Chapter 3: Supermassive Black Hole

Ship Master Rtas 'Vadumee watched as the Drowned in Honor pulled away from the quarantine fleet. The Arbiter, at the insistence of Ship Master Gersha 'Kaeromee, had chosen the carrier as his vehicle to reach Earth. Though Rtas didn't share the Arbiter's confidence that it would serve him well, he would of course bow to the decision of the de-facto Sangheili leader. Personally, a smaller craft would have been more suitable to run the blockade of Jiralhanae ships doubtlessly surrounding the human planet, but 'Kaeromee earnestly believed that he could power through the defenses with his vessel.

The Arbiter's life should not be subject to such folly, the ex-Special Operations Commander thought darkly. It was odd: his attitude towards the ceremonial hero had completely changed in such a short time, but then, so had a lot of other things. When he had served under him as one of the Prophet Blessed, Rtas had thought the Arbiter a very capable and ingenious commander, but when the first sacred ring had been destroyed and that capable commander found to be culpable, Rtas had lost that respect. But in becoming what he had, the green-eyed Sangheili wondered if that heresy had not just been another step of destiny, pushing the stoic warrior forward as the true champion of his people.

Time will tell, I suppose.

He keyed the communications rune. "Status," he ordered. "How goes the glassing?"

"We are beating back their ships while some of our cruisers continue the bombardment," one Ship Master reported. "The Parasite has hardly deployed a tenth of its force in defense of the sacred ring. The task should be completed shortly."

Rtas nodded and cut the link, gluing his eyes to the front viewscreens. While part of the quarantine fleet had indeed been dispatched to Halo to glass it, the rest of the hundreds of ships were maintaining a defensive sphere around High Charity and the Flood-controlled ships that had taken up refuge there. He couldn't take any chances. If any one of them was to escape...

Chasing a ship through Slipspace was not as difficult as so many believed, so long as you had the transponder code. Fortunately, the Fleet of Homogenous Clarity had its entire index of codes on the Battle Net, and the Elites were keeping careful track of which ships were under Flood control.

After Halo was taken care of, perhaps they would systematically destroy the enemy cruisers and the now-defiled Holy City of the Covenant. When the option was brought up in discussion, however, many of the Ship Masters voiced their concerns with that course of action. Indeed, some of them had been born and raised within its walls and didn't want to destroy their heritage, but many others saw this as a chance to study the Parasite.

So, for the time being, he would watch and wait.


Gersha 'Kaeromee detested the thought of sharing his bridge with anyone, and not only were there other Sangheili on the command deck but humans as well. That addition had introduced him to a whole new level of loathing, hatred so powerful he had no word for it. When he had volunteered to guide the Arbiter to Earth, he had thought that maybe the humans would stay in the brig; but it seemed that the ceremonial hero didn't think them to be safe alone anywhere on the ship, and kept them with him at all times. His escort as well, the three warriors, stayed at his side.

So it was that the golden-armored Sangheili found himself on the command platform with the Arbiter on his right and the human female Ship Master on his left; down below were three Sangheili and five humans, the former just milling about, the latter transfixed by the various holograms around the bridge.

"What would be the best approach?" The Arbiter asked the human commander. It... she took a look at the Slipspace charts.

"What's the situation around the planet?"

"Unknown," Gersha replied gruffly.

The Arbiter gave him a look. "Can we not query the ship transponders?"

"The query goes both ways, Arbiter," the Ship Master replied. "Should we do so, they will know our location and uncovering our intention would not be difficult from there. Above all we must maintain our element of surprise." The ceremonial hero looked disappointed, but he simply nodded his assent. "If we are to learn the situation, we must do manual scouting ourselves."

"Do you think the Brutes have overtaken our forces on the ground?"

"We left such a small contingent that there is little doubt in my mind. Likely they were defeated and killed days ago." The words burned Gersha's throat, leaving a sour taste among his mandibles. To say such things drove him mad, but in the face of this new threat pragmatism had to be valued over racial pride. Only by expecting the worst could they be prepared for anything.

