Chapter 1: Memories and Regrets
A little less than two months ago…
So cold…
Space was an infinite, frigid, black abyss, or so they said. Ships traversed it majestically and with certainty of their destination, but Oriné 'Fulsamee's ship was granted no such majesty or certainty. Creatures existed easily in space either in the comfortable confines of a ship or the fitting limits of a space suit, but neither Oriné nor his compatriots who were identically derelict were offered such comfort. So many Sangheili poets, before the time of war and strife engulfed their noble race, called space a great, nurturing mother who cared for all her children and never turned her back on any of them.
Oriné, a Sangheili himself, was currently inclined to disagree. He found space to be cruel and unforgiving, with an icy hand that left nothing but death and ruin wherever it swept. In that regard, the young warrior was almost certain that the humans had been born from this abysmal traitorous mother. In particular, he thought of the human warrior in special armor that had brought him pain and misery enough to last a lifetime in only four days. His mind was consumed by rage, hatred, and perhaps a little fear towards this human, this demon, but all he was capable of achieving with those powerful emotions was a long and pained groan. His body was broken, mangled; the shockwave from the detonation of the sacred ring had hurled his beaten figure onto the hard metal floor, which hadn't helped to ease the pain of his injuries.
His young, dark eyes flitted about the room as the grip of shock began to take him once more. He saw the shape of his friend and fellow Sangheili Yarna 'Orgalmee unconscious on the deck and in a position not unlike his own. He knew exactly what his trusted companion was dreaming of in his forced slumber: the wholesale slaughter of all of humanity, the completion of the Great Journey… and their ascension to Godhood. His eyes moved over the soft, gently blinking lights of consoles and spied his other friend, Rurut, asleep in a chair, peacefully sleeping off the wear and tear of the past few days with his methane breather wheezing and hissing with each drawn and expelled breath. Most Unggoy such as he were cowards, but Oriné had seen this one fight, and knew that he was a true warrior, worthy of the jet-black armor on his body that was identical to the others'. However, floating dead in space hardly left them striking.
Oriné tried to move his arms and legs, willing himself to get back up into the chair, but his limbs would not listen, instead content to lie there, inert and bloody. Traitors, he thought and cursed his appendages bitterly for their betrayal of his brain. He let out a pained sigh and attempted to fall asleep, but before he could achieve a state like his comrades, he heard soft pinging on the hull.
Only Jackals, the thin, vulture-like assassins and scouts of the Covenant, had a better sense of hearing than Elites, and Oriné found himself straining to keep track of the sound as it progressed across the outer hull of the craft. The pinging turned to clattering, and the clattering to a loud hiss. A new light flashed on some console within the cockpit, and judging by its relative position Oriné could immediately tell that it was an alert: the outer doors of the Spirit-class dropship had just been opened. A moment later, there was another hiss, and a low-volume alarm called out a notice that the troop compartment of the craft was being pressurized once again, then an alert that the process was completed. The strange sounds resumed, this time making their way towards the cockpit door.
The young Elite warrior realized that he was in no position to defend either himself or the other soldiers that were in the cockpit should these sounds belong to enemies. Once more he tried to push himself up and crawl towards some defensible position, but his muscles merely screamed back at him in agonizing protest. Helpless and at the mercy of these intruders, he waited with bated breath as the door separating the control center from the troop compartment slid open…
An insectoid head appeared, followed by a body of similar caliber. It had arms that were as long as its legs, with spikes and tiny hairs running down the length of all its limbs. It had an abdomen that jutted out behind it with two vestigial pincer-like appendages, one on each side. Wings hung off its back and feathery antennae jutted out from the top of its small, flat skull, with two emerald eyes looking out from under them. It cocked its head quizzically and floated forward, the insectoid wings on its back propelling itself forward with a quiet buzzing noise. A second one moved in through the same door, looking around in mild curiosity.
