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Chapter 3: Special Operations

The night was long for Oriné 'Fulsamee and the rest of his unit. Deck by deck they scoured the entire cruiser, looking for any sign of human treachery: bombs, mines, traps, anything. A few times an alert had gone out and all nearby warriors had ceased their search and rushed to aid another unit, but each time was a false occurrence, after which they had to find their way back to where they were and begin again the mind-numbing investigation.

Dawn found the end of the search, revealing that there were no human remnants left behind, nor traps laid for unsuspecting warriors, nor sinister sabotage of vital systems. Oriné tried not to think of all the time wasted going from room to room for nearly a hundred decks, instead focusing on the positive. Because of the general chaos surrounding the infiltration the Elite Minor had managed to seize a bunk for himself and Yarna, as well as reserve space in a methane dormitories for his Unggoy. Once dismissed from their searching duties, Oriné and Yarna settled into their bunks in a room shared with several other Sangheili.

"So tedious," Yarna groaned, laying back in the gel supports.

"And all for nothing." Oriné was already down, helmet and mandible guards removed and stowed. So long as the ship remained on active alert all warriors were required to sleep in their armor so that the instant the ship came under attack again the defenders would be ready in seconds as opposed to minutes. And the Ship Commander had made it clear that after this incursion he had no intention of stepping down the alert level.

But what's the point? Oriné thought to himself as he sank his unarmored head into the comforting pads near his head. If the Demon is with them, then we are all doomed to death. Few Sangheili had ever crossed paths with a Demon and lived; only six had ever managed to kill one with confirmation, and each had been promoted away from the battlefield. When asked, though they boasted highly of their own skill, they had all admitted to a great deal of luck, either in numbers or circumstance.

These thoughts led Oriné off into a light slumber, but it was too soon when he was awakened. An Unggoy, not of his unit, was shaking his arm. "Excellency," he said quietly, clearly not wanting to wake Yarna, "the commander wishes to speak with you."

"Who?" The Elite Minor cleared his bleary eyes and looked again, this time taking note that the Grunt was dressed in black Special Operations armor. Grumbling an affirmative, he stood and fastened his helmet and mandibles guards back on his harness. "Lead the way."

//

Esam 'Mijumee disliked Spirits intensely. He was confined to a small compartment while in flight, and there was not enough room for his equipment. The only thing he carried with him was his pistol on one hip and his Lumidex on the other; everything else was on a different dropship.

He gazed out the viewing slot, bored beyond comprehension. He had heard a new, roomier model of dropship called a Phantom was already in use on the front lines. If only they had been able to resupply before finding Halo...

The ship rocked as it hit an air pocket, jostling the Inquisitor in his cell. He growled his discontent, but there was no response. None of the others were feeling particularly talkative, themselves having also been pulled from their work for this reassignment. Everything had been going according to plan until the Fleet of Particular Justice had happened on them, and now their carefully plotted timetable had been cast into disarray. The newly arrived Prophet wanted to know everything and soon, so he could cast himself in a fine light to the Hierarchs, perhaps even gain advancement.

Blasphemy touched his mind, but Esam cast it off. Though he worshipped the Forerunners and understood the importance of the Prophets, the greed and short-sightedness they often exhibited was by far too corporeal for him to respect it.

At least this new fleet contains no Jiralhanae, he thought, taking the edge off his anger. If there had been an accompanying force, there would be much more dire consequences. The Zealots thought they had fooled the Inquisitors, but in truth no one knew the situation better than they. The Council wanted leverage against the rising Brute tide, something to cement their position and keep them from being replaced. At one time such substitution would have been impossible even to think of, but the favoritism of the High Prophet of Truth for the Jiralhanae was hard to ignore.

Esam was just a tool of politics that were far above his station and trillions of miles away. He grew anxious thinking about his mate, carrying their egg with his unborn son, trapped on High Charity where assassinations, political revenge, and hate-motivated killings were becoming increasingly common.

He hoped they would be all right.

"Prepare for landing," said the Overseer over the Battle Net. Esam heard the infantry accompanying them preparing their weapons; he only placed his hand on the plasma pistol at his side.

Moments later the doors opened, and the Inquisitor Minor allowed the infantry to disembark first, sweeping the thick, swampy forest with their weapons. When it seemed clear, he stepped down and found himself ankle-deep in dark, opaque water.

He looked around. The morning sun poked through the trees, casting columns of light across the forest floor. It was a very wet climate, though, and even with the sunlight it felt oppressively damp. Fortunately, according to the Overseer's briefing, their work was to be done inside a nearby structure, so Esam wouldn't have to suffer the elements; Forerunner spaces tended to be very climate-friendly, though cooler than any Sangheili preferred.

The Spirit lifted off behind him, making room in the small landing zone for the other dropships. Next to come down was the vessel carrying Overseer 'Oegulee, other Inquisitors, and some of the equipment. "Begin transporting the devices inside," ordered the Inquisitor Major. "There is an incoming weather system we should be mindful of. It should not arrive until tomorrow, but we must take care."

A few of the Grunts that had come with the infantry were requisitioned to help carry, but largely the Inquisitors did the work. It was a short distance to the site, but the crates seemed extra heavy, so the work was strenuous. As he went, Esam thought about the incoming storm. It was incredible to him that the Forerunners were able to create something so perfect that mimicked the natural order of the universe. Nothing was ever static, everything always moved through a cycle. Halo, its ring shape forever rotating in the cosmos, was the ultimate microcosm of the rest of existence. That they made this was all the evidence Esam ever needed of their divinity, and of the virtue of following the path they had laid with their feet.

By the time they reached the site, many of the Inquisitors were breathing heavily and sagging under the weight in their arms, including Esam. It didn't make sense: he had carried even the heaviest equipment crates with more ease than this. All of the Inquisitors were fully trained Elites, and had hauled their own devices back and forth across many worlds. Why was it so difficult this time?

The Overseer, walking ahead, guided them down the slanted walkway towards a large hole in the floor. He manipulated a nearby set of holographic controls, and a moment later a large elevator platform rose to the surface.

"Everyone get on board," he said in his gravelly tones that brooked no resistance. "Our area of study is deep below the surface."

Such a thing was not unusual. Many Forerunner artifacts were located below ground, buried in sacred temples or shrines. Gladly relieving himself of the burden, Esam chose to spend the ride down checking his Lumidex for the mission data. According to the file that had been uploaded to the local Battle Net, this had been one of the hotspots highlighted by their original surveys as a possible point of interest. They had been able to track massive power systems in this area and traced their output to this structure, though what the purpose was of such systems went far over their heads. This would be one of their objectives: to identify the drain and see if it was a beacon on the road to the Great Journey.

The lift came to a stop, and 'Oegulee ordered everyone carry their equipment off and set it aside. Barely managing to drag his crate to the wall, Esam was overcome with curiosity. What made these crates so unwieldy? Glancing over his shoulder to see who was watching, he tapped in the code to open the container. The top slid off, and the Inquisitor stared in shock.

Plasma rifles, Needlers, grenades, and battery packs filled the crate. Some of the Inquisitorial equipment was inside, but it had been pushed to the side and rearranged to make room for weapons.

"By the Prophets," he swore.

"Inquisitor 'Mijumee!"

Esam looked up. The Overseer was stalking over, a murderous look in his eye, but the Inquisitor Minor had no intention of backing down. Still, a chill passed over his spine. "Overseer, what is the meaning of this?" he asked as 'Oegulee came to a stop inches from his face. "We are trying to conduct our research and you—"

"I am following orders from the highest authority," said 'Oegulee.

"But weapons? What would Commander 'Quarmee want with weapons being stored here?"

