Chapter 2: Captivity

A rumble stirred him.

Mind fogged and eyes bleary, Oriné 'Fulsamee pushed himself up off the uncomfortable bench he had been provided, which the humans so mockingly referred to as a "bed." He glanced around, no longer alarmed by the lack of light in his cell. A single strip of dull fluorescent light situated at the far corner provided all the illumination he would receive; he was unsure how deep, but he knew this place where he was kept prisoner was far, far underground. Now the light flickered unsteadily.

Damnable creatures, he thought bitterly. They were torturing him even now, he knew, as he lay in his cell. He had refused to divulge the information they desired to pull from him and they were making him suffer for it.

For a moment, the despair was too much to choke down. How long had he been trapped here? With no natural light he had no idea how the days passed. Time was indeterminate. He made to lie back down on his hard bench, but his mind cleared enough for him to realize the silence that had fallen over the compound.

With great caution, Oriné pushed himself back up into a sitting position, his armor shifting uncomfortably on him. The humans hadn't confiscated it, instead removing only his shield and active camouflage generators.

Slowly he rose on his unsteady hooves, shuffling his way to the bars of his cell. Carefully he reached out and touched a finger to the bars and immediately drew it back... but the electrical charge that usually followed was no longer present. With a bit more confidence he placed his hand against the cool metal; nothing, not even a flicker. He glanced back at the light. It struggled to provide what it could, but was losing the battle. In the hall beyond his cell, every other light had gone dark, leaving only faint emergency lighting.

He pounded his open palm against the steel, making a racket. No human came to investigate.

What has transpired?

He continued his noisemaking to see what would happen, but there was nothing. Taking a few steps back, Oriné assessed the situation. Had he been left for dead? Unlikely. The chances of him surviving and escaping were too great. But where were the human soldiers, standing at their posts and watching the prisoners with keen eyes? Or those horrible lieutenants that pulled them from their cells for torture and interrogation? None of them were anywhere to be seen.

Then he felt it: a very distant, very subdued rumble. He looked up as the light flickered even more rapidly, nearly failing but recovering just barely. Whatever had happened was happening on the surface, he realized. Something so calamitous that the guards, the lieutenants, everybody had been recalled, leaving the prisoners unattended.

Foolish.

Though his strength had been waning since being incarcerated within these walls of stone and steel, Oriné was still confident in his abilities as a soldier. He was an Elite Ultra, among the most deadly fighters to wage war for the Covenant. He was skilled in the use of all vehicles and weapons, but his most deadly weapon was his body. Adopting a martial stance the Sangheili clicked his four mandibles and lunged, kicking out with his right hoof and smashing it straight into the steel rods that made up the barrier. It buckled beneath the force of the blow but did not break, taking three more strikes before finally collapsing outward.

Oriné stepped over the wreckage and looked around. He expected an alarm but heard nothing; either it was silent or it too had become deactivated. A macabre silence had fallen over the facility.

He made a quick check of the nearby cells. No one else was being kept in this block, it seemed; all other cells were empty. Snorting he pressed himself up against the far wall and began making his way down the corridor, moving quickly through the lit portions and doing his best to remain in the shadows. The brilliant pearlescent armor of a Special Operations Commander was, ironically, a poor choice for stealth missions.

Resolve strengthened his mind. I must find Rurut and escape this place.

Gods be with me.

It took him almost an hour of searching, but at last he managed his way up several levels to where the Unggoy were being kept. He had not encountered a single human yet. As he entered the cell block, he noticed many squat circular crates, one in each cell with all the rest stored in the hallway. He snorted. These were the battlefield methane dispensers, deployed at forward camps in order to ensure the Grunts' survival to fight and die for the Gods. For some reason, the humans were concerned with their well-being. Thinking on it, Oriné decided that they simply required fodder for interrogation.

Walking down the cells, the Elite Ultra discovered that there were fewer Unggoy prisoners than he thought. Most were heavily drugged and unaware of his presence, though a few reached for him pitifully. For a moment, compassion warmed his cold heart, but he stayed his hand. He needed to maintain stealth, and Rurut was the only Unggoy he trusted to be able to do so.

Finally he found a familiar face. Slumped against the back wall, next to the methane dispenser, Rurut sat staring listlessly forward. Leaning down, Oriné hissed the Grunt's name through the bars, but he remained impassive and unresponsive. He tried several more times, but the Unggoy seemed horribly out of sorts.

Growing impatient, Oriné reared himself up to his full height and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Sub-Commander Rurut," he bellowed, "wake up and do your duty to the Covenant!"

That got a reaction, slight as it was. Rurut's head turned slowly so his eyes locked on the Sangheili. "Oriné?" he asked sleepily. "Is that you?"

Relief washed over the Sangheili. "Yes, it's me," he said, taking a step back. "Watch out."

His strength was returning. Now it only took two firm kicks before the barred door gave way under his booted hoof. As it caved, Oriné rushed into the cell to help his friend in standing. The diminutive creature could barely mange, his knees were so wobbly and muscles so lax. He had clearly been drugged recently. The Elite Ultra cast a glare at the methane dispenser, now certain that was how the narcotics were being administered. He would have kicked it, were the gas within not so volatile.

"I'm sorry... Oriné, I'm sorry," Rurut kept mumbling.