"I say we drop out of Slipspace beyond the lunar perimeter," the human commander said again, indicating the planet's lone satellite. "We should be able to do some recon from there without being spotted easily."

Gersha turned towards the Arbiter. "If we remain in that moon's shadow and send probes around to the other side, we should be able to plot a jump into the upper atmosphere without being seen. Surprise will be ours and I will be able to offload you and your forces with ease." The plan was sound: the only two things that could reveal a Slipspace tear were gravity waves and the hole through space-time itself. However, sensors had to have a direct line-of-sight to lock on to the latter, and the former would be masked by the satellite's own gravity.

The ceremonial Sangheili affixed Gersha with a stare. "What of yourself?"

"I suppose I shall be required to move away quickly," the Ship Master said. "If the fleet is as strong as the one which abandoned High Charity, I will not be able to remain for long. Even the Honor cannot stand against such numbers."

"Very well." The Arbiter turned towards the commander. "Will this suit you, Commander?" Gersha suppressed his snort. That the Arbiter would stoop to addressing this human by its... her title? Even the Ship Master struggled to remember to assign a gender-specific pronoun in his mind.

But shame soon reclaimed its place in his mind. Where it had been buried by his superiority in tactical planning with spacecraft, it now resurfaced when confronted with the creatures his kind had hunted for ten and a half Sangheilian years. As a Ship Master, and before that a Ship Commander, he had not only seen several planets burned by the Covenant's fire but had also taken part in the act. Four worlds; his carrier had glassed the surfaces of four human worlds. Try as he might, he could not recall their names. They had seemed insignificant monikers back then, used only as convenient references for battle plans. He never committed them to memory.

Is there any way to repay such a debt? He doubted it. Their actions had committed the Sangheili to aiding the human race for countless generations to come. That is, if there would be countless generations to come; in order to stop the Prophet's treachery, they had to succeed in these actions upon which they embarked.

"Excellency," a voice said over the radio, "we are nearing the human home world."

'Kaeromee keyed the navigation rune. "Bring us out behind the humans' satellite and prepare data probes for launch. According to what the humans have told us, there is no atmosphere to speak of, so bring us in as close to the surface as you can manage."

The human commander watched with curious eyes. "You can jump that accurately?"

"Of course," Gersha replied absently. "The computer automatically corrects for all the natural eddies of Slipspace. Our path may not be linear, but it is quick and precise." He clicked his mandibles, the equivalent of a shrug. "Such are the ways of the eleventh dimension."

Now she looked completely incredulous. "And you know where planetary bodies are in normal space when you're out of it?"

Gersha was beginning to grow impatient with her simple-minded questions, but the Arbiter stepped in. "Gravimetric waves echo in Slipspace," he said. "By reading that image we can see where certain large or dense bodies are in normal space and navigate around or through them as necessary. However, anything that generates too many gravity waves will ultimately interfere with Slipspace travel."

The human looked contemplative. The Ship Master was surprised; how had humanity been able to access, much less navigate with anything resembling accuracy, the realms of Slipspace without this knowledge ahead of time? Somewhere within that alien genome must be an allele that codes for dumb luck.


Oriné 'Fulsamee gradually returned to consciousness. Memories floated hazily back to him, among the first being images of Covenant soldiers shooting at him. He groaned, but it came out as a weak and pathetic sigh. Friendly fire, he managed to think. They must have mistaken him for a target, since he had run at them from the direction of the human line.

But more and more came back, and he remembered that there had been time enough for identification, but his comrades had been shooting at him anyway. There had been a small chase, though the Sangheili could barely remember it. And there had been...

Jiralhanae.

His eyes snapped open.

One of the furry beasts looked over at him from his sitting position. "The heretic awakens," it rumbled. Around it, other Brutes glanced up from what appeared to be a meal of red meat, highly undercooked. A smile fire burned nearby, sending a lazy coil of smoke upward. Rolling his eyes around, Oriné saw he was inside a building... or what had once been a building, anyway. Only two of the walls stood intact, the other two broken and crumbling, the roof sagging downward. The warped rubble around him was indicative of a plasma bombardment, but he recognized the angular architecture as undeniably human.