Approaching Oriné, it prodded the semi-conscious alien with one of its two, needle-like toes. The Elite roared out in pain; even the slightest pressure on his body caused him immense pain. He found himself on the verge of blacking out and blinked fiercely to fend off the blackness that was closing in over his consciousness. He detested his weakness, all brought on by that human…
The newcomer, whom Oriné recognized as a Yanme'e, jumped back, clearly startled by the still-living Elite. He turned back to the other Drone and jabbered urgently. The other clicked in response and floated further into the cockpit, pausing to examine the slumbering Grunt and the other, unconscious Elite. Oriné's left eye tracked the exploring Drone while his right paid attention to the second bug. The one that had prodded him withdrew a small remote and activated a toggle. A small light on the top of the device changed from a pallid purple to a brilliant blue.
Continuing to float about and examine control panels, the Drones remained inside the cockpit with the three warriors. As they moved about, Oriné studied them. The Covenant really only used Drones for ship maintenance, since the bloated-looking and incredibly intelligent Engineers could not function where there was no oxygen. Drones, on the other hand, did not breathe at all; some sort of perpetual chemical reaction within their bodies that began when they hatched kept them alive.
Finally, after what seemed like hours but was probably just a few more minutes, the dropship shuddered and the distinct clang of magnetic locks resounded through the wounded hull. Oriné felt inertia, his small vessel being pulled towards a bigger object, probably one of the Covenant's cruisers. There was a moment of weightlessness, his body floating an inch off the deck before the larger ship's gravity field took over and he fell to the deck once more. Pain shot throughout his body and he let out another shout as white-hot pokers seared his flesh and pushed inward. The Drones hovered out of the cockpit, not bothering to close the door behind them, as the doors of the dropship fell open and they escaped into the hangar of the larger vessel.
Suddenly, Oriné and his comrades were overrun by technicians and medics, Grunts and Elites wearing white armor. Rurut, who was in the best condition by far, was roused to consciousness and walked out of the damaged dropship. Yarna was helped out by two Healers, but he was able to walk with assistance off the ship. Oriné, however, was faring much worse than both of them. He had lost a lot of blood; one of the Healers had the misfortune to lose his footing on the large slick purple stain and bang his head on a console. An anti-gravity stretcher was brought, and Oriné screamed bloody murder when his would-be rescuers were forced to pick him up in order to place him on it. As he was being carried off the ship, unconsciousness finally claimed him.
Space was a cruel mistress indeed.
When he next awoke, Oriné noticed first the pleasant purple sheen of Covenant-made metal. He was on his back, staring up at a bright light. He squinted against the rough illumination, trying to make out the details of his new location. Hazy memories of the dropship and of Halo were trickling in, but he was lost in a flow of painkillers. As far as he could tell, by the Grunt Healers on the edge of his vision and the many sensors strapped to his body, he was in a healing bay. Sure enough, when he glanced around, he saw medicinal herbs growing out of troughs near the ceiling.
Oriné sat up… rather, he propped himself up on his elbows and looked around. He cocked his head in curiosity as he realized that he wasn't in a public bay, but instead in a private healing room. The Grunts looked up, surprised to see him conscious, let alone managing to prop himself up. They turned to each other and jabbered in their native tongue; one jogged out of the room on some errand while the other waddled up to the side of the bed.
"Excellency," he said quietly and with appropriate awe, "You must rest." But instead of listening the young Sangheili was giving himself the once-over to make sure everything was working and in the right place. Healing salves had been swabbed over his burned skin with purple-stained fabric patches resting on top; his left wrist was held immobile in a gravity field sustained by a small device wrapped around his forearm, but beyond that he seemed okay. Carefully he pulled back one of the patches, sucking in a breath as he did so. It came out in a single sigh when he glimpsed that his skin underneath had already begun to heal. Relieved, he sank back into the gel bed and silently uttered a brief prayer of thanks.
The Grunt checked a few holographic readings of his health and took the opportunity to switch a few of the blood-heavy cloths with new immaculate ones. They were warm as they went on; the feeling was the most relaxing he had ever experienced.
A moment later the other white-armored Unggoy returned with a Sangheili in tow; he wore the gold armor and markings of a Field Master. Discipline dictated that Oriné immediately sit up and salute, but due to perhaps the painkillers or the lethargy brought on my his previously life-threatening wounds he found the strength to do nothing but nod towards his commanding officer. Fortunately the Field Master didn't seem to mind.