"There is no need to be sorry. You must find your legs again."

"I talked. They... something is in the methane, we all talked..."

Oriné remembered what that one lieutenant had told him. How long ago had that been? He wasn't sure. Time was uncertain here. "It will be all right," he said, though he wasn't certain of that himself. "We will not give them the time they need to use whatever information you gave them. Come with me, we're escaping this horrible place."

With Oriné's aid, the pair began to slowly make their way towards the central elevator.


Through the window, Special Operations Commander Rtas 'Vadumee could see the assembled ships swiftly assuming their positions around the holy ring and surrounding space, and others only just slipping in-system; he was confident his orders to make and maintain quarantine would be transmitted and, more importantly, followed to the letter.

What he was less confident of was the Arbiter's proposal.

The strategic command center had been the accepted meeting place of the cabal of Ship Masters, Fleet Masters, and other high-ranked Sangheili who 'Vadumee had summoned here. Ordinarily, such a gathering would have a level of dignity to it: Kig-Yar servers would be coming and going with pitchers of wine, plates of the best food from the available stores, and polite silence. The battle table would have been lowered so all could kneel before it and enjoy themselves, laughing at jests and boasting of victories as they planned the latest phase of the campaign. On the walls, the decorative and tastelessly overgrown vines native to Sanghelios would be alight with the merriment of all present.

But now, such conditions could not be met for a variety of reasons. There were no Kig-Yar servants, as they had largely chosen to remain loyal to the Prophets. The best of the ship's stores wasn't available because it was being carefully rationed among a fleet laden with refugees. The table was not lowered because the guests were not to kneel but stand. No music, no gaiety, no leisure; 'Vadumee had made that point clear. The Prophets' betrayal had been felt far and wide in what was increasingly looking like a planned civil war. There would be no rest until those responsible were brought to vengeful justice.

'Vadumee stood ram-rod straight to the left of the Arbiter at the head of the table. On the right, a place reserved for guests of honor, stood the human commander Keyes. Admittedly, Rtas had been quite surprised when the Arbiter had willingly, and without any sort of binding, allowed the humans aboard the ship. But it had slowly dawned on the Commander that things had changed a great deal in a very short amount of time. Thinking on it, had it not been the Prophets to declare the human race as vermin? Why would they be right about that fact if they had been so wrong about a great many others?

The human female shifted her weight. With his right eye, the Sangheili studied her intently. She was much shorter than any of the Elites in the room, with the strange, almost sculpted appearance of her entire race. Her presence, however, was titanic, making most of the other Sangheili agitated and short-tempered; if he was any expert in human body language, he'd say she more than reciprocated.

Some Sangheili, however, were clearly not perturbed or even surprised by her presence. Rtas thought that maybe they had come to the same conclusion he had.

The Arbiter stepped forward and all fell silent out of a combination of respect and curiosity. His brown eyes looked over them. "I thank you for assembling so quickly," he began, "but I fear it has not been quick enough. The Prophet of Truth has turned the Covenant upon itself in a move of treachery we cannot even begin to fathom. I cannot guess how far this schism may run, but rest assured that we must now take steps to ensure our survival and the downfall of our enemies."

One of the golden-armored Sangheili present stepped forward and put his hand on the table. 'Vadumee immediately identified him as a Ship Commander having been placed in charge of a small frigate to scout space for Forerunner artifacts. In deep space, political updates and information would have rarely reached him. "Excellency, what has happened? Why do we speak of a Hierarch with such disdain?"

Rtas answered his question. "The filthy traitor has ordered the death of all Sangheili, favoring the Jiralhanae and setting them upon us like flies to drown us in their mass. It seems that for ages the Prophets have lied to us, led us along as willing servants and dupes to a horrible fate. His actions have revealed the very foundations of the Covenant to be naught but a lie."

The collected officers all muttered and looked from one to another. Some were nodding their heads in somber agreement, having experienced either that same betrayal or one close enough to it; others had fear or anger in their eyes, unwilling or unable to believe what had transpired. The Covenant had been in place since long before any of them were born. That it could be so broken was beyond their comprehension. Rtas looked on with worry as some Ship Masters laid their hands on their energy swords while others motioned for them to stay their weapons. He feared it may come to blows, the last thing the Sangheili needed: a second civil war right in the middle of the first.

One Ship Commander was brazen enough to put his hoof upon the table menacingly, holding an inactive sword hilt in his hand, visually threatening to stand upon the surface and charge at the two who dared speak these words. "What proofs have you?" he demanded. "Why do you say these heresies, you who should be the most holy of us all?"

Despite the situation, the Arbiter was stoically calm. "Indeed, I am holy in the eyes of the Forerunner," he said, his baritone voice washing over the crowd and subduing their urges, be they for one cause or another. Rtas detected a hint of irony in his friend's voice. "I have brought with me divine truth." The ceremonially-armored warrior looked behind him towards the door, beckoning with an outstretched hand. "Oracle, come forth."

The door slid open and the Oracle floated in, casting its radiant blue light around it like an aura. Immediately the officers at the table sank to their knees, mandibles slack as they gazed upon one of the most holy of relics. Even Rtas had to fight the urge, ingrained as it was, to worship the construct. He had already heard what it was to say here, when in private counsel with the Arbiter, and he had felt the weight of its words and the sharp blade of truth it wielded. It was a blunt method, too straightforward he feared, but effective. The Oracle hovered its way over to the Arbiter whereupon it stopped and looked back and forth across all the new faces.

