as you. The vehicle depots contain only Ghosts, Wraiths, and Banshees; the fleet did not take on troop vehicles as it did not expect this sort of action. Most of the ships with Special Operations equipment remained behind." He took a deep breath. "And though you do not have a dedicated infantry unit under your command at this time, you are in charge of all infantry in this sector."

"When a ranking Field Master is absent, yes."

"Therefore I must at least demand you allow me to observe the infantry and choose who among them to train for Special Operations."

'Quarmee thought about it for a moment. They were not truly his soldiers, so why should he care? The quick answer was that he didn't. "Very well. Do as you wish, warrior, but do not trouble again to ask for this equipment. I do not have it, nor does any other Zealot."

The Operative bowed and retrieved his Lumidex. As he turned to leave, however, there was an urgent beeping from the desk. Overcome with curiosity, the dark Sangheili remained while 'Quarmee silenced the alarm and examined the priority message that had just been transmitted over the Battle Net. When he read it, he involuntarily and loudly sucked in air between his mandibles.

"By the Prophets," he hissed.

//

The Spirit dropship sailed silently through the night air. Within, Oriné and his comrades looked out of the slots at the dark landscape, illuminated faintly by the light of the gas giant's moon. However, when the craft banked for a turn, Oriné could see the retreating form of Halo and the illuminated part of the ring up ahead; he figured some of the light was generated by that reflection.

Rurut the Grunt was in the troop slot next to his. Oriné glanced over and saw him fidgeting uncomfortably. The Sangheili reached over and tapped the metal above the Unggoy's head, making him twitch suddenly and look at his superior.

"Is something wrong?" Oriné asked. "Do the magnets hold you too tight?"

"Thank you for your concern, Excellency, I am unworthy," the small alien replied. "I merely... have a feeling, that's all."

"A feeling?"

"Yes," Rurut replied, eyes focused on the inner hull. "I feel that something horrible is going to happen very soon... or perhaps already has."

Before Oriné could query further, a chime sounded in his helmet. Reaching up a hand to key in, he realized it was a broadcast across the entire ship. "Warriors," said the pilot, "we will be forced to adjust our course and land on the ground near the Truth and Reconciliation."

There was silence as Oriné waited for his commanding officer to respond, but with a start he realized he was the ranking Sangheili present. Clearing his throat he touched his radio. "For what reason?"

"The ship has been attacked by the humans. Information is very panicked and poorly sorted, but from the sound of it they were able to cause immense damage to the hangar bays." The pilot paused. "An approach vector taking us down near the gravity lift has been approved. Standby for deployment."

It was several minutes before the ship touched down. When the doors opened, Oriné and his lance jumped out, weapons held at the ready. There was no telling what might have been waiting for them, but when their eyes settled on the scene around them they realized they had expected everything but this.

Everywhere there was blood. Having been on several battlefields, Oriné expected no less; but here, beneath the belly of one of the Covenant's own cruisers, it was extensive. Spotlights illuminated pools of violet, the lifeblood of Sangheili warriors, trickling down inclines and soaking into the dirt. He fought hard against the image of such liquid nourishing insects and plant-life, but couldn't force the picture from his mind. Even then the gore of his species was not the most prevalent: iridescent blue blood seemed to smear every rock and tree, spattered across walls and equipment with abandon. Dark purple blood of the Kig-Yar, differentiated from the Sangheili by smell alone, mixed with its caste equal indiscriminately. And, much to the Elite Minor's surprise, around the base of the gravity lift was the unmistakable orange blood of Lekgolo, the Covenant's mighty Hunters.

But only here and there was the distinctive crimson blood of humans.

All around, soldiers had apparently been tasked with cleanup. Jackals and Grunts heaped bodies together with little care for dignity or honor. Most species were clumped together, but a separate pile had been set aside for Elites; beyond that, there was no special care involved. Yarna growled and moved to berate a nearby Kig-Yar worker for his lack of respect, but Oriné caught his eye and shook his head. There were more important things to focus on.