The Overseer backhanded him roughly, making Esam stagger under the blow. "How dare you speak the name of a superior! He is levels beyond your station, and you will show him proper respect!" The glint in his eyes showed he wished to strike again, but instead he drew himself up to his normal height. "The Field Commander is superseded in this situation. In light of the human attack on the Truth and Reconciliation, His Holiness has declared all units are to be adequately armed in case of ambush. The Supreme Commander has also expressed his wish that every site of interest to the Covenant, as well as possible targets of human raids, are to be properly reinforced. More infantry will arrive soon, and I have assurances that they will not interfere with our work." As he spoke, others had gathered around to listen in on the ad hoc announcement. It had not been part of the regular briefing. Now the Overseer turned to regard them all. "There is more to be brought down before we may begin. Back to the lift."

The group departed and Esam fell in line, still rubbing the side of his head where the Overseer had struck him. Esli 'Sarodee slipped into place beside him, giving him a worried look. Esam just shook it off.

//

Ionill 'Ongyomee waited in his makeshift office, standing behind his desk. He monitored the hallway from his desk via the camera installed at the door. When he saw the Grunt approach, before the small creature could even touch the chime, he bade it open. He waited until his guest had stepped into the room before turning to the Unggoy. "You may leave."

The Grunt bowed and saluted, leaving the soldier standing at attention. Ionill looked him over, arms clasped behind his back. The Elite Minor was young, but not too young; a lack of visible scars kept him from looking grizzled, but it was clear from the set of his mandibles and the dark skin under his brown eyes that he was mature, in his prime.

Good, Ionill thought. Special Operations has little need of naïve recruits fresh from war college. He made a show of looking down at his desk, even though he already had the warrior's information memorized.

"Oriné 'Fulsamee," he began, not yet looking up. "Your information states that you were born on Sanghelios, Lomak district of the capital, son of Ship Commander Orita 'Fulsamee. You were part of a successful junto on Jisako, attended Institution as your war college—a family tradition, it seems—and commenced with high honors." His eyes flashed up, catching the warrior's eyes. He did not break contact. Good. "This is true so far?"

The Minor gave a small nod. "Yes, Excellency."

"Your record becomes inconsistent from there, warrior," continued Ionill, this time not looking at the desk. "You were disciplined and condemned to serve on the Devil's Gulag station; officially, you were said to be a poor example of a front line soldier and good only for guarding broken prisoners and weapon stores, an assessment that does not match your moderately high combat rating and exemplary Proof scores. There is more to that story, I'm sure I hardly need remind you.

"But you defied your fate, saved a highly superior officer from certain death, and earned your first honor marking and your rightful passage out of that hell. From there you fought on three worlds, including Pearl, one of the fiercest and bloodiest encounters we faced against these heretics. You survived the death of your entire squad and went on to lead a lance with one of the lowest casualty rates in your Legion. You were recommended for advancement by your Major, but just when the hearing would have begun your sister suffered her own untimely fate, and you were once again put through hell.

"After that, there is nothing but good reports filed by your peers on your valor and honor in combat, but each report was intercepted and twisted by Major 'Gerrolee for his own ends." He finished, not taking his eyes off 'Fulsamee, gauging his reactions. An almost imperceptible twitch around the eyes, but other than that he remained stock still. He has practiced to not show weakness in front of superiors, or probably anybody, for that matter.

Oriné lowered his head slightly, but did not take his eyes off Ionill's. "An accurate report, Excellency."

"It does not bother you that you should be a Zealot by now, or at least a Major, with an illustrious career to match your father or even your brother? That you were robbed of your rightful place as a leader of armies instead of Grunts? Had you not suffered under the fist of passion, circumstance, and greed, I would be calling you 'Excellency,' and not the other way around."

It took the Elite Minor a moment to respond. He thinks this is a test. In fact, Ionill had spoken with more frankness than he had meant.

"I do my duty to the Covenant," Oriné began cautiously, "and to my superiors. I am their tool to do with as they wish. Had my usefulness extended to advancement, I would be honored, but my usefulness is on the battlefield, and in that I am also honored."

"The exemplary tool response," Ionill huffed. "You taught yourself to read and understand the human language through human interrogation, and you have avoided serious wounding on the battlefield. They say scars are the sign of an honorable warrior. That may be, but I believe a lack of scars are the sign of a prudent one." He tightened his grip behind him.

It was clear 'Fulsamee didn't know how to respond. "Thank you for your kindness, Excellency."

"Don't." In a smooth motion, Ionill leveled the plasma pistol at the young warrior. He exaggerated his movement slightly—no reason to expect 'Fulsamee to have Operative-level reflexes yet. Also, he made sure to aim the pistol a few degrees higher than the head; if the Minor failed this test, at least he would continue to live and be a fine infantry soldier. Not everyone was cut out for Special Operations.

But 'Fulsamee did not disappoint. As Ionill fired, the warrior ducked his head and stepped into the Operative's arm, his own hand going to the weapon at his side. The Minor's claw swiped the pistol from Ionill's grip, and once he was disarmed, Oriné had the barrel of his own pistol placed right in front of the black-clad Sangheili's face.

A tense moment passed, both warriors frozen in place.

"Hmm," Ionill finally said. "You did not fire. No matter. I'm sure I can rid you of your hesitation during training."

'Fulsamee took a step back, lowering his weapon slightly. "Excellency?"

"I had the Grunt remove the power cell from your pistol before he woke you." Ionill took the weapon out of 'Fulsamee's hand and put it on the desk. "I am approving you for Special Operations training. Once I clear it with Commander 'Vadumee, you will be transferred into my unit and given a rapid training regimen to prepare you for your duty as a Prophet Blessed."

The Minor cocked his head. "You are offering me the chance to become an Operative?"

"I apologize if I am not being clear enough," said Ionill, putting the edge in his voice again. "You have been selected for the Prophet Blessed, Candidate 'Fulsamee. It is not an option. The Supreme Commander of the Fleet of Particular Justice and the Prophet in his company have decreed that we are to train additional Operatives to unlock the mysteries of Halo. I have selected you as part of the unit I will train, and you will report to me tomorrow at the first bell of the first shift in the gravity lift antechamber. Your training will commence then."

'Fulsamee seemed dumbstruck, but he managed a salute. "I will not let you down, Excellency."

"See that you do not. You have an excellent service record, 'Fulsamee." He nodded. "Dismissed."

Oriné turned to leave, but just as he was in the doorway, Ionill remembered something. "Wait a moment." The Minor turned back. "I have already selected your friend, 'Orgalmee, to be part of this unit as well. He's meeting with another Operative as we speak. But I am short on Grunt candidates; do you happen to know any who might work well? No need for exceptional brightness, just modest skill."

He stood for a moment, thinking. "I believe I do, Excellency," he said at last. "There was an Unggoy transferred into my lance just before we arrived here, by the name of Rurut. I have not known him long, but he seems a capable and hard worker. He does well under stress and does not panic easily."

"He sounds perfect. I shall add his name to the roster." Ionill sat down. "You may leave now. Go with the gods, 'Fulsamee."

"You as well, Excellency." 'Fulsamee walked out into the hallway and the door slid closed. Ionill sat for a while longer, ruminating on his decision, before he picked up the plasma pistol he had taken from Oriné. Curious, he pointed it at the wall and squeezed the trigger. The weapon bucked and fired a bolt of green energy into the wall. He nearly dropped it in alarm, looking first at the gun and then at the neat burn across the room. Checking the camera, he summoned the Grunt outside back in.

"I told you to remove the power cell before you woke him," Ionill said.

The Unggoy shrugged. "He was sleeping on that side. I couldn't."

Ionill glared at the diminutive form before sitting back in his chair and putting the pistol back on the desk. "Be gone," he growled, preparing to transmit a hologram to the Seeker of Truth. The Grunt turned and casually walked out as if nothing had happened.

Ionill watched him leave, then stood and prepared to make his report.

//

After the weapons were all stored, the Inquisitors were finally able to begin their work. Esam and a small team of Inquisitors followed two infantry lances as they made their way through the geometric corridors and rooms of the structure. The inclusion of the regular army seemed redundant, as Inquisitors were meant to be able to alternate between scholar and soldier whenever necessary. Besides, he had never encountered anyone or anything hostile in a ruin, aside from humans, but such was an impossible occurrence.