"Greetings," it said a bit too brightly for the occasion. "I am Three-Four-Three Guilty Spark, monitor of Installation Zero-Four."

"Oracle," the Arbiter intoned, "tell us again of the Halos and their purpose."

The construct bobbed in mid-air. "Gladly." He hovered out to the center of the table. The image that hovered there, one of a tactical map of the area surrounding the Halo and all the ships stationed around it, warped and changed into a map of the galaxy. The collected Sangheili gasped, astonished at the Oracle's easy manipulation of the image. Rtas felt his own eyes widen in amazement. He had not seen this demonstration before.

"The seven rings are a last-resort system, built by the Forerunner to eliminate Flood hosts," it said. As it spoke, seven markers appeared on the map. 'Vadumee recognized their current position, as well as the marker that flashed red; that had been the previous sacred ring, the one destroyed by the Demon. "When activated, each installation will release a combined wave to cover the entire galaxy. This pulse is designed to eradicate any sentient life that could be used as vehicles by the Flood."

The Arbiter took a small step closer to the table. "And of the Forerunners?"

Fleet markers appeared, representing the Forerunner fleets as they fought in a last struggle, a final stand against the Flood... or so it seemed to Rtas. "Once the rings were activated, my masters were no less of a target than any other race," the Oracle said. Simulated pulses fired from the Halos, and as they passed through the Forerunner fleets the markers turned red and vanished. "They, and all non-Indexed sentient life within three radii of galactic center, died as intended." The map turned into several tables, charts, and readouts of energy spikes; the Oracle looked ready to continue with a more in-depth description, but the Arbiter held up a hand.

All around the room, the Sangheili officers had slowly risen from their humbled postures to gaze at the table. Now they simply stood, staring numbly at the table, just now fathoming the truth presented before them. The Great Journey was a lie. The Covenant was a fraud. The High Prophet of Truth, the one they had all followed so blindly, had nearly led them all to their deaths.

"My brothers," the Arbiter said softly. In the complete silence of the room, even his hushed voice carried far. "We have been betrayed by a power that we believed in. I realize this is difficult to grasp, but we must now think ahead. There are many repercussions that we must be ready for, not the least of which is making amends for blood wrongfully spilt."

All eyes looked up and fell upon the human commander. Whereas a moment ago they had been full of hate and anger, now they spoke of loss and grief. No doubt most of it was personal, but Rtas knew that, in each one's heart, they were realizing their mistakes. The crusade against the humans had gone on for twenty-seven years; and for each of those years they had hunted and burned these creatures. Eighty-two worlds full of people reduced to glass and memories, seventy-eight billion lives now stained their hands.

Reactions were slow to come but they were intense. Some wept bitterly, others cursed the Prophets and the Gods alike; still others simply bowed their heads, so overcome with shame as to not be able to function. The human female stood there, resolute as ever, watching these displays. Rtas supposed that she found it hard to believe that they felt truly sorry; in a way, he didn't blame her. Even now his heart bled, knowing how many humans had been killed by his hand. He, like many others, had kept count of their kills so they could brag of things such as glory and honor.

How hollow those words sounded now.

The Arbiter called for attention, and some semblance of order was restored among the officers. "There is much to be done and not much time for action," he said. "The Prophet of Truth is now en-route to the humans' home world to complete the genocide we started and activate the rings. If he were to do so, all in the galaxy would perish: us, our brothers-in-arms, our families and our enemies alike.

"I will depart directly from here to the human's world in order to propose an alliance. The humans will come with me, and together we shall hopefully be able to negotiate a cease-fire long enough for us to have our revenge against those who wronged us. A group of ships should also be dispatched to Sanghelios, to tell our people of these truths and dangers that now face us. It is possible, even likely, that our own world is embroiled in this conflict already, but if we act soon we may not be too late."

A Ship Master looked up. "What should be done about the Prophet of Truth?"

Rtas stepped forward. "From what the Oracle and the humans have told us, Truth is looking for an object called the Ark, from which he can engage all the sacred rings and"—he had to consciously work his mandibles to avoid the words "begin the Great Journey"—"bring all life in the galaxy to its end."

Another Zealot scoffed. "Why should an alliance with the humans be so worthwhile?"

Before Rtas or the Arbiter could reply, a Ship Master cast a dirty look at the speaker. "We of all the Covenant clients should know the value of the humans. When our warriors clashed in battle with theirs, though we called it an extermination, it was nothing of the sort. Blood spilled for blood, and the humans proved that they were worthy adversaries time and again. In fact, it was us who dishonored them when we burned their planets from orbit when ground combat was a far fairer and more even exchange."

"Why should the humans even accept an alliance?" One Ship Commander from further down the table said. He turned towards the human commander. "With all due respect, your people would have countless reservations if such an agreement was decided upon, and not reservations without merit."

Keyes, arms crossed, tapped her fingers against her sleeve. A nervous tick, or perhaps some gesture of significance? "Yes, we would," she said, "but we know about having powerful allies. We'd accept a treaty out of necessity, but you're right in saying that we wouldn't like it. Circumstances as they are, we're screwed otherwise."