"Oriné 'Fulsamee?" When he stood beside the bed, the gold-armored visitor towered over the injured warrior.
"Yes," Oriné croaked in response, surprised at the weakness of his own voice.
The Field Master straightened. "I am Field Master Ako 'Jorkalee. It is my pleasure to commend you, on behalf of the Prophet Hierarchs, on your survival of this catastrophe. Thousands died upon the ring, but your squad was able to escape and live to fight another battle."
As he spoke, despite his congratulatory tone, the dishonor of his actions began to sink in. Not only had he been wounded, but almost all of his Special Operations squadron had been killed, including poor Commander 'Ongyomee. The memory of that horrific last night resurfaced in his mind: the dark skies contrasting the white snow, plasma and bullets filling the air. The Flood had begun to overwhelm the Covenant lines, and the appearance of a new foe, hordes of strange flying robots, had driven once proud and tenacious warriors into frenzies of desperation. But through it all, he remembered a human in armor with an opaque orange visor. The simple thought both boiled his blood and made his hearts quail in fear.
"Demon," he wheezed.
'Jorkalee cocked his head to one side. "Yes, our other sources have been saying that it was the Demon who destroyed the sacred ring. Your testimony will be recorded at a later date, however. There are more pressing matters to consider..."
"What," Oriné began, but choked. He tried again. "What... happened to... it?"
Sighing the Field Master crossed his arms. "The Demon not only obliterated Halo, but he also was able to seize one of our ships with the help of several other humans and escape. Where he has gone, however, we cannot know."
"What... ship?"
"The Ascendant Justice."
That prompted a piteous groan from the bedridden Sangheili. The Ascendant Justice had been the flagship of the Fleet of Particular Justice. Most of it had been quite close to the ring at the time of destruction so Oriné could only guess that the damage was extensive, but to have the flagship hijacked? The Supreme Commander of the fleet would surely suffer.
"As I said, however," 'Jorkalee continued, "I am here to relay other news." Oriné stared with a look of fatigue; the Field Master took it as a sign to go on. "High Charity shall be arriving within the week."
Despite the formidable force of the painkillers and his own exhaustion Oriné immediately sat up straight; he quickly regretted it, crying out and falling back down onto the gel layer as his raw skin strained and his sore muscles felt like they were aflame. The Grunt Healer squealed a warning and fiddled with several controls; the warm numbness of medicine grew in Oriné's body.
"Here?" he managed weakly, looking up into his visitor's eyes. "The Prophets?"
A nod. "They had at first come so that the Council and the Assembly may see Halo's glory and we might begin the Great Journey. "But now they come to assess the damage caused by the Demon and the Flood, to place blame where it need fall, and to honor those who fought with valor."
There was an odd emphasis on the last part of that sentence. Oriné eyed the Field Master warily. "Excellency?"
He shook his head. "No longer shall you need address me by that honorific," 'Jorkalee said. Somehow he manged to stand even straighter. "Oriné 'Fulsamee, for your bravery in battle and your skill in leadership, for your adeptness with the sword and accuracy with the rifle, and for your faith in the Great Forerunners, I have the singular honor of informing you of your promotion. Following your successful recovery you shall be awarded the armor and position of an Elite Ultra."
Oriné's mandibles fell open in astonishment, but 'Jorkalee continued. "In addition, upon your recovery, you and your comrade Yarna 'Orgalmee, plus one other survivor, shall be awarded the Etching of Glory for your feats of courage."
Pride flooded him. The Etching of Glory was the single highest honor any warrior could hope to obtain. Since had been a child, before even his education at Institution, it had been his dream to earn that distinction. His own father had never even been considered for it, and he had been in the battlegroup that laid siege to the Jiralhanae homeworld.
However, as all-encompassing as that feeling was, something was amiss. "What of Rurut?" His voice was hoarse, but it sounded slightly better than it had a minute ago.
"The Grunt?" 'Jorkalee snorted. "He was able to save his senior officer, and he shall be commended as well, I suppose. It is not my business to mingle with the Unggoy slaves."