The infantry seemed to think so too. They trudged along without even bothering to keep their weapons up, the Grunts chatting idly in their own tongue and their Elite supervisors lax, simply walking. Esam couldn't blame them.

The structure was big, so the Inquisitors had been split up into smaller groups. Esli had gone to a different sector, but Esam was hardly bothered. The prospect of discovering new secrets and aspects of the Forerunners overrode any feeling of longing.

Up ahead, the infantry slowed. "Locked door," they called back. At the summons, one of the Inquisitors proficient with locks moved forward and began deactivating the mechanism keeping the door shut. Moments later, the strobing lights on either side of the door changed from a harsh red to pale green and access was granted.

Inside was a vault: a multi-tiered chamber with walkways across the upper levels leading to a central tank. The tank itself was empty, but it looked strong enough to hold a Hunter in full rage. Doors were located on every level, all indicating that they were locked. It was becoming a hindrance to the exploratory party: they had never seen an installation with so many active security protocols.

But what captured Esam's attention and took his breath away were the markings: large, luminescent glyphs, clear and certain, imposed above every doorway. Much of the Forerunners' writings were subtly inscribed onto surfaces or buried in holograms requiring days of analysis; these were blatant and simple, straightforward in presentation and meaning.

They all said the same thing: warning.

One of the Inquisitors looked at him. "What do they mean?"

Esam glanced at him but quickly looked back at the markings. "It advises caution."

"We know that," grunted another, "but you are well versed in understanding the nuances of glyphs. What kind of warning is it?"

Esam couldn't say. It was incredibly basic: no deviations to the standard script, no added serifs to slide meaning this way or that. The warning was nonspecific as far as reasons went, simply telling those about to enter this doorway to either turn back or understand the consequences of continuing. But the longer he looked at it, the more he thought of the symbol he had translated the night before, the one he had tagged as "parasite."

The team recorded the symbols, as well as marking the general layout of the room, before moving on. As they proceeded through a marked door, Esam felt something unfamiliar stirring inside himself. He understood the normal emotions that followed entering a new, unexplored area: anxiety and anticipation. But now a certain amount of fear had been introduced to the mix and was growing steadily.

For the first time in his life, Esam wasn't sure if he wanted to go on.

//

The first bell of the first shift came, and Oriné 'Fulsamee strode into the Truth and Reconciliation's gravity lift antechamber at the exact moment. He was clad in his stiff new armor, black in color. It was supremely uncomfortable.

Inside stood the Operative from before, as well as several others: one was instantly recognizable as Yarna, and another was Rurut; however, there were two other Unggoy that he didn't know. Nodding his greeting to the senior Operative, Oriné took his place in the line-up and straightened.

"We are all assembled," said the Operative. "My name is Ionill 'Ongyomee, and I will be the senior officer of this unit. You may notice that we are much smaller than the average Special Operations unit, but understand that it was the decision of the Prophet that we make use of many smaller teams rather than fewer large ones, to better accomplish our goals.

"Amidst the ranks of the Prophet Blessed are different protocols," he continued, beginning to pace. "Where once you were divided by rank and caste, you are now united in service to the Hierarchs. The armor which you now wear elevates you above all others and places you in your own station. Should I find that you still adhere to the old ways of social class, discipline will be quick and brutal.

"Warriors, speak your names."

At the end of the line, Oriné became somewhat flustered. "Elite Minor Oriné 'Fulsamee." The senior officer was silent, which the rest took as reason to continue:

"Elite Minor Yarna 'Orgalmee."

"Grunt Minor Rurut."

"Grunt Major Ononn."

"Grunt Major Ofoff."

"Grunt Minor Gagaw."

When they were finished, Ionill scowled. "I shall see it will take extra effort for you to understand your new assignments. When I said you were in your own station, I meant that you are in your own station!" Though they tried to remain as stoic as possible, the assembly present couldn't help but flinch. "You are no longer Majors or Minors, no longer Elites or Grunts! You are Operatives, serving the Prophets and the Covenant without question and with total discipline!"

"Yes, Excellency!" All of them spoke at the same time.

The senior officer nodded. "I do not know how long I have to train you, but I cannot assume it will be a worthy amount of time. We may be deployed at any moment, and when it happens you will be expected to perform your duties flawlessly." He paused. "There are other new Special Operations units being trained here as well, and all have been granted access to the space below the ship for exercises. We shall join them." Together the unit stepped onto the lift-pad, and 'Ongyomee keyed the holographic control panel. Beneath them the black disc slid away and they descended, gently but with haste, to the ground below.

//

Ignil 'Quarmee still did not understand Halo. His own ignorance had never been more apparent to him now as he rode a Spirit dropship through a snowstorm. He stared out the viewing slot, captivated by eddies and whorls visible in the clouds beyond. Why had the Forerunners, divine as they were, elected to create inclement weather on what should have been a perfectly climate-controlled installation? He had seen many such places, being attached to an Inquisitor fleet, and with the exception of this sacred ring they had all been tailored to a specific and uniform climate—a touch colder than most Sangheili cared for, but still comfortable.

Was he was truly curious about these things, or was he perhaps simply trying to distract himself from the reason for this particular journey? Somewhere below in a system of steep valleys waited Field Master Noga 'Putumee, of the Fleet of Particular Justice. Ignil grimaced as a reflex: 'Putumee had a reputation in the Covenant Armada. Certainly, his leadership skills were desirable and he always fought with bravery, but he was also known to be extremely confrontational and paranoid. In his previous campaign, the Field Master was rumored to have knowingly glassed a planet containing a reliquary of Forerunner artifacts, fearing that there was some unknowable taint to the world.

And ever since the Fleet of Particular Justice's arrival in this system, he had become 'Quarmee's commanding officer. It had been fine for him, as the Field Master had never requested an actual meeting, content to relay his commands over the Battle Net.

Until now.

The dropship's intercom crackled. "We will be landing momentarily, Excellency," said the pilot.

Anticipating the cold, Ignil dialed his armor's insulation up to maximum. Through the thick snowfall, he barely caught sight of a land-bridge as the Spirit rotated, bringing his side about to face a scattering of lights that seemed to ascend an unseen cliff face.

Finally the Spirit settled to the ground, and the troop compartments fell open. Ignil stepped out, mindful of the slick inner-doors, and found himself in snow up to his mid-calf. The wind howled about him, pelting his exposed and vulnerable face with large flakes of ice. He activated his shields, which stopped the physical projectiles but did nothing to abate the frigid air.

A shape marched out to meet him, and he soon took note of the crimson armor color. As the Sangheili came closer, he made out the markings of an Elite Major—not an Inquisitor Major as he had become accustomed to seeing over the past few weeks.

"Excellency," the aide said, saluting as he came to a stop. "The Field Master waits, if you will follow me." Ignil nodded his assent and fell into step behind the warrior. Given the treacherous depth of the snowfall, he was careful to step in the Major's existing hoofprints.

They got closer to the source of the lights, and finally the Field Commander realized why they seemed to go so high: the source was a ziggurat jutting from the valley wall. The massive stepped structure loomed high, some upper constructions glowing ethereally, while other pinpoints of light were caused by smaller devices set up by the Covenant. A work party of Unggoy marched past, carrying beacon lights further out into the storm.

"The Unggoy thrive here, Excellency," said the Major. He had to shout for Ignil to hear him. "As their native climate is particularly frigid, they find a sense of enjoyment working in the storm. The Field Master has decreed that they are to continue their labors while the Kig-Yar crews rest."

It was only a moment longer before they began to ascend a gentle slope at the base of the ziggurat. Here and there were Sangheili sentries, posted at corners and inside small tunnels. There were a handful of Ghosts, deactivated and sitting on the slope, their pilots idling nearby.

Ignil tapped the Major's shoulder. "Why are they not on patrol?"

"The Field Master has recalled all patrols for the duration of the storm. It is just as well: this structure is nestled in a box canyon. The only way for the humans to reach us is to either attempt a landing in here, where they will be shot down by our cannons on the bridge, or fight their way through the myriad tunnels that lead here, which are filled with our troops."