"You are certain of your leadership's cooperation?" the Arbiter asked.

At this, Keyes shrugged, an odd motion barely familiar to Rtas. "I'm going on a lot of assumptions, but I think I'm right."

"What of the Parasite?" the Ship Commander from earlier asked. His posture was no longer confrontational; now he was resigned to do what he could to make up for his past mistakes.

The Arbiter took the inquiry. "This fleet must remain here to safeguard against the release of the Flood. We should consider the possibility of destroying Halo, so as to prevent the spread of the Flood further." For a moment, Rtas couldn't help but admire the Gods' cruel sense of irony. Here was a former Supreme Commander, disgraced by the destruction of the first sacred ring, proposing the idea of destroying the second.

"Indignation!" The Oracle suddenly said, making the collected Sangheili jump. It floated over the table, somehow seeming to be upset without any visible features. "It may not be my installation, but destruction of the array is strictly forbidden!"

The Arbiter leaned down to Keyes' level. "Commander," he said quietly, "would you kindly take the Oracle out of this place? Its use in this discussion is at an end." Nodding, she beckoned for the Oracle to follow and left, the construct bobbing along behind her as she went. The doors sealed shut after they left.

Another officer spoke up. "What ships shall depart to Sanghelios, and who shall lead the expedition?"

"We will send however many ships are required to transport the refugees from High Charity, as we must ensure that our women and children are safe from the Parasite and from our newfound enemies. As for who shall lead..."

Rtas had been listening to the speech, staring at the hologram on the table, nodding along with the Arbiter's words. As his words trailed off into silence, however, he looked up and was shocked to see the Sangheili looking directly at him.

"Me, Arbiter?"

He nodded. "You led the reclamation of the Purity of Spirit, and fought beside me with honor many times on the sacred ring. I can think of no one better to convince our people of the urgency of our situation. Would you accept this?"

"I..." Rtas trailed off. He was not sure what to think. His father was a renowned Fleet Master, and since his days as a crècheling he had dreamed of joining him among the stars. "Yes," he finally said, half-drunk with glory, "I would be honored to receive this duty, Arbiter, and will carry it out to the fullest of my ability."

"Excellent. Consider yourself the new Ship Master of the Spirit."

The rest of the meeting was logistics planning. At least a few hundred ships would be needed to maintain quarantine of Halo, and though it put a great burden on those ships bound for Sanghelios, it was necessary. A tight net had to be maintained, as well as active surveillance of High Charity. Several ships had still been docked when the city fell to the Parasite, and they might have already been turned into vehicles of corruption. The external defenses of High Charity had to be destroyed so that Sangheili ships could get close enough to monitor the situation.

However, one Sangheili among them took issue with that. Rtas recognized him immediately. "Ship Master 'Kaeromee," he said with respect, "I was wondering if you would donate your ideas to this discussion."

Gersha 'Kaeromee nodded from his place next to the table. "Arbiter, Ship Master 'Vadumee, I have a far more... radical proposal."

"Speak," the Arbiter said.

"We must destroy High Charity."

Murmurs spread throughout the gathering of officers. Rtas understood their reluctance; even though the Flood occupied it, it had been home to hundreds of thousands of families. Many of those in this room could have called their birthplace. The idea of destroying it was sacrilege to them. But Rtas's father had said that sometimes prudence had to overpower sentiment.

Apparently 'Kaeromee agreed. "My Special Operations teams have reported it to be completely overrun, already being transformed into their hive," he said. "The air is no longer breathable, the ceilings and walls are overgrown with tissue, what was once our home is now inhabited by monsters of an unspeakable nature." His fist squeezed tight. "We must destroy it, so that it will not become a cursed place in the eye of history."

His speech, impassioned as it was, rang through the Sangheili. Those who had muttered were now silent in contemplation. It would not be an easy decision. "Thank you," the Arbiter said. "We shall consider that soon. For now, I would recommend a brief recess, so that we may all clear our heads." The suggestion was accepted unanimously, and the officers all filed out to mingle and talk quietly.

As the Arbiter paced out of the room towards his chambers, which had been converted from the Prophet's private sanctum, Rtas followed on his heels. "I am honored by your decision, Arbiter," he said, "but I feel like I do not deserve it."

"I empathize," the ceremonially-armored warrior replied without turning around, "but there is more to it than honor. I require a steady and dependable friend in a position to command large numbers. You certainly deserve it, but for a reason other than why I am awarding it to you."

Once in his quarters, the Arbiter sat down heavily on his gel bed. Rtas remained standing by the door, looking on in sympathy. He had known the hero for quite a time now, even before he was the champion of the Sangheili, back when his name was still his own. But now, he wondered, could the Arbiter reclaim his name? After all, it had been the Prophets that decreed it be removed, and now they were hardly an authority.

He realized the Arbiter was looking at him. "Your wound looks better," he said. Rtas's hand instinctively twitched, the Sangheili barely repressing the urge to bring his fingers up to graze over the nubs where once his mandibles had been. Their absence was a constant reminder of the Flood's deviousness.