"He saved me," Oriné said. "Yarna did not believe me to be alive, but Rurut did." His throat burned, but he had to continue; Rurut deserved his own honor. "Had it not been for that 'Unggoy slave,' I would not be here to receive this award."
The Field Master glared down at the Sangheili in the bed before him. "What is it that you wish," he said, his tone dripping with disdain, "that he be awarded the Etching as well?"
Oriné didn't have the strength to say anything, but he did manage to nod his head yes. 'Jorkalee continued to glare at him for a while longer before finally dipping his head slightly. "Very well, I shall report your... recommendation to the Council. They probably will not receive it well, however." He turned away and walked out.
His strength gone, the wounded Elite sank deeper into the gel. Sleep took him again.
Two weeks had passed. Oriné stood in another healing room, this one not the same as aboard the cruiser he had been taken to. Now he was in High Charity. A holographic representation of the city beyond the walls of the room was pressed into the wall; a window would have been too open, too vulnerable.
Following his medical transfer from the ship to the holy city, he had been visited by three people of note. The first was Yarna 'Orgalmee, Oriné's long time comrade. He had come to make sure the Sangheili was recovering well, and to boast about his conduct that had earned him his Etching of Glory. As Oriné was still weak, all he could do was nod and talk in short sentences. The second came when he was a bit stronger, able to sit up in bed; Rurut had come to make sure he was all right, and to thank him for the recommendation for an Etching of Glory. As it stood, the Prophet Hierarchs had granted the request. Oriné was overjoyed to hear it.
The third, however, came in the night. He deactivated the security measures around the healing room and entered silently, carrying a solid metal ceremonial blade. A Jiralhanae assassin, one of the Brutes of the Covenant. He had breathed heavily once inside, thus waking the slumbering warrior and alerting him to a killer's presence. The Brute had obviously thought that a wounded, sleeping Sangheili would be an easy target. He had neglected to bring neither his sidearm or his bandolier; it was only the ape-like savage and his weapon.
When the Jiralhanae had swung the weapon downward, he had expected the nanometrically sharp blade to slice right through the Elite's neck. Instead, however, it stopped well short. Confused, the Brute glared through the darkness to see that his target had raised his forearm, blocking the blade. It had bit deeply into Oriné's flesh, purple blood flowing and gushing from the wound, but the Elite bit back his pain. Fighting unconsciousness, Oriné bellowed a warcry, reached up to seize the Brutes head, and twisted it until he heard a loud crack. The lifeless Jiralhanae fell bodily to the floor, black fluid trickling from its mouth. Before falling back into a coma, Oriné was able to signal a Healer to attend him.
Now Oriné waited in his room, but this time it was for no assailant. He was dressed in a suit of pearlescent silver armor that he had personally received from the High Prophet of Regret only a day ago. The frail creature had made a show of it, calling Oriné the greatest hero the Covenant had ever known, a reputation second only to that of the sacred Arbiters. Secretly Oriné believed the Prophet to have had a hand in the attempt on his life, but to say such a thing aloud was foolish. A second, more successful assassination would follow. However, what Regret spoke was slowly becoming true. Already, Oriné and his compatriots' names were becoming legendary among the Covenant, for having beaten the humans, overcome the Flood, survived the loss of Halo, and for thwarting the jealous retribution of the Brutes.
Such fame ran in the 'Fulsam Lineage. Oriné's father had been a war hero during the subjugation of the Jiralhanae, having led the attack on their homeworld beside the great Fleet Master Lyos 'Vadumee when the Ship Master of his father's vessel had been medically unable. Oriné's older brother had risen high in the ranks of the Covenant, but neither Oriné nor the rest of his family knew what had become of him.
There was a hiss as the door to the room slid open. Oriné glanced over his shoulder to see an Elite Minor clad in cobalt armor enter and bow very low.
"Excellency," he said reverently, "the ceremony is ready. Already the throngs scream your name."