While both options sounded suicidal, the Field Commander thought that the brazen humans might try either one of those approaches. He wondered if the forces stationed here were truly prepared for such an attack.

Progress up the ziggurat was slow. To ascend, they had to march up a ramp on one side, make their way along a walkway to the other, go up another ramp, cross again, and repeat. If anything, Ignil thought as he crested the final slope, such a construction will frustrate the humans and make it easier to defend.

They stood on an open deck, the wind whistling across with renewed force. 'Quarmee struggled to keep his composure as they made their way to a final raised platform. They passed several miserable-looking Sangheili, their armors a mixture between regular infantry and Inquisitor Corps. It was strange to see so many infantry, when for so long he had been accustomed only to the sight of the more intellectual branch of the Covenant army.

On the final platform there was a tower which led further up and a large door, two burning amber lights indicative of the Forerunners' complicated and sturdy lock system. Several Inquisitors worked on a holographic panel while others, scattered about, were digging through the surrounding cliff-face with small-bore lasers, searching for an alternative route.

"The Field Master awaits in the tower, Excellency," said the Major.

Ignil stepped onto the tower's first ramp, and suddenly the howling wind stopped. He turned around, surprised, and saw the snow still flying by. There must have been an invisible force-field, he surmised, keeping the inside of this tower at a more acceptable climate level, though still slightly too cool for his tastes.

He ascended slowly, returning the insulation of his harness to normal. On one of the platforms overlooking the doorway he found the Field Master.

"Greetings," grumbled 'Putumee.

The Field Commander nodded his own salutation. "What is this place?"

"The Inquisitors believe it to be Halo's control room."

"Is it?"

'Putumee shrugged. "It's impossible to tell. This door has prevented further exploration, and given our experience with other such installations, they think there will be another door beyond, sealed even tighter than this one." He clicked his mandibles. "Such is the duty of the Inquisitors, I suppose."

There was a moment of silence. "I heard about your failed attack on the humans," Ignil finally said.

The Field Master inhaled deeply, puffing out his chest. "So you did."

"The Supreme Commander is concerned. The presence of the humans on the sacred ring did not bode well to begin with, but now that they have a source of supplies..."

"I am aware of what the Supreme Commander thinks!" snapped 'Putumee, turning his smoldering eyes toward 'Quarmee. "Though I failed to stop their convoy, at least I was able to do some damage. Was not the Truth and Reconciliation in your sector? They may have escaped from me with weapons and ammunition, but they escaped from you with their Ship Master."

'Quarmee clicked his mandibles. "My forces are simply Inquisitors, Field Master, and they faced a Demon." He didn't want to quarrel; he took a step back and lowered his shoulders. "This is all beside the point. I assume you summoned me here for a reason?"

'Putumee studied him for a moment before turning his attention back to the door. "The Fleet of Burning Judgment may have erred in occupying the ring so quickly."

A high claim. "How do you mean?"

"Several Inquisitor teams have reported to the Prophet finding heavily locked systems, much like this one, but far deeper into the ring itself. Analysis indicates that these systems are linked. More than that, one of your Inquisitors located and catalogued this symbol." The Field Master drew a previously unseen Lumidex and handed it to Ignil. He studied it intently, tickled by a sensation of familiarity but unable to place it.

'Putumee sensed his ignorance. "It resembles one such symbol found at the facility located by the Virtuous Pilgrim."

A jolt of energy lanced down 'Quarmee's spine. Now he remembered. The Virtuous Pilgrim had been a scouting cruiser, sent into unknown space to search for Forerunner artifacts in unexplored planetary systems. It had come to one star in particular, and its luminary had identified a Forerunner object in close orbit around the sun. Following its mission, the cruiser had moved in to investigate.

Unfortunately, that's where the public record stopped. The tale was of great interest to Inquisitors, and once 'Quarmee had attained Zealot rank, he had discovered a continued—but still heavily redacted—report.

Inside the facility, the crew of the Pilgrim had found something unknown, something the handful of survivors had claimed as evil. The final account revealed that the cruiser and the facility, as well as most of the crew, had been destroyed by a solar flare. A recovery team sent out had found the survivors and some remaining debris, among which had been this symbol. It had been hidden, buried, and never entered into the military catalogue.

Until now, when an Inquisitor had found an identical marking on Halo, and called it "Parasite." 'Quarmee had always assumed that the lost, forsaken facility had something to do with the humans, as they were the antithesis of the Forerunners; that it had been rediscovered at the same time that the humans arrived here was not coincidence, but fate.

Yet the symbol's presence here, in this holiest of holy places, gave him an unsettled feeling in his stomachs.

The survivors of the Virtuous Pilgrim's mission had been debriefed in closed session by select individuals of the Council of Masters and the Hierarchs, and most had died in strange and conveniently unrelated ways after, except for one: the acting Ship Master at the time of the facility's destruction, Orna 'Fulsamee.

"The Gods work in curious ways," said Ignil, glancing up at 'Putumee. "Earlier, I spoke with the brother of—"

Excited cries below interrupted him. Both Zealots looked down to see the previously amber lights turn green, and the massive door slide open. The Inquisitors cheered and rushed into the opening. Quickly, both of the watching Sangheili descended the tower and rushed through the cold air and into the newly-opened area.

It was a wide hallway, most made of a glassy substance punctuated by supporting metal areas. 'Quarmee's boots clicked oddly against the unknown material, but he was too distracted by the shouts of the Inquisitors up ahead. Turning around a gradual corner, he saw the mass of Sangheili stopped up against another door, locked against their attempts at access.

"Calm yourselves!" the Field Commander yelled, getting their attention. "There is much to do in this access way alone. Grab your equipment and begin recording." During his time among the Fleet of Burning Judgment, he had picked up on the methods of the Inquisitors, and in situations such as this had often acted as a de-facto Overseer.

The Sangheili quickly hopped to, bringing in recording devices and additional point-lighting. They set to work, beginning where they could find room amongst their peers, trying to tease the littlest points of detail out of the geometrically-perfect hall.

'Putumee nodded down the hall. "We shall need a team to investigate that door."

"Very well." 'Quarmee signaled two nearby Inquisitors. "With me."

They advanced between the other Sangheili, coming to a stop next to the control panel. As a simple test, one of the Inquisitors moved to activate the control panel, but when he neared it flashed a single symbol. The Field Commander didn't understand it. Pulling out his Lumidex, the Inquisitor scanned it and frowned.

"Excellency," he said, offering the pad, "this rune is classified."

Ignil took the device and input his clearance. It was rejected. He passed the Lumidex over to Field Master 'Putumee, who typed his in as well.

"This is highly secured. I cannot access it."

"We'll have to put this on the Battle Net for open translation..."

A cry went out. "Excellencies! I have made a discovery!"

'Quarmee and 'Putumee made their way over to the origin of the voice. A Sangheili in blue armor was holding one of the point-illumination devices up against the glassy material; at first, Ignil saw nothing other than the reflection of the light, but once he reached the right angle, he saw what the Inquisitor had seen.

Runes. Markings, carved almost invisibly into a layer below the surface. As the Minor swept the light back and forth, it was apparent that these symbols were present throughout the glassy substance, and in all other groups of it as well.

"What is this?" 'Putumee asked, sounding disinterested.

"I am not sure, Excellency," said one Inquisitor, "but from the sheer number and variety of symbols, we could be looking at a lengthy history or, if we dare hope, a complete codex." A few of the others murmured excitedly at the prospect.

"Very well," Ignil said. "I must contact the Prophet and the Supreme Commander. Begin scanning the symbols, and set one team to unlock the other door. Keep me informed of all developments." The Inquisitors set to work, most going back out into the cold to search for more equipment. Ignil himself had to leave and find an uplink crate so he could make his report.

As he went, however, a stray beam from one of the point-light devices flashed against the wall beside him. For a moment, he thought he could see the "Parasite" symbol, but the light moved too quickly for him to be sure.