He was lying on his back. Trying to sit up, he found his arms and legs bound by thick chains that chafed at his skin. "Where am I?" he asked groggily.

There wasn't much light; Oriné supposed that it was currently night, wherever he was. In the dark he could make out some colors, and the armor the Jiralhanae wore seemed to be varying shades of blue. Two had the same tone as an Elite Minor, others with lighter colors in the same vein. One, however, stood after he asked his question. From the silhouette, Oriné recognized the same Brute that had charged him. It wore heavy power armor, violet in color, that was nowhere near as streamlined as his own: vital components, such as the shield generator and wiring, were exposed. It was either a very old model or had been cobbled together quickly out of cannibalized parts. However, the helmet demanded the most attention: it covered most of the creature's face, save the eyes, and had a swooping crest on top with a spike jutting out from the center.

"You await our chieftain's justice," it rumbled. Its red-orange eyes smoldered dangerously, lit by the nearby fire.

Chieftain? "Tartarus?" Oriné had few fond memories of the Brutes, and the name of the albino Jiralhanae brought up the most bitter of them. He recalled with perverse ease watching that particular creature drive a red-hot brand into his sister's breast. Reflexively he forced the memory back down into the darkness from whence it came; he had spent so long repressing those thoughts that it came as naturally to him as breathing.

"Once," replied the Brute, still towering over him, "but no longer. He fell in combat against your Arbiter." The creature delivered a fierce kick to Oriné's ribs, one that slammed through the haze in his mind and made him groan, this time a much healthier sound.

As he reeled from the kick, he turned the Jiralhanae's statement around in his head. An Arbiter? Not in my lifetime. He had not heard of another Arbiter being appointed, nor did he particularly believe it when this Brute said it. But the statement was clear in meaning: an Arbiter (or someone whom the Brute thought to be an Arbiter) had killed the Chieftain of the Jiralhanae. The idea was somewhat pleasing, but the thought became bitter in his mind. It explained this new rash of hostility towards him.

Still, such insubordination would not be tolerated. "I am Oriné 'Fulsamee, Elite Ultra of the Holy Covenant and acting Commander of the Earth Expeditionary Force," he said, forcing himself to power over his own wheezing. "I order you to release my bonds and give me your name, so I may report your dishonorable actions towards my person." Honestly, Oriné wasn't certain what rank this Brute held, but none of his kind could outrank a Sangheili. They were but temple guardians, relegated to reserve positions since their failure at the human world Harvest. That they were here now, on the human home world, was baffling, but finding the answer to that could wait. He had much to do, and clearly he had fallen behind on events since his capture.

However, his words of authority didn't have the expected effect. Instead of doing as he told them, all the Jiralhanae laughed uproariously, more standing to deliver kicks and beatings to his prone form. "I shall give you my name gladly, Sangheili dog," the first Brute said. "I am Gnaelus of the Calidke Tribe. Remember it as you are peeled apart for your heresy." The beatings subsided and the group returned to their meal, leaving Oriné battered on the floor. Shock overwhelmed his mind. What had happened? Why were these Brutes here, let alone standing against the will of the Covenant? What was the status of his forces?

Amidst it all, though, one question was still bothering him. "Where is Rurut?"

Gnaelus looked up. "The Unggoy?"

"Yes."

"He is among the other Grunts." With no other concern, he returned to his "food." Oriné, feeling the extent of his injuries, among them a bullet in his knee and several bruises all over his body, let his head roll back. So much seemed wrong, but at least Rurut was okay.


The Drowned in Honor fell seamlessly out of Slipspace directly behind the human satellite, called "Luna." At first, Ship Master 'Kaeromee was surprised by its size: fully one fifth the size of the planet itself. That was strangely large; clearly it had not been a wandering piece of space detritus captured by the gravity field. The initial scans revealed millions of craters on the surface, varying in size from the size of a Sangheili hatchling to that of twice the size of his carrier and bigger. It had apparently acted as a sentinel for the world, coming between it and many large and potentially lethal impacts.