As they descended the slope towards the gravity lift, the unit caught sight of something unprecedented: a team of Unggoy was struggling to move a deceased pair of Hunters. The massive creatures in blue armor were, in truth, conglomerations of eel-like worms called Lekgolo that shared neural pathways and could build themselves into whatever form was needed for the Covenant. The only two forms Oriné had ever experienced were the Hunter and Scarab gestalts, both expertly suited for combat, but he had been told others existed on the Lekgolo home world Te. As some Grunts tried to deconstruct the armor, others used small prods to deliver mild electric shocks to the expired worms, forcing them to slide apart.

Once they reached the lift, they were stopped by a flippant Unggoy in silver armor. He spoke without honorifics, and at first Oriné was vexed: Grunts were little more than slaves and cannon fodder in the Covenant, and though he disliked titles he knew their purpose was to promote the proper respect among the ranks.

But the silver armor made any lecture he could give die in his throat. This was a Grunt Ultra, an Operative of the Prophet Blessed. Oriné technically outclassed him socially, but as far as rank went he had to comply.

"Are you part of the work force?" The Unggoy sniffled behind his breather.

"No," Oriné said. "We are infantry, from Particular Justice. We were transferred here to begin an assignment guarding Inquisitors."

The small alien consulted a Lumidex in his hand. "What sector?"

"Our last location was Outpost Eleven-Four."

"You were under Field Commander 'Quarmee, then," the Unggoy muttered before turning his eyes up to Oriné again. "Your orders have been countermanded. Under the authority of the Ship Commander, you and your lance are to join other infantry units in conducting a section-by-section search of the cruiser, looking for any humans or traps still aboard."

"The Ship Commander? What of the Ship Master?"

"He was killed in the attack."

The rest of Oriné's lance fell into file, preparing to ascend the gravity lift. Oriné hesitated for a moment. "How did this attack come to happen?"

"We are still investigating," the Unggoy said, "but so far it appears that the humans' objective was to rescue their Ship Master, whom we captured shortly after their ship crashed on the ring."

The Elite Minor glanced around. "Humans did all this?"

A dangerous glint appeared in the Grunt Ultra's eyes. "They had a Demon with them."

//

The news of the assault against the Truth and Reconciliation spread through the fleet like wildfire. That the humans had been able to recover from their impromptu landing and then attack a well-defended Covenant cruiser with minimal loss of life would have been amazing enough, but the fact that these two events had happened within a day was enough to throw most of the higher echelons of command into an uproar.

As Operative Ionill 'Ongyomee walked the corridors and surveyed the damage caused by the humans, he wondered just how badly the Covenant had underestimated them, and once again he wished that he had better equipment and more Special Operations personnel to utilize.

Corridors torn apart by plasma, bullets, and explosions spoke volumes of the brutal style of the infantry, the lack of finesse they used. Had better weapons been available, he thought, the collateral damage could have been reduced. For example, the Carbine was deadly accurate and powerful without leaving the unsightly burns that now criss-crossed the hallway. However, the few Carbines available to the fleet had all been requisitioned by the Lesser Prophet's Honor Guard, stating that exact reason as to why they required them to protect the Holy One.

Ionill stopped to admire a series of ragged Needler punctures in the wall before continuing on his way.

Commander 'Vadumee had radioed the Operative just a few moments after the bulletin went out about the Reconciliation. The Elite Ultra assigned Ionill to the ship in order to oversee the security sweep and use it as a base of operations for training the new Special Operations units. Other Operatives had been sent here as well; it was clear the surviving crew was uncomfortable with so many of the Prophet Blessed walking around. They were renowned for their fanaticism and devotion to duty, something that made the Kig-Yar flinch whenever 'Ongyomee happened to pass by. Such things gave him a small, guilty amount of satisfaction.

His quarters were only a short walk from his current location, and when he arrived at the door he found it unlocked and the bed and desk already prepared. Much like Commander 'Quarmee's desk, the entire surface was a Lumidex, and Ionill found his mission details already uploaded and blinking, awaiting his confirmation. He bade the door close and lock, and then regarded the missive in secrecy.

The Inquisitorial forces already present had made significant headway in their short time on the ring and had narrowed down the surface into several areas of interest, possibly pertaining to the control room where the Great Journey could begin. Knowing their prowess and efficiency, the Prophet decreed that Special Operations teams be dispatched to each location to assess them and secure any information that could lead to Halo's activation.