Description
Chapter 3: Special Operations

The night was long for Oriné 'Fulsamee and the rest of his unit. Deck by deck they scoured the entire cruiser, looking for any sign of human treachery: bombs, mines, traps, anything. A few times an alert had gone out and all nearby warriors had ceased their search and rushed to aid another unit, but each time was a false occurrence, after which they had to find their way back to where they were and begin again the mind-numbing investigation.

Dawn found the end of the search, revealing that there were no human remnants left behind, nor traps laid for unsuspecting warriors, nor sinister sabotage of vital systems. Oriné tried not to think of all the time wasted going from room to room for nearly a hundred decks, instead focusing on the positive. Because of the general chaos surrounding the infiltration the Elite Minor had managed to seize a bunk for himself and Yarna, as well as reserve space in a methane dormitories for his Unggoy. Once dismissed from their searching duties, Oriné and Yarna settled into their bunks in a room shared with several other Sangheili.

"So tedious," Yarna groaned, laying back in the gel supports.

"And all for nothing." Oriné was already down, helmet and mandible guards removed and stowed. So long as the ship remained on active alert all warriors were required to sleep in their armor so that the instant the ship came under attack again the defenders would be ready in seconds as opposed to minutes. And the Ship Commander had made it clear that after this incursion he had no intention of stepping down the alert level.

But what's the point? Oriné thought to himself as he sank his unarmored head into the comforting pads near his head. If the Demon is with them, then we are all doomed to death. Few Sangheili had ever crossed paths with a Demon and lived; only six had ever managed to kill one with confirmation, and each had been promoted away from the battlefield. When asked, though they boasted highly of their own skill, they had all admitted to a great deal of luck, either in numbers or circumstance.

These thoughts led Oriné off into a light slumber, but it was too soon when he was awakened. An Unggoy, not of his unit, was shaking his arm. "Excellency," he said quietly, clearly not wanting to wake Yarna, "the commander wishes to speak with you."

"Who?" The Elite Minor cleared his bleary eyes and looked again, this time taking note that the Grunt was dressed in black Special Operations armor. Grumbling an affirmative, he stood and fastened his helmet and mandibles guards back on his harness. "Lead the way."

//

Esam 'Mijumee disliked Spirits intensely. He was confined to a small compartment while in flight, and there was not enough room for his equipment. The only thing he carried with him was his pistol on one hip and his Lumidex on the other; everything else was on a different dropship.

He gazed out the viewing slot, bored beyond comprehension. He had heard a new, roomier model of dropship called a Phantom was already in use on the front lines. If only they had been able to resupply before finding Halo...

The ship rocked as it hit an air pocket, jostling the Inquisitor in his cell. He growled his discontent, but there was no response. None of the others were feeling particularly talkative, themselves having also been pulled from their work for this reassignment. Everything had been going according to plan until the Fleet of Particular Justice had happened on them, and now their carefully plotted timetable had been cast into disarray. The newly arrived Prophet wanted to know everything and soon, so he could cast himself in a fine light to the Hierarchs, perhaps even gain advancement.

Blasphemy touched his mind, but Esam cast it off. Though he worshipped the Forerunners and understood the importance of the Prophets, the greed and short-sightedness they often exhibited was by far too corporeal for him to respect it.

At least this new fleet contains no Jiralhanae, he thought, taking the edge off his anger. If there had been an accompanying force, there would be much more dire consequences. The Zealots thought they had fooled the Inquisitors, but in truth no one knew the situation better than they. The Council wanted leverage against the rising Brute tide, something to cement their position and keep them from being replaced. At one time such substitution would have been impossible even to think of, but the favoritism of the High Prophet of Truth for the Jiralhanae was hard to ignore.

Esam was just a tool of politics that were far above his station and trillions of miles away. He grew anxious thinking about his mate, carrying their egg with his unborn son, trapped on High Charity where assassinations, political revenge, and hate-motivated killings were becoming increasingly common.

He hoped they would be all right.

"Prepare for landing," said the Overseer over the Battle Net. Esam heard the infantry accompanying them preparing their weapons; he only placed his hand on the plasma pistol at his side.

Moments later the doors opened, and the Inquisitor Minor allowed the infantry to disembark first, sweeping the thick, swampy forest with their weapons. When it seemed clear, he stepped down and found himself ankle-deep in dark, opaque water.

He looked around. The morning sun poked through the trees, casting columns of light across the forest floor. It was a very wet climate, though, and even with the sunlight it felt oppressively damp. Fortunately, according to the Overseer's briefing, their work was to be done inside a nearby structure, so Esam wouldn't have to suffer the elements; Forerunner spaces tended to be very climate-friendly, though cooler than any Sangheili preferred.

The Spirit lifted off behind him, making room in the small landing zone for the other dropships. Next to come down was the vessel carrying Overseer 'Oegulee, other Inquisitors, and some of the equipment. "Begin transporting the devices inside," ordered the Inquisitor Major. "There is an incoming weather system we should be mindful of. It should not arrive until tomorrow, but we must take care."

A few of the Grunts that had come with the infantry were requisitioned to help carry, but largely the Inquisitors did the work. It was a short distance to the site, but the crates seemed extra heavy, so the work was strenuous. As he went, Esam thought about the incoming storm. It was incredible to him that the Forerunners were able to create something so perfect that mimicked the natural order of the universe. Nothing was ever static, everything always moved through a cycle. Halo, its ring shape forever rotating in the cosmos, was the ultimate microcosm of the rest of existence. That they made this was all the evidence Esam ever needed of their divinity, and of the virtue of following the path they had laid with their feet.

By the time they reached the site, many of the Inquisitors were breathing heavily and sagging under the weight in their arms, including Esam. It didn't make sense: he had carried even the heaviest equipment crates with more ease than this. All of the Inquisitors were fully trained Elites, and had hauled their own devices back and forth across many worlds. Why was it so difficult this time?

The Overseer, walking ahead, guided them down the slanted walkway towards a large hole in the floor. He manipulated a nearby set of holographic controls, and a moment later a large elevator platform rose to the surface.

"Everyone get on board," he said in his gravelly tones that brooked no resistance. "Our area of study is deep below the surface."

Such a thing was not unusual. Many Forerunner artifacts were located below ground, buried in sacred temples or shrines. Gladly relieving himself of the burden, Esam chose to spend the ride down checking his Lumidex for the mission data. According to the file that had been uploaded to the local Battle Net, this had been one of the hotspots highlighted by their original surveys as a possible point of interest. They had been able to track massive power systems in this area and traced their output to this structure, though what the purpose was of such systems went far over their heads. This would be one of their objectives: to identify the drain and see if it was a beacon on the road to the Great Journey.

The lift came to a stop, and 'Oegulee ordered everyone carry their equipment off and set it aside. Barely managing to drag his crate to the wall, Esam was overcome with curiosity. What made these crates so unwieldy? Glancing over his shoulder to see who was watching, he tapped in the code to open the container. The top slid off, and the Inquisitor stared in shock.

Plasma rifles, Needlers, grenades, and battery packs filled the crate. Some of the Inquisitorial equipment was inside, but it had been pushed to the side and rearranged to make room for weapons.

"By the Prophets," he swore.

"Inquisitor 'Mijumee!"

Esam looked up. The Overseer was stalking over, a murderous look in his eye, but the Inquisitor Minor had no intention of backing down. Still, a chill passed over his spine. "Overseer, what is the meaning of this?" he asked as 'Oegulee came to a stop inches from his face. "We are trying to conduct our research and you—"

"I am following orders from the highest authority," said 'Oegulee.

"But weapons? What would Commander 'Quarmee want with weapons being stored here?"