Instead he straightened where he stood. "Yes," he said, "the flesh is growing back onto it nicely, though some parts will remain mangled and scarred. The Healers say that if it continues at this rate, the injury will seem as a defect of my birth from a distance." It was hardly a better choice, as war scars were praised while defects were shunned, but sometimes he felt embarrassed by the loss.

The Arbiter nodded. "I've always felt poorly about your injury. Being the one to order you into combat against an unknown enemy, I feel responsible."

"You were only fulfilling your station. You had responsibilities to the Fleet."

"Clearly I should have had more responsibilities to my own kind."

Rtas was about to retort when his radio chimed. The Arbiter looked up, curious, but the newly appointed Ship Master held up a hand. "This is 'Vadumee, go ahead."

"Excellency, the Flood ships have begun to congregate around High Charity."

A frown formed on his face. What were those insidious things planning? "Very well, I'll be on the bridge shortly." He brought his hand down from the transmitter button and looked at the Arbiter. "We may have a situation developing."


If the total lack of human guards had been enough to unnerve Oriné, then the absence of any humans on the entire elevator ride up was enough to throw his mind into a state of quiet panic. His mind was filled with memories of his battle on Halo, particularly just before the Parasite was released. The Forerunner structure had been as quiet and still as this place was now; even though he knew he was on the humans' home world, he still thought he saw movement scuttling about in the shadows.

Maybe I will feel better once I'm armed, he thought, but he had no idea where an armory was and wasn't willing to search. It could be that the humans would return at any moment, and being caught outside of his cell would result in immediate execution.

Based on the length of time, Oriné understood how far down they had been kept. He turned his attention to Rurut, who was beginning to sober up from the effects of the drug, but his methane was still tainted. At this point he was highly susceptible to suggestion; it was obvious the humans' concoction was intended to make the Unggoy compliant.

The Elite Ultra felt a pang of regret for the Grunts he had left down below, but there had been no alternative. If the Covenant claimed this place, they'd be set free; if the humans did... well, it would be no different than before.

Finally the elevator stopped; Oriné pressed himself against one side and motioned for Rurut to do the same. When the door opened, he stuck his head out for a moment to assess the situation, but did not pull it back. No one awaited them. The Sangheili stepped out into a lobby, decorated with human vegetation and white-and-silver themes, the ceiling arcing high above their heads, and Oriné was momentarily struck with how much like a Forerunner antechamber it appeared. He shook his head; humans often perverted and twisted the designs of the Gods as a mockery of Their greatness. He should not have been surprised to see it evident.

However, the room held a kind of reserved beauty. Light fixtures, smooth and simple, hung from the ceiling. The entire far wall, in which a door was set, was entirely glass, letting in blinding sunlight. Oriné hadn't realized how accustomed to the dark he had been until now, having difficulty seeing past the glowing panes. All around him were desks, disheveled and seemingly forgotten.

"Where have they gone?" he asked aloud, but didn't expect Rurut to respond. The Unggoy only shook his head, walking over to a human's workstation and poking around.

"Excellency," he said, beckoning for the Sangheili, "look at this."

Oriné approached and gazed at the terminal located within. On a monitor supported by a thin stand he saw text, the human glyphics on the screen. Analyzing it, he realized it had been a message not yet transmitted. And judging by the abrupt ending, whoever had been writing it had been interrupted before completion, likely by the same event that left the entire complex abandoned.

"What has happened?"

His answer came not from his Grunt companion but from the outside. An explosion, immeasurable in intensity, shook the entire lobby. The fixtures on the ceiling swayed dangerously, books and small items cascaded off of shelves, and several monitors collapsed. Oriné reached out to steady himself against the low wall that surrounded the desk but it fell and took him with it.

When the tremors subsided, the Elite Ultra rose quickly to his feet and began striding towards the exit. Rurut jogged behind him. "Excellency, what is it? What is happening?"

"I know that type of explosion," Oriné said. He remembered it from various campaigns, distinct in its destructive capabilities. It was a plasma artillery bombardment; though he had mostly been on the administering end, he remembered a time on another world when the humans and Covenant had been so intermingled in battle that the Field Master had little choice but to shell his own warriors. Oriné and his unit had managed to stay alive, but many others had been killed.

Once outside he was momentarily blinded, but his eyes adjusted quickly.

And he saw why the facility was empty.

A full-scale battle was underway. Hovering low in the atmosphere were three Covenant cruisers, each firing nonstop at both ground and air targets; across from them were five human frigates, staggering their MAC rounds to keep up a constant bombardment. Banshees clashed with Longswords and Hornets above his head, filling the air with debris. And on the ground, the fighting was fierce; from his position Oriné could see a pitched battle raging between human forces that were dug in, some appearing to be personnel not particularly trained in combat, and a distant Covenant force.

Before he could dwell more on the matter, someone shouted and a row of bullets stitched the concrete just left of his hooves. Ducking instinctively, he dove to one side as a three-round burst fired straight through the glass.

"Rurut!" he cried out. "Follow me!"

The two made a mad dash for cover, bullets tracing along behind them and punching small holes in the metal building behind them. Once his shield would have completely deflected the small pieces of debris pinging off his armor, but now he felt each razor sharp flake as they hit his face and upper arms. It stung, perhaps a few even broke the skin, but he pushed forward. Behind him, Rurut was making impressive speed and seemed unaffected, either because of previous experience or maybe the gas.