Oriné was unused to such praise, having himself been but a humble warrior much like his attendant scarcely three weeks ago. "Very well," he said, "let us go and meet them." The Minor led him from the room to a gravity lift, which then took them up several hundred levels to the highest part of the spire. Several times they were exposed to the outside, and Oriné looked over the great city. It was vast, the great city stretching for almost as far as the eye could see, rendered slightly hazy by the obscuring white light from the many buildings and artificial light generators. Dominating the skyline was a massive delta shape with a solitary spike extending several miles upward, almost reaching the top of the dome that housed the city. It was massive and centered where everybody would see it every day, the holiest of holy artifacts: the only surviving Forerunner ship. It was bathed in a serene, surreal white light from above, though the source was lost to Oriné; above it was an opening to space shielded by an invisible barrier of energy.
The lift terminated, and the pair stepped off. They found themselves in the center of a large circular room, where several figures were waiting. Yarna 'Orgalmee stood tall and proud in his jet black armor of a Special Operative; beside him, and much shorter, was Rurut. He wore silver armor much like Oriné's, though designed for Unggoy anatomy. Oriné had demanded that Rurut wear such armor, citing once more the Grunt's bravery and valor in combat. The diminutive slave had become a hero among the Unggoy in the Covenant, some even going so far as to suggest that he might be the newly come liberator of the Grunts, a position never heralded since the Grunt Rebellion. Both of his comrades were in the company of attendants, Yarna with an Elite Minor and Rurut with a Grunt Major.
Oriné went forward at a steady limp; he was still quite injured, but at least capable of movement. He clasped hands with Rurut and touched foreheads with Yarna. "My brothers," he said, "we've survived the worst of it."
"I think not," Yarna chuckled. "We're heroes now; that means a whole new battlefield for us to fight and die on. The realm of politics waits for us."
Rurut cast a sharp glance at the black-armored Sangheili. "There's still much for us to worry about on the real battlefield as well."
Yarna squinted back at Rurut, but Oriné quickly waved them both off. There was much to worry about and face later, yes, but for the day they were celebrities. They should be enjoying themselves on this day of feasts and celebration.
Before long, however, a fourth figure arrived escorted by his own attendant. He also wore the armor of Special Operations; as far as Oriné could guess, he was the other survivor. Yet the Sangheili did not approach the group, taking the time only to salute Oriné from afar.
A few moments later, two Elite Honor Guards stepped into the room and beckoned for them to follow. The entourage, with the two Honor Guards walking before the four celebrities and the attendants at the end, departed from the room. When they walked out, what awaited them blew them away: all down the walkway were Grunts and Elites, standing at the side; the Sangheili stood ramrod straight with a silent pride, but the Unggoy roared and clamored. But that was nothing: once they reached the end of the walkway, the three Prophet Hierarchs were waiting for them. Beyond the edge hundreds of thousands of people, civilian and soldiers alike, had gathered to crane their necks up and try to catch a glimpse of the four heroes. They stood in an amphitheater-like extension from the floors below that stretched out into the air; every fifteen yards a large holographic representation of the heroes and Hierarchs flickered and shone; once Oriné and his companions came into view they erupted in a great cheer, warriors saluting, children waving flags, and many females reaching their arms up as if they could touch them. Oriné blushed momentarily; he had not yet found a mate, and wondered if they knew that down below.
The Prophet of Mercy turned towards the great crowd. "Please, be silent! Give these warriors the respectful quiet they deserve!" His voice was amplified by a hidden microphone. The undulating clamor from the masses quieted until it was just a dull roar. That seemed to please Mercy well enough.
While Mercy moved to join the Prophet of Regret in spectating the event, the Prophet of Truth moved forward on his hovering throne. Despite the obvious frailty of his species, there was something stronger about Truth that the other Hierarchs lacked. Oriné surmised that it was something in the Prophet's eyes, some intelligence or cunning; whatever it was, it immediately demanded Oriné's admiration.
"Noble warriors of the Covenant," Truth began, "you have seen a great many things. You have faced the human threat, and you did not waver in your faith and honor; you witnessed the discovery and devastation of Halo, and still you stand here today; you met the terrible Parasite on the surface of the holy ring, and you did not cower, and indeed you survived to tell the story and warn others of their danger. Truly, the four of you are blessed by the Forerunners.
"It is my sacred duty, and I carry it out with pride, to award you the highest honor the Covenant may bestow upon a soldier." Two Elite Majors walked out, carrying between them laser-inscribing equipment. "Special Operative Balask 'Zakamee, please come forward."