The Overseer backhanded him roughly, making Esam stagger under the blow. "How dare you speak the name of a superior! He is levels beyond your station, and you will show him proper respect!" The glint in his eyes showed he wished to strike again, but instead he drew himself up to his normal height. "The Field Commander is superseded in this situation. In light of the human attack on the Truth and Reconciliation, His Holiness has declared all units are to be adequately armed in case of ambush. The Supreme Commander has also expressed his wish that every site of interest to the Covenant, as well as possible targets of human raids, are to be properly reinforced. More infantry will arrive soon, and I have assurances that they will not interfere with our work." As he spoke, others had gathered around to listen in on the ad hoc announcement. It had not been part of the regular briefing. Now the Overseer turned to regard them all. "There is more to be brought down before we may begin. Back to the lift."

The group departed and Esam fell in line, still rubbing the side of his head where the Overseer had struck him. Esli 'Sarodee slipped into place beside him, giving him a worried look. Esam just shook it off.

//

Ionill 'Ongyomee waited in his makeshift office, standing behind his desk. He monitored the hallway from his desk via the camera installed at the door. When he saw the Grunt approach, before the small creature could even touch the chime, he bade it open. He waited until his guest had stepped into the room before turning to the Unggoy. "You may leave."

The Grunt bowed and saluted, leaving the soldier standing at attention. Ionill looked him over, arms clasped behind his back. The Elite Minor was young, but not too young; a lack of visible scars kept him from looking grizzled, but it was clear from the set of his mandibles and the dark skin under his brown eyes that he was mature, in his prime.

Good, Ionill thought. Special Operations has little need of naïve recruits fresh from war college. He made a show of looking down at his desk, even though he already had the warrior's information memorized.

"Oriné 'Fulsamee," he began, not yet looking up. "Your information states that you were born on Sanghelios, Lomak district of the capital, son of Ship Commander Orita 'Fulsamee. You were part of a successful junto on Jisako, attended Institution as your war college—a family tradition, it seems—and commenced with high honors." His eyes flashed up, catching the warrior's eyes. He did not break contact. Good. "This is true so far?"

The Minor gave a small nod. "Yes, Excellency."

"Your record becomes inconsistent from there, warrior," continued Ionill, this time not looking at the desk. "You were disciplined and condemned to serve on the Devil's Gulag station; officially, you were said to be a poor example of a front line soldier and good only for guarding broken prisoners and weapon stores, an assessment that does not match your moderately high combat rating and exemplary Proof scores. There is more to that story, I'm sure I hardly need remind you.

"But you defied your fate, saved a highly superior officer from certain death, and earned your first honor marking and your rightful passage out of that hell. From there you fought on three worlds, including Pearl, one of the fiercest and bloodiest encounters we faced against these heretics. You survived the death of your entire squad and went on to lead a lance with one of the lowest casualty rates in your Legion. You were recommended for advancement by your Major, but just when the hearing would have begun your sister suffered her own untimely fate, and you were once again put through hell.

"After that, there is nothing but good reports filed by your peers on your valor and honor in combat, but each report was intercepted and twisted by Major 'Gerrolee for his own ends." He finished, not taking his eyes off 'Fulsamee, gauging his reactions. An almost imperceptible twitch around the eyes, but other than that he remained stock still. He has practiced to not show weakness in front of superiors, or probably anybody, for that matter.

Oriné lowered his head slightly, but did not take his eyes off Ionill's. "An accurate report, Excellency."

"It does not bother you that you should be a Zealot by now, or at least a Major, with an illustrious career to match your father or even your brother? That you were robbed of your rightful place as a leader of armies instead of Grunts? Had you not suffered under the fist of passion, circumstance, and greed, I would be calling you 'Excellency,' and not the other way around."

It took the Elite Minor a moment to respond. He thinks this is a test. In fact, Ionill had spoken with more frankness than he had meant.

"I do my duty to the Covenant," Oriné began cautiously, "and to my superiors. I am their tool to do with as they wish. Had my usefulness extended to advancement, I would be honored, but my usefulness is on the battlefield, and in that I am also honored."

"The exemplary tool response," Ionill huffed. "You taught yourself to read and understand the human language through human interrogation, and you have avoided serious wounding on the battlefield. They say scars are the sign of an honorable warrior. That may be, but I believe a lack of scars are the sign of a prudent one." He tightened his grip behind him.

It was clear 'Fulsamee didn't know how to respond. "Thank you for your kindness, Excellency."

"Don't." In a smooth motion, Ionill leveled the plasma pistol at the young warrior. He exaggerated his movement slightly—no reason to expect 'Fulsamee to have Operative-level reflexes yet. Also, he made sure to aim the pistol a few degrees higher than the head; if the Minor failed this test, at least he would continue to live and be a fine infantry soldier. Not everyone was cut out for Special Operations.

But 'Fulsamee did not disappoint. As Ionill fired, the warrior ducked his head and stepped into the Operative's arm, his own hand going to the weapon at his side. The Minor's claw swiped the pistol from Ionill's grip, and once he was disarmed, Oriné had the barrel of his own pistol placed right in front of the black-clad Sangheili's face.

A tense moment passed, both warriors frozen in place.

"Hmm," Ionill finally said. "You did not fire. No matter. I'm sure I can rid you of your hesitation during training."

'Fulsamee took a step back, lowering his weapon slightly. "Excellency?"

"I had the Grunt remove the power cell from your pistol before he woke you." Ionill took the weapon out of 'Fulsamee's hand and put it on the desk. "I am approving you for Special Operations training. Once I clear it with Commander 'Vadumee, you will be transferred into my unit and given a rapid training regimen to prepare you for your duty as a Prophet Blessed."

The Minor cocked his head. "You are offering me the chance to become an Operative?"

"I apologize if I am not being clear enough," said Ionill, putting the edge in his voice again. "You have been selected for the Prophet Blessed, Candidate 'Fulsamee. It is not an option. The Supreme Commander of the Fleet of Particular Justice and the Prophet in his company have decreed that we are to train additional Operatives to unlock the mysteries of Halo. I have selected you as part of the unit I will train, and you will report to me tomorrow at the first bell of the first shift in the gravity lift antechamber. Your training will commence then."

'Fulsamee seemed dumbstruck, but he managed a salute. "I will not let you down, Excellency."

"See that you do not. You have an excellent service record, 'Fulsamee." He nodded. "Dismissed."

Oriné turned to leave, but just as he was in the doorway, Ionill remembered something. "Wait a moment." The Minor turned back. "I have already selected your friend, 'Orgalmee, to be part of this unit as well. He's meeting with another Operative as we speak. But I am short on Grunt candidates; do you happen to know any who might work well? No need for exceptional brightness, just modest skill."

He stood for a moment, thinking. "I believe I do, Excellency," he said at last. "There was an Unggoy transferred into my lance just before we arrived here, by the name of Rurut. I have not known him long, but he seems a capable and hard worker. He does well under stress and does not panic easily."

"He sounds perfect. I shall add his name to the roster." Ionill sat down. "You may leave now. Go with the gods, 'Fulsamee."

"You as well, Excellency." 'Fulsamee walked out into the hallway and the door slid closed. Ionill sat for a while longer, ruminating on his decision, before he picked up the plasma pistol he had taken from Oriné. Curious, he pointed it at the wall and squeezed the trigger. The weapon bucked and fired a bolt of green energy into the wall. He nearly dropped it in alarm, looking first at the gun and then at the neat burn across the room. Checking the camera, he summoned the Grunt outside back in.

"I told you to remove the power cell before you woke him," Ionill said.

The Unggoy shrugged. "He was sleeping on that side. I couldn't."

Ionill glared at the diminutive form before sitting back in his chair and putting the pistol back on the desk. "Be gone," he growled, preparing to transmit a hologram to the Seeker of Truth. The Grunt turned and casually walked out as if nothing had happened.

Ionill watched him leave, then stood and prepared to make his report.

//

After the weapons were all stored, the Inquisitors were finally able to begin their work. Esam and a small team of Inquisitors followed two infantry lances as they made their way through the geometric corridors and rooms of the structure. The inclusion of the regular army seemed redundant, as Inquisitors were meant to be able to alternate between scholar and soldier whenever necessary. Besides, he had never encountered anyone or anything hostile in a ruin, aside from humans, but such was an impossible occurrence.