Up ahead was an alcove; Oriné slid right into it and glanced around. The fire had lessened, possibly because of external pressure from the Covenant's push, but it hadn't completely been redirected and he needed to move. He and his partner were easy targets for a grenade while in that corner.

"Sub-Commander," he said, glancing around, "I'm afraid I must take a risky course of action."

"What is that, Excellency?" Rurut's body language was growing clearer, but his voice still had a dream-like lilt to it.

"We must rush the humans' position if we wish to escape."

The Grunt seemed to mull it over. "That is risky."

"It is." With that, Oriné charged forward. His plan seemed to be working: the humans, some the properly armored soldier while the others looked like they belonged at that desk, hadn't anticipated him to come towards them. Before they could level their weapons the Elite Ultra was on top of them. He delivered two vicious punches, dropping the nearest two humans and leaving only two more.

Using human weapons was dishonorable and discouraged, but not expressly forbidden. Oriné met the scripture halfway, grabbing one of the human rifles by its body and swinging it like he would a nadier. In such a fashion he was able to neutralize both of the other humans, only one getting off a shot, though Oriné believed it had been by accident as he slapped the weapon upwards. As the alien fell backwards, face bloodied, Oriné ducked down behind their own entrenchments. He motioned Rurut forward.

"How goes the battle?" the Unggoy asked, crouching down but not as low. Oriné looked up over the edge of the sandbags and watched; there was something strange about the Covenant formation. At this distance he could only make out several Grunts and Jackals; larger shadows moved, but they didn't seem to fit the proper contours to be Elites or Hunters.

Impossible, Oriné thought dismissively. Clearly his vision was not as recovered as he had hoped. "We have them trapped." Oriné looked further down the line; none of the other humans had taken interest yet, but soon they would turn their weapons on him. It was best to move on. "Prepare to run."

He waited until he saw the nearest humans reload, and then catapulted himself over the sandbags with Rurut right behind him. It was quite a sprint: the nearest group of buildings was over a wide highway with a waist-high concrete division down the middle. Just before he reached the divide the gunfire warmed back up again and he felt the bite of a metal bullet in his knee—his bad knee. A splatter of violet fluid appeared on the white concrete, but Oriné didn't try to arrest his momentum. He hit the divider at full speed and flipped over it, coming to an inglorious stop on his stomach. Groaning and rolling over, he saw Rurut barrel over with the same method and barely shifted himself out of the way in time before 118 kilograms of Unggoy plus breather rig crashed on top of him.

"Your plans," gasped the Grunt, "go beyond risky."

"Sometimes," Oriné said, sitting up. The bullet had bitten through his upper calf armor and dug into the flesh beneath, as evidenced by the slow and steady stream of blood running out of the hole. However, it did not seem too serious. He struggled into a crouch against the divider. "We must link up with our forces. Come along."


"A moment for a friend?"

Maka looked up, surprised at the interruption. In front of him stood N'tho 'Sraomee, helmet removed with an imploring look on his face. Nodding, Maka set aside the Carbine he had been cleaning and slid off the top of the weapons crate. "Are you well?"

"Physically yes," N'tho responded, "but I am spiritually conflicted."

"How so?"

"My name has brought me much trouble these past few days."

The Elite Minors shared a look, Maka's far more puzzled. "Someone teases you for your name?" He wondered a moment. "The 'Sraom Clan may not be reputed, but I believe the House of Om is a strong one."

The other Minor chuckled. "No, you misunderstand. No one mocks my family name, but recent events have led to questions in my mind."

"Oh?"

"We have split from the Covenant, apostatizing ourselves from the Prophets. Is it truly right to maintain our military appellations?" Maka nictitated. "Wonder a moment: if we adopted our suffixes for the Covenant military, now that we have broken free, why do we still wear the shackles around our wrists and ankles? They only bind us to the memory of subservience."

Thinking on it, Maka realized he felt conflicted as well. On the one hand, N'tho made a very convincing argument. The "-ee" suffix had become irreversibly tied to the Covenant, though from his Knowledge curriculum at Institution the Elite Minor knew such nomenclature had existed long before the Prophets' intervention. It had simply not seen such wide use. In such an age of terror and looming death, sentimentality amounted more to a hindrance than a help.

But at the same time, he remembered how hard he worked to earn it. His time on Jisako had been terrible, claiming over half the lives placed in that sector. Afterwards he had learned that the desert world's star was in the throes of a solar cycle, creating havoc on its second planet. However, to the young Sangheili that had been stranded for a year, it seemed like nothing less than the wrath of the Gods Themselves. Month-long sandstorms, an almost complete lack of water, predators frenzied by the new patterns and driven to desperation by a dwindling food supply; it had nearly spelled his end. His ascension into the military had been the only thing stopping the madness from setting in.

Within himself he could find no reconciliation, so he turned externally. First his mind's eye drifted towards the Forerunners, but he hesitated. Were they truly Gods or just extinct phantoms sustained only by the delusions of a xenophobic hegemony? Again, no answer, so he turned to the last bastion of guidance: what would my brothers do?