Unfortunately, that had been the only wise thing decreed by His Holiness so far. His next action had been to break up most of the handful of already existing Special Operations units so that those Operatives could act as instructors; his reasoning had been that little combat would require their attention, so only a few units needed to be left intact. The corollary of this was that, as the tasks did not require combat, the Special Operations units to be formed from the regular infantry didn't need the same exhaustive training regime as most Operatives.

The Prophet was somehow under the illusion that with only a few days' training and new black armor, standard troops could suddenly become hardened Operatives. Ionill recalled with mixed feelings of nostalgia and revulsion his own education at a war college: weeks spent in the field, learning the art of disappearing, the difficulty of suppressing the values of honor that had been instilled in him since birth. He remembered with unnecessary clarity the torture training, when he was held in place by crude but strong bonds and tested for his endurance, then pushed beyond the limit. His instructors would starve him, beat him, force him to run obstacle courses while flawlessly reciting word-for-word the Divinidex. Live-fire combat training was standard, and the accidents therein were considered learning experiences. By the end, he knew exactly how long his shields, his armor, his flesh would last under sustained fire from all known weapons, and he knew by heart where each piece of equipment was on his combat harness, and where any piece of equipment he didn't have standard would go when he used it. He had suffered from so much anxiety and stress while training that, when it came time for his first mission and real humans were shooting at him, the experience was almost enjoyable.

Somehow the Prophet expected him to be able to instill those experiences into a group of newcomers in only a few days. It was an impossible task. Every few moments Ionill found himself hoping that an Inquisitor out in the field would just find the "Deify All" button and push it, ending this torment.

Settling himself in a chair provided to him, the Operative began cycling through the exhaustive list of infantry candidates. No one had seen fit to run a standard screening process, so he (and all the other recruiters) faced the entire catalog of troops in the fleet. As he worked he kept a text-only Battle Net channel open to the other Operatives engaged in this task, swapping notes and names as each reviewed the cases available.

After several hours of work, mind-numbing evaluation sometimes punctuated by bitter quips with peers and the occasional refreshment brought to him by a Grunt, Ionill had sifted through hundreds of service dossiers of Sangheili and Unggoy; Kig-Yar he had discounted immediately for being too bloodthirsty to be effective, and Lekgolo for obvious reasons. He marked the names of those he thought could fit well into the service for follow-up evaluation; later, he and the other recruiters would meet and discuss their potential candidates, deciding who among their lists of qualified warriors would be further screened.

He was close to finishing when he came upon one of the remaining Sangheili he hadn't yet decided on: Oriné 'Fulsamee. Quickly scanning over the Elite Minor's achievement record, he noticed that the young Sangheili had been on the front for a few years already without any rumblings of promotion, and thus almost dismissed him immediately. Just before sending the name into the "Unfit for Service" group, however, he caught sight of the marks of honor the warrior had earned and stayed his hand.

Young 'Fulsamee, it seemed, had earned a high honor marking within his first month of service, one equated with saving the life of someone vastly superior in rank to himself. Apparently the rescued party, a Zealot-level commander, had recommended 'Fulsamee for advancement to Elite Major the next day, but it had been silenced quickly by a communication sent from the Head Master of Institution, the deep-space war college open only to Sangheili who were considered of high quality.

Now Ionill was intrigued. He opened the full dossier of 'Fulsamee's career and found himself immersed in a story of disappointment, heresy, and passion. Aside from being sentenced to gulag duty following his affair with the Head Master's daughter, 'Fulsamee had apparently distinguished himself in combat on three separate worlds. Another movement for advancement, this time pushed by Major Olah 'Seroumee, was again stopped dead in its tracks when 'Fulsamee's twin sister was found guilty of heresy and the Lineage lost its honor. Oriné had spent the last few years fighting on several fronts with only one shore leave to speak of.

So motivated to restore his family's honor that he disregards personal advancement to gain it back? The Operative was shocked. Such behavior was rare in the infantry. The list of combat merits the young warrior's peers had filed was quite long, many times citing Resolute Unit's victory having hinged on his performance. And yet one Major Tokla 'Gerrolee hadn't mentioned a word of it to his superiors. It is warriors such as that who prevent the ascension of those truly worthy.

'Fulsamee seemed an obvious choice. After a quick exchange of comments, Ionill learned that of the Operatives currently reviewing data, only four had bothered to look into the Elite Minor's history, but all of those who did had approved the warrior.

Now he need only be tested.