The infantry seemed to think so too. They trudged along without even bothering to keep their weapons up, the Grunts chatting idly in their own tongue and their Elite supervisors lax, simply walking. Esam couldn't blame them.

The structure was big, so the Inquisitors had been split up into smaller groups. Esli had gone to a different sector, but Esam was hardly bothered. The prospect of discovering new secrets and aspects of the Forerunners overrode any feeling of longing.

Up ahead, the infantry slowed. "Locked door," they called back. At the summons, one of the Inquisitors proficient with locks moved forward and began deactivating the mechanism keeping the door shut. Moments later, the strobing lights on either side of the door changed from a harsh red to pale green and access was granted.

Inside was a vault: a multi-tiered chamber with walkways across the upper levels leading to a central tank. The tank itself was empty, but it looked strong enough to hold a Hunter in full rage. Doors were located on every level, all indicating that they were locked. It was becoming a hindrance to the exploratory party: they had never seen an installation with so many active security protocols.

But what captured Esam's attention and took his breath away were the markings: large, luminescent glyphs, clear and certain, imposed above every doorway. Much of the Forerunners' writings were subtly inscribed onto surfaces or buried in holograms requiring days of analysis; these were blatant and simple, straightforward in presentation and meaning.

They all said the same thing: warning.

One of the Inquisitors looked at him. "What do they mean?"

Esam glanced at him but quickly looked back at the markings. "It advises caution."

"We know that," grunted another, "but you are well versed in understanding the nuances of glyphs. What kind of warning is it?"

Esam couldn't say. It was incredibly basic: no deviations to the standard script, no added serifs to slide meaning this way or that. The warning was nonspecific as far as reasons went, simply telling those about to enter this doorway to either turn back or understand the consequences of continuing. But the longer he looked at it, the more he thought of the symbol he had translated the night before, the one he had tagged as "parasite."

The team recorded the symbols, as well as marking the general layout of the room, before moving on. As they proceeded through a marked door, Esam felt something unfamiliar stirring inside himself. He understood the normal emotions that followed entering a new, unexplored area: anxiety and anticipation. But now a certain amount of fear had been introduced to the mix and was growing steadily.

For the first time in his life, Esam wasn't sure if he wanted to go on.

//

The first bell of the first shift came, and Oriné 'Fulsamee strode into the Truth and Reconciliation's gravity lift antechamber at the exact moment. He was clad in his stiff new armor, black in color. It was supremely uncomfortable.

Inside stood the Operative from before, as well as several others: one was instantly recognizable as Yarna, and another was Rurut; however, there were two other Unggoy that he didn't know. Nodding his greeting to the senior Operative, Oriné took his place in the line-up and straightened.

"We are all assembled," said the Operative. "My name is Ionill 'Ongyomee, and I will be the senior officer of this unit. You may notice that we are much smaller than the average Special Operations unit, but understand that it was the decision of the Prophet that we make use of many smaller teams rather than fewer large ones, to better accomplish our goals.

"Amidst the ranks of the Prophet Blessed are different protocols," he continued, beginning to pace. "Where once you were divided by rank and caste, you are now united in service to the Hierarchs. The armor which you now wear elevates you above all others and places you in your own station. Should I find that you still adhere to the old ways of social class, discipline will be quick and brutal.

"Warriors, speak your names."

At the end of the line, Oriné became somewhat flustered. "Elite Minor Oriné 'Fulsamee." The senior officer was silent, which the rest took as reason to continue:

"Elite Minor Yarna 'Orgalmee."

"Grunt Minor Rurut."

"Grunt Major Ononn."

"Grunt Major Ofoff."

"Grunt Minor Gagaw."

When they were finished, Ionill scowled. "I shall see it will take extra effort for you to understand your new assignments. When I said you were in your own station, I meant that you are in your own station!" Though they tried to remain as stoic as possible, the assembly present couldn't help but flinch. "You are no longer Majors or Minors, no longer Elites or Grunts! You are Operatives, serving the Prophets and the Covenant without question and with total discipline!"

"Yes, Excellency!" All of them spoke at the same time.

The senior officer nodded. "I do not know how long I have to train you, but I cannot assume it will be a worthy amount of time. We may be deployed at any moment, and when it happens you will be expected to perform your duties flawlessly." He paused. "There are other new Special Operations units being trained here as well, and all have been granted access to the space below the ship for exercises. We shall join them." Together the unit stepped onto the lift-pad, and 'Ongyomee keyed the holographic control panel. Beneath them the black disc slid away and they descended, gently but with haste, to the ground below.

//

Ignil 'Quarmee still did not understand Halo. His own ignorance had never been more apparent to him now as he rode a Spirit dropship through a snowstorm. He stared out the viewing slot, captivated by eddies and whorls visible in the clouds beyond. Why had the Forerunners, divine as they were, elected to create inclement weather on what should have been a perfectly climate-controlled installation? He had seen many such places, being attached to an Inquisitor fleet, and with the exception of this sacred ring they had all been tailored to a specific and uniform climate—a touch colder than most Sangheili cared for, but still comfortable.

Was he was truly curious about these things, or was he perhaps simply trying to distract himself from the reason for this particular journey? Somewhere below in a system of steep valleys waited Field Master Noga 'Putumee, of the Fleet of Particular Justice. Ignil grimaced as a reflex: 'Putumee had a reputation in the Covenant Armada. Certainly, his leadership skills were desirable and he always fought with bravery, but he was also known to be extremely confrontational and paranoid. In his previous campaign, the Field Master was rumored to have knowingly glassed a planet containing a reliquary of Forerunner artifacts, fearing that there was some unknowable taint to the world.

And ever since the Fleet of Particular Justice's arrival in this system, he had become 'Quarmee's commanding officer. It had been fine for him, as the Field Master had never requested an actual meeting, content to relay his commands over the Battle Net.

Until now.

The dropship's intercom crackled. "We will be landing momentarily, Excellency," said the pilot.

Anticipating the cold, Ignil dialed his armor's insulation up to maximum. Through the thick snowfall, he barely caught sight of a land-bridge as the Spirit rotated, bringing his side about to face a scattering of lights that seemed to ascend an unseen cliff face.

Finally the Spirit settled to the ground, and the troop compartments fell open. Ignil stepped out, mindful of the slick inner-doors, and found himself in snow up to his mid-calf. The wind howled about him, pelting his exposed and vulnerable face with large flakes of ice. He activated his shields, which stopped the physical projectiles but did nothing to abate the frigid air.

A shape marched out to meet him, and he soon took note of the crimson armor color. As the Sangheili came closer, he made out the markings of an Elite Major—not an Inquisitor Major as he had become accustomed to seeing over the past few weeks.

"Excellency," the aide said, saluting as he came to a stop. "The Field Master waits, if you will follow me." Ignil nodded his assent and fell into step behind the warrior. Given the treacherous depth of the snowfall, he was careful to step in the Major's existing hoofprints.

They got closer to the source of the lights, and finally the Field Commander realized why they seemed to go so high: the source was a ziggurat jutting from the valley wall. The massive stepped structure loomed high, some upper constructions glowing ethereally, while other pinpoints of light were caused by smaller devices set up by the Covenant. A work party of Unggoy marched past, carrying beacon lights further out into the storm.

"The Unggoy thrive here, Excellency," said the Major. He had to shout for Ignil to hear him. "As their native climate is particularly frigid, they find a sense of enjoyment working in the storm. The Field Master has decreed that they are to continue their labors while the Kig-Yar crews rest."

It was only a moment longer before they began to ascend a gentle slope at the base of the ziggurat. Here and there were Sangheili sentries, posted at corners and inside small tunnels. There were a handful of Ghosts, deactivated and sitting on the slope, their pilots idling nearby.

Ignil tapped the Major's shoulder. "Why are they not on patrol?"

"The Field Master has recalled all patrols for the duration of the storm. It is just as well: this structure is nestled in a box canyon. The only way for the humans to reach us is to either attempt a landing in here, where they will be shot down by our cannons on the bridge, or fight their way through the myriad tunnels that lead here, which are filled with our troops."