They were war heroes both, though each had a dark and treacherous past. Orna had left home and slipped into the darkness of space; not since Oriné's return from Jisako had the family heard anything directly from him. Supposedly he was a Supreme Commander, but what did that mean when he was too far removed from his own bloodline for it to be relevant? And Oriné himself had been a lesson in retribution, losing his twin sister and the family's honor to the Prophets, even though later he had been commended and promoted greatly for his service on the first Halo. Even Maka, struggling through his final Proofs at Institution, isolated from those whom he could call siblings, had been aware of his distant brothers' successes. Together they had given him a guiding light even in their absence, marks which he was to match and surpass.

And so he realized that devotion to sentimentality, to tradition, had brought his own Lineage nothing but pain and sorrow. Exile and heresy was all that awaited him if he simply continued down the path determined for him.

Satisfied, he looked at N'tho, who had been staring at him curiously for the several moments it took for this internal revelation. "You are correct. As a people and as individuals we deserve to be unshackled from the methodology of our forefathers and to allow us to move ever forward." He reached out a hand, which his comrade took with zeal. "From this moment I renounce my military appellation as a wasteful and ancient tradition. I am simply Maka 'Fulsam, and I will stride on with all my heart and soul."

"And I, too, renounce my Covenant-given name. I am N'tho 'Sraom." They shook each other's forearms heartily and touched foreheads. "Shall we spread our message of rejuvenation to our fellow Sangheili?"

Maka could not help but grin widely. "Yes, let us liberate our people."

It took much discussion, debate, and persuasion, but soon many of the Sangheili on the Purity of Spirit took to the change and spread it to the rest of the fleet. Though it would take a long time, eventually it would spread to all Sangheili.

Maka 'Fulsam had started a social revolution.


Rtas and the Arbiter entered the bridge. Immediately the silver-armored Ship Master hurried up to the command platform and keyed the communications rune. "What is the status of High Charity?"

"Holding station, Excellency. Some of the Flood-controlled ships are falling back towards the sacred ring."

"What?"

A new voice came over the radio. "They appear to be taking up position to load troops."

Rtas clenched his fists. "This cannot be allowed to go further." He opened a channel to the fleet. "Prepare to advance! We shall burn the Halo and engage the ships!" He turned back to the ceremonially armored warrior. "Arbiter, I would recommend you choose a ship for your mission to Earth and depart immediately. I would not want to risk your life in the coming battle."

The Arbiter gave him a look. "You think my life endangered in combat against the Parasite?"

"I know not its ship combat abilities, but if it is true that it may draw from the knowledge of those infected, it already has several capable Ship Masters under its sway. You and I both know that only a handful of ships used effectively can decimate an entire fleet."

It was a shared and painful memory. During the beginning of the Arbiter's career as former Supreme Commander of the Fleet of Particular Justice, very early in Rtas 'Vadumee's time as an Operative, the Arbiter had suffered a near-fatal mutiny. One Ship Master, Thel 'Vadamee, rose up against him, claiming to be more worthy of the mantle of Leader than the Arbiter. 'Vadamee had been from the Yermo region of Sanghelios, a dominion steeped in the medieval traditions of his people; he was kaidon of the 'Vadam Keep, an ancient leadership rank of an even older concept of living. Manorialism to such an extent had fallen out of favor with the Sangheili at large during the War of Fortune, as such division was seen as weakening in the face of the Prophets.

Due to his dated beliefs, 'Vadamee was only able to convince a few other Ship Masters of his thoughts, but through his ruthless maneuvering was able to disable half of the fleet before finally being stopped. The Arbiter had executed the traitor himself, then had the body sent back to Yermo to inflict humiliation upon the 'Vadam Lineage. When he had been Supreme Commander, the Arbiter had not been one for mercy.

The lesson learned then was applicable now, as was the sting of being reminded of such times long passed. Straightening his posture, the Arbiter nodded. "Very well. I shall gather the humans and return to their home world."

"Take an escort," Rtas said, "preferably warriors with whom you have fought before. I do not fully trust the humans and their devices just yet."

The Arbiter left the bridge, moving through the ship towards the room in which the humans were waiting. Very few of the Sangheili aboard had fought by his side, only those that had survived the final battle against Tartarus and those who had been sent by 'Vadumee to bring him to the cruiser shortly thereafter.

It was from these candidates, he decided, that he would make his choice.

On his way towards the humans' quarters he overheard a commotion. From the sound of it, there were two raised Sangheili voices, and the closer he became the more he understood of the harsh words being thrown about. Finally coming to a stop in an armory, the Arbiter saw two Elite Minors being berated by a Ranger Major.

"You undermine our culture!" the Major shouted, helmet clutched in an angry fist. Without the covering the Arbiter saw the myriad of scars crossing his bare flesh, identifiable bullet and plasma scars all. "Were things as they had been a month ago, you would both be burned for your heresy!"

One of the Elite Minors tensed visibly at the statement, but it was the other, a brash-looking warrior with orange eyes, who responded with equal zest. "It is because things are not as they were that we instigate these changes! Have you been blind and deaf these past days? Did you not see the San 'Shyuum killing our brothers? Did you not hear cries of battle and death?"

The Major clearly became furious at the rhetorical questions, and even the Arbiter himself felt somewhat stunned. Under the Covenant's rules, for a lesser race such as the Sangheili to utter the true name of the Prophets was heresy worthy of death. Then again, it was clear that the Covenant had been founded on lies; why should such respect be given now?