The unknown Spec Ops warrior from before stepped forward and stood before the Hierarch before bowing low at the waist. "You are hereby commended for your survival, in a Wraith mortar tank no less, and of your courage and valor on the battlefield," the Prophet said. "Is there anything we might offer you in return for your great service?"
"If it please you, your Excellency," Balask spoke in a deep, gravelly voice, "I would like to return to combat soon."
"Your wish shall soon be granted, warrior," Truth said, nodding sagely. He then waved a hand at the two scribes, who stepped forward and began the process of lasering the Etching of Glory into 'Zakamee's armored breast. The process took roughly five minutes, a time Oriné spent standing in place feeling awkward.
When the scribes were done, they stepped back, admiring the etching deeply carved into the surface of the black armor. Though slightly hard to see, the image commanded respect: a Sangheili skull resting on two crossed ceremonial swords over a shield. The masses erupted into applause as Balask stepped back, bowed again to the Prophets, and then took his place standing beside the others.
The Prophet of Truth turned to the remaining survivors. "Special Operative Rurut, please step forward." Rurut did as he was told, though it was more of an exaggerated waddle than a step. A hushed wave of whispering swept through the crowds; they all knew the controversy was coming, but still, the sight of a Grunt stepping forward to receive the award was a shock. "You have shown unprecedented courage," Truth continued, "in both facing the terrible Flood and rescuing your commanding officer when he was severely wounded. Please, have the honor of being the first of your race to receive this greatest of awards." Oriné noticed the Prophet hadn't asked if there was anything Rurut wanted, like he had Balask; some things, Oriné rationalized, were just too odd. The scribes went to work on Rurut's silvery armor, having to stoop down very low, but they finished soon after and the Grunt Ultra took his place while the Unggoy in the crowd howled their admiration.
Next came Yarna. "Special Operative Yarna 'Orgalmee, please step forward." He did so, and stood proudly. In the clean lighting, his noble features were a lot more evident than on the dark and dusky battlefield. "Your display of unmatched valor and heroism is an inspiration, and your unmoving loyalty towards your teammates an enviable quality," Truth said. "Before you receive your etching, I would ask something of you."
"Anything you ask, noble Prophet, and I shall be happy to answer."
"Would you be so kind to grant me your presence among the Honor Guard?"
Yarna's mouth fell open in shock. Oriné knew that Yarna loved the battlefield but secretly coveted the position of Honor Guard, as his father had been one himself for a time. The Spec Ops Elite recovered quickly and stood even straighter. "I would be honored to protect the Prophet Hierarchs and the Council, your Excellency. Please, permit me to join."
Truth nodded, and the scribes stepped forward. When they were done Yarna walked back to place amidst the cheers of the crowd. As he passed Oriné, they shared a nod; the younger Sangheili had never seen his friend so happy.
Next, however, was Oriné. A tightness seized his stomach, but he prepared himself. "Special Operations Commander Oriné 'Fulsamee, please step forward." Though his name was made to sound important, Oriné timidly stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back to hide his fidgeting fingers; he had not expected the "commander" to be added into his title. The Prophet of Truth hovered towards him. "You have shown great leadership abilities, prowess with weapons of all varieties, and courage when faced with the horrors of war."
That's not true, Oriné thought, but didn't dare say it aloud. When Commander 'Ongyomee had died, Oriné himself was wounded and unable to assume command. He hadn't be conscious to see how the team reworked itself afterwards. He painfully recalled the fear he felt when facing down the Flood in combat, and the hesitation he felt whenever he came into contact with humans.
Truth continued. "I would also be honored to have you join the Hierarchs' Guard."
Oriné didn't become slack-jawed like his friend had; internally he rolled it over in his mind. He much preferred the battlefield of war to the battlefield of politics. All the standing around struck him as incredibly unpleasant, too. Finally he shook his head. "With respect, Excellency, I feel I would be better utilized in combat, conquering worlds and fighting my foes."
Truth nodded acceptingly and waved the scribes forward. They finished quickly, and Oriné looked down at the gleaming emblem on his chest. He resumed his place as the crowds went absolutely wild.