While both options sounded suicidal, the Field Commander thought that the brazen humans might try either one of those approaches. He wondered if the forces stationed here were truly prepared for such an attack.

Progress up the ziggurat was slow. To ascend, they had to march up a ramp on one side, make their way along a walkway to the other, go up another ramp, cross again, and repeat. If anything, Ignil thought as he crested the final slope, such a construction will frustrate the humans and make it easier to defend.

They stood on an open deck, the wind whistling across with renewed force. 'Quarmee struggled to keep his composure as they made their way to a final raised platform. They passed several miserable-looking Sangheili, their armors a mixture between regular infantry and Inquisitor Corps. It was strange to see so many infantry, when for so long he had been accustomed only to the sight of the more intellectual branch of the Covenant army.

On the final platform there was a tower which led further up and a large door, two burning amber lights indicative of the Forerunners' complicated and sturdy lock system. Several Inquisitors worked on a holographic panel while others, scattered about, were digging through the surrounding cliff-face with small-bore lasers, searching for an alternative route.

"The Field Master awaits in the tower, Excellency," said the Major.

Ignil stepped onto the tower's first ramp, and suddenly the howling wind stopped. He turned around, surprised, and saw the snow still flying by. There must have been an invisible force-field, he surmised, keeping the inside of this tower at a more acceptable climate level, though still slightly too cool for his tastes.

He ascended slowly, returning the insulation of his harness to normal. On one of the platforms overlooking the doorway he found the Field Master.

"Greetings," grumbled 'Putumee.

The Field Commander nodded his own salutation. "What is this place?"

"The Inquisitors believe it to be Halo's control room."

"Is it?"

'Putumee shrugged. "It's impossible to tell. This door has prevented further exploration, and given our experience with other such installations, they think there will be another door beyond, sealed even tighter than this one." He clicked his mandibles. "Such is the duty of the Inquisitors, I suppose."

There was a moment of silence. "I heard about your failed attack on the humans," Ignil finally said.

The Field Master inhaled deeply, puffing out his chest. "So you did."

"The Supreme Commander is concerned. The presence of the humans on the sacred ring did not bode well to begin with, but now that they have a source of supplies..."

"I am aware of what the Supreme Commander thinks!" snapped 'Putumee, turning his smoldering eyes toward 'Quarmee. "Though I failed to stop their convoy, at least I was able to do some damage. Was not the Truth and Reconciliation in your sector? They may have escaped from me with weapons and ammunition, but they escaped from you with their Ship Master."

'Quarmee clicked his mandibles. "My forces are simply Inquisitors, Field Master, and they faced a Demon." He didn't want to quarrel; he took a step back and lowered his shoulders. "This is all beside the point. I assume you summoned me here for a reason?"

'Putumee studied him for a moment before turning his attention back to the door. "The Fleet of Burning Judgment may have erred in occupying the ring so quickly."

A high claim. "How do you mean?"

"Several Inquisitor teams have reported to the Prophet finding heavily locked systems, much like this one, but far deeper into the ring itself. Analysis indicates that these systems are linked. More than that, one of your Inquisitors located and catalogued this symbol." The Field Master drew a previously unseen Lumidex and handed it to Ignil. He studied it intently, tickled by a sensation of familiarity but unable to place it.

'Putumee sensed his ignorance. "It resembles one such symbol found at the facility located by the Virtuous Pilgrim."

A jolt of energy lanced down 'Quarmee's spine. Now he remembered. The Virtuous Pilgrim had been a scouting cruiser, sent into unknown space to search for Forerunner artifacts in unexplored planetary systems. It had come to one star in particular, and its luminary had identified a Forerunner object in close orbit around the sun. Following its mission, the cruiser had moved in to investigate.

Unfortunately, that's where the public record stopped. The tale was of great interest to Inquisitors, and once 'Quarmee had attained Zealot rank, he had discovered a continued—but still heavily redacted—report.

Inside the facility, the crew of the Pilgrim had found something unknown, something the handful of survivors had claimed as evil. The final account revealed that the cruiser and the facility, as well as most of the crew, had been destroyed by a solar flare. A recovery team sent out had found the survivors and some remaining debris, among which had been this symbol. It had been hidden, buried, and never entered into the military catalogue.

Until now, when an Inquisitor had found an identical marking on Halo, and called it "Parasite." 'Quarmee had always assumed that the lost, forsaken facility had something to do with the humans, as they were the antithesis of the Forerunners; that it had been rediscovered at the same time that the humans arrived here was not coincidence, but fate.

Yet the symbol's presence here, in this holiest of holy places, gave him an unsettled feeling in his stomachs.

The survivors of the Virtuous Pilgrim's mission had been debriefed in closed session by select individuals of the Council of Masters and the Hierarchs, and most had died in strange and conveniently unrelated ways after, except for one: the acting Ship Master at the time of the facility's destruction, Orna 'Fulsamee.

"The Gods work in curious ways," said Ignil, glancing up at 'Putumee. "Earlier, I spoke with the brother of—"

Excited cries below interrupted him. Both Zealots looked down to see the previously amber lights turn green, and the massive door slide open. The Inquisitors cheered and rushed into the opening. Quickly, both of the watching Sangheili descended the tower and rushed through the cold air and into the newly-opened area.

It was a wide hallway, most made of a glassy substance punctuated by supporting metal areas. 'Quarmee's boots clicked oddly against the unknown material, but he was too distracted by the shouts of the Inquisitors up ahead. Turning around a gradual corner, he saw the mass of Sangheili stopped up against another door, locked against their attempts at access.

"Calm yourselves!" the Field Commander yelled, getting their attention. "There is much to do in this access way alone. Grab your equipment and begin recording." During his time among the Fleet of Burning Judgment, he had picked up on the methods of the Inquisitors, and in situations such as this had often acted as a de-facto Overseer.

The Sangheili quickly hopped to, bringing in recording devices and additional point-lighting. They set to work, beginning where they could find room amongst their peers, trying to tease the littlest points of detail out of the geometrically-perfect hall.

'Putumee nodded down the hall. "We shall need a team to investigate that door."

"Very well." 'Quarmee signaled two nearby Inquisitors. "With me."

They advanced between the other Sangheili, coming to a stop next to the control panel. As a simple test, one of the Inquisitors moved to activate the control panel, but when he neared it flashed a single symbol. The Field Commander didn't understand it. Pulling out his Lumidex, the Inquisitor scanned it and frowned.

"Excellency," he said, offering the pad, "this rune is classified."

Ignil took the device and input his clearance. It was rejected. He passed the Lumidex over to Field Master 'Putumee, who typed his in as well.

"This is highly secured. I cannot access it."

"We'll have to put this on the Battle Net for open translation..."

A cry went out. "Excellencies! I have made a discovery!"

'Quarmee and 'Putumee made their way over to the origin of the voice. A Sangheili in blue armor was holding one of the point-illumination devices up against the glassy material; at first, Ignil saw nothing other than the reflection of the light, but once he reached the right angle, he saw what the Inquisitor had seen.

Runes. Markings, carved almost invisibly into a layer below the surface. As the Minor swept the light back and forth, it was apparent that these symbols were present throughout the glassy substance, and in all other groups of it as well.

"What is this?" 'Putumee asked, sounding disinterested.

"I am not sure, Excellency," said one Inquisitor, "but from the sheer number and variety of symbols, we could be looking at a lengthy history or, if we dare hope, a complete codex." A few of the others murmured excitedly at the prospect.

"Very well," Ignil said. "I must contact the Prophet and the Supreme Commander. Begin scanning the symbols, and set one team to unlock the other door. Keep me informed of all developments." The Inquisitors set to work, most going back out into the cold to search for more equipment. Ignil himself had to leave and find an uplink crate so he could make his report.

As he went, however, a stray beam from one of the point-light devices flashed against the wall beside him. For a moment, he thought he could see the "Parasite" symbol, but the light moved too quickly for him to be sure.