Obviously, the Major didn't share the idea. "I shall discipline you with a fervor worthy of a song!" As he raised his hand, the Arbiter saw fit to intervene. This was about to proceed beyond a mere heated discussion of politics, and he had seen in the planning room that independent Sangheili beliefs could be just as divisive as the present civil war.

"Hold," he said, stepping into the armory. The Ranger held his arm as all three Sangheili turned towards the hero, surprised by his presence. Immediately the Major dropped his hand, bowing as the Arbiter entered. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Arbiter," the Major said, not raising his eyes. "These two have been spreading their heretical ideals among the troops and trying to subvert the authority of..." He paused. "... our leadership."

One of the Minors growled. "You continue to delude yourself."

"What is this transgression?" The Arbiter had little care to listen to another exchange.

"They deny their military appellation," the Major said.

The Arbiter cocked his head towards the Minors. "Why?"

"It is a Covenant suffix, not of pure Sangheili descent. With our excommunication, we must stand alone, and we must stand strong."

A sound reason, he thought. Glancing back and forth, the Arbiter realized that he already knew these warriors. Two had fought beside him and the third had come to rescue him. And 'Vadumee did not specify the size of my escort. He resisted the urge to quirk a mandible. It was hardly becoming of someone of his stature.

He turned first to the Ranger. "Major 'Tahamee, am I correct? One's name is one's own concern, now that the Covenant is no longer an ally of ours. Should the Sangheili on this ship, in this fleet, or anywhere else in the galaxy wish to dispose of any part of it, it should be their right. And, had I still a name of my own, I would agree with them." 'Tahamee grumbled, but bowed deeper.

"By your word, Arbiter."

Next the ceremonially armored Sangheili turned his attention to the two Minors. "What are your names?"

The outspoken one straightened and bowed in a proper salute. "I am Elite Minor N'tho 'Sraom," he said. "It is an honor to be in your presence."

Beside him, the other Minor managed to look uncomfortable, though he stood still as a mountain. There was something in his eyes. He did, however, give a flawless salute. "Maka 'Fulsam," he said. The name hit the Arbiter as if it was a hammer, and he was only barely able to keep his stoic composure.

So this is the one of whom Field Commander 'Orgalmee spoke, he thought. A chill flooded his soul. The 'Fulsam Lineage continues.

"Prepare yourselves," he said to them. "I am designating you as my personal escort to the human home world. We are to negotiate a cease fire and attempt to rally our forces together. The Prophet of Truth must not be allowed to activate the Ark."

"Yes, Arbiter."


From the inside of the building, Oriné peered out into the street. The fighting had continued in earnest, the holy onslaught of the Covenant slowly whittling away the pitiful resistance offered by the humans, but the Elite Ultra couldn't help but be struck by the way the battle sounded. He and Rurut had holed up on a side street access to the human defenses; by now the attacking forces should have sent at least a scout to see how viable this line of attack was. So far the Covenant had maintained their position, apparently content to maintain their frontal push.

Such was not the way to win a battle, Oriné knew.

Still, for now the humans' attention was focused forward, which would give Oriné and Rurut the chance to reunite with the line. Hopefully there would be spare equipment available so he could slip in a new shield battery and join the fray instantly.

The Unggoy had become more lucid as well, a greater degree of clarity returning to his eyes. That was good. Eventually the Sangheili knew that he'd have to set aside some time to talk to his friend about what had happened during their incarceration, what exactly he had told them, but for now he had more important things to concern himself with.

"It is clear," he said, and the two moved back out into the fading daylight. From his knowledge of human cities, it would be a simple matter to find the appropriate road to link up with friendly forces.

A few minutes later, Oriné rounded a bend and saw, at a distance, a lone Grunt sentry. He bellowed a greeting, and the soldier looked up, apparently startled. He yelled something Oriné could not hear over his shoulder, and a moment later a new figure appeared.

That was when he realized something was wrong.

Oriné brought himself to a halt, holding out his hand to stop Rurut as well. The figure had contours he wasn't familiar with: the armor was very angular and asymmetrical, seeming to inconsistently favor both sides and neither. The wearer was also very tall, a good half-foot taller than Oriné, and hair poked out between the plates and leather of its harness.

A Jiralhanae? On the front line?

With a roar, the creature raised a large weapon. Oriné's eyes went wide. A Brute Shot.

His hesitation cost him dearly. Instantly the air was filled with shrapnel, grenades detonating all around him. Without a shield between himself and the lethal hail, bits of metal and concrete dug into his armor and sliced through exposed skin. Ducking he quickly tackled Rurut out of the way, another grenade going off too close to his head. The world reeled. Through the fog he realized the overpressure had given him a concussion, but he knew that they had to get to cover.

"Go! Go!" He grabbed Rurut by the shoulder and ran towards the nearest building. Why are they firing at us?! Pink needles whizzed by, one glancing off his helmet. Too close. With his shoulder he burst through the door. Struggling against blacking out, he stumbled up a set of stairs, followed closely by Rurut. Outside he heard the pounding of feet as the Jiralhanae gave chase. Oriné barely made it into a room before he felt his legs give out. His mind swam in an encroaching darkness.

He was only barely aware of the door cracking violently under the force of the Brute's foot, and he passed out just as the shadow entered the room.