For Oriné and Rurut, it was back to active duty, which suited both of them just fine. The Elite Ultra found himself in command, which was an odd change; his whole life he had been a second, never absolutely in charge of anything. Now, suddenly, the only authority higher than him was the Council and the Prophets.
Though his obligations demanded of him complete command, he had designated his own team of Spec Ops warriors, among which Rurut was the sub-Commander and Balask 'Zakamee was the Senior Warrior. Their task was to sift through the ruins of Halo and search for weapons, supplies, and data that could be salvaged. Oriné carried it out with an appropriate degree of paranoia: the threat of the Flood still loomed over his mind. He knew from first-hand experience that the Parasite was deceptive, even in death. If he even suspected that there were Flood occupying any given piece of debris, he immediately had the offending piece of matter vaporized. Under his direct command was the heavy carrier Apotheosis of Duty, which he used to regularly annihilate such obstacles. His new silver armor glittered in the light of the destruction of countless Flood-infested pieces of free-floating detritus.
Weeks passed, and every day the Apotheosis of Duty was sent out to check for more items of value among the wreckage. A great deal of Covenant hardware was salvaged from the remains of Halo, but precious little data. A few times, however, the Prophets ordered Oriné to take his team, or sometimes a larger contingent of infantry, down onto the larger portions of the sacred ring that still contained atmosphere and search areas that had evident Forerunner complexes. When this happened, Oriné went down with a full team and with enough equipment to sustain a small camp for weeks. He would not allow the carrier to draw near to the site at all; the risk of the Flood eliminating the team and boarding the ship was too great. Instead, he'd go to the surface in a Phantom-class dropship. These new dropships had a much greater troop and equipment capacity, and had a miniature gravity lift that didn't require the craft to actually touch the ground. As soon as they reached the surface, Oriné would order the pilots to pull out of the atmosphere and remain in low orbit, not to return until they received the appropriate signal.
On the surface, his troops always moved with careful precision, though if time allowed it Oriné would have the soldiers under his command sweep through entire complexes and eradicate the remnants of the Flood that still clung to what was excused as life. The Grunts in his unit would be issued either overcharged Plasma Rifles that had 3 more charge per shot or a Fuel Rod Cannon, both weapons more than adequate to decimate the entire ranks of Flood that they came across. The Elites were given Plasma Swords, overcharged Plasma Rifles, and Carbines to deal with Flood and Sentinels, the mechanical warriors of Halo, though it was rare that any were found functioning.
However, one of his assignments brought him to the scene of his last battle on Halo. The snow-covered region had been damaged by the annihilation of the ring, but that particular section escaped most of the damage that it could have suffered. As they flew through the valley en-route to the control room, or whatever remained of it, they passed over the site of the battle that had cost Oriné so much: many of his friends, his commander… so many of his fellow soldiers, all to the Demon. He permitted himself to shed a single tear in their memory.
Besides his duties as a commander and leader, Oriné found he had access to entirely new realms aboard High Charity. His status as an Ultra gained him instant recognition from Councilors: they invited him to their homes to drink of their wine and eat of their food. Oriné never turned them down, and he found pleasant, intelligent conversation in abundance. Many of those he supped with had ulterior motives, to be sure, but some just wanted to enjoy his company. He found himself drawn more and more to political forums, where he would occasionally see Yarna, and he listened in on the latest discussions. Most of the debates were surrounding the Jiralhanae and the alarming rise in favor towards them, but others cropped up from time to time.
That was how he had first overheard of Regret's plan to take a fleet and investigate a planet. Apparently there had been data recovered from the ruins of the control room that suggested a certain planet held a great treasure of the Forerunners. The star was unidentified, but it had been confirmed that the planet held the third orbit, a good candidate for a Forerunner world.
The call for the fleet came quickly, and Oriné and his team were placed high in the rosters. The Apotheosis of Duty was to remain behind, under command of its own Ship Master, and continue its duty; the Elite Ultra was to be transferred to another ship, though which one it was he couldn't be certain. Fifteen ships in all were to venture to this planet to search for the Forerunner artifact, but no one was certain what it was exactly that they were going to find.