"Release probes," he ordered. The affirmation signal from navigation flashed, and moments later Gersha watched the icons of the two data probes moving away from the ship, looping around the moon. They made micro-jumps before switching over to thruster power in order to drift invisibly around the body, beyond detection from the fleet lying on the other side. One adjustment had been made, however; instead of having been programmed with the standard return protocol (which would betray their location), the drones would simply self destruct. Hopefully the energy emission would distract the ships as the Honor made a jump simultaneous with the explosions.

Hopefully.

The navigation officer's voice sounded: "We have data coming back, Excellency."

"Send it up." The viewscreens filled with maps, logistics, and analyses. Chatter picked up among the enemy Battle Net flowed in as well, but subdued, a mixture of all the transmissions occurring at once. Images also came into view, and Gersha saw a most disappointing sight:

There were no human craft left, just a cloud of debris of consistent mass and density as the humans' titanium-A plating, as well as a smaller percentage of Covenant materials. Instead a fleet of approximately one hundred Covenant ships remained in the area (on this side of the planet, at least), a mixture of frigates, cruisers, and carriers. They were in a loose defensive formation, and the radio transmissions revealed that streams of dropships were moving between them and the planet. It seemed that Earth was on its last legs. The only good news was that none of the ships visible had assumed the pattern indicative of beginning plasma bombardment; it seemed the Covenant still had plans for this world.

Even though the displays were in a language she undoubtedly didn't understand, the commander seemed to comprehend the gravity. She muttered small devotions to a deity. Gersha gave her a sideways glance. He hadn't thought humans capable of holding religion; the Prophets had said they were willfully blasphemous, standing opposed to all things of the Forerunners.

Yet another poorly crafted lie that we were all too willing to believe. He felt disgusted with himself.

"The situation is dire," he said.

"Indeed," the Arbiter said. "Analyze the transmissions. Where are most ships clustered?"

After a moment of deciphering, they had their answer. The maps were overlaid with in-atmosphere deployment data: three continents seemed to be the focus of the Covenant's assault. "That's North America," the human commander said, "that's Africa, and that's Australia."

The Arbiter examined the map closely. "What is the significance of those areas?"

"Well," she said after a moment's hesitation, "the UNSC's high command structure is located in Australia."

Gersha snorted. "Consider it destroyed," he said, indicating the ship movement. "Even now those cruisers are moving in latitudinal and longitudinal patterns indicative of glassing. That continent will no longer be a feasible place of leadership."

"The North American ones seem to be focused south of Lake Erie, but the only thing around there is... Cleveland?"

The Arbiter looked at her. "Is there anything of importance in this 'Cleve Land'?"

"Not as far as I know. But this last group, I don't know what they want with Africa. They're above New Mombasa, or at least close to it. I can't tell from here. That was where the Prophet of Regret focused his forces when he first arrived."

At once, the Arbiter's eyes went wide. "Regret came here?"

"Yeah." She looked up at him. "Why?"

But the hero was looking at Gersha now. "Was he not looking for the Map to the Heavens?"

"Supposedly that was the end which he meant to achieve in his journey," the Ship Master replied. "From what was told to me, he encountered heavy and unexpected resistance here. I suppose he accidentally stumbled upon the world. His fleet was only composed of fifteen exploratory vessels, however, with mostly Inquisitorial units."

The commander looked thoughtful. "He jumped away suddenly, even inside the atmosphere. The feedback shockwave must have been devastating."

Beginning to pace, the Arbiter was focused on the image on the viewscreen. "The Map to the Heavens was located on the human home world, where the Ark is also located?" At once Gersha became attentive. The Ark? Located here? He hadn't been told, but he didn't interrupt. Instead he noted that the human nodded; she knew. "That is more than coincidence," the Arbiter continued. "That Regret landed at this Mombasa is a sign. He must have unknowingly journeyed into the Ark in order to retrieve the Map, never knowing what he was truly investigating."

Slowly Gersha realized what the Arbiter was getting at. He re-examined the deployment layout around that area, noting how the ships were adopting a circular formation and moving around a set area. "They are digging," he said aloud. "They mean to uncover the Ark."

The Arbiter turned towards the Ship Master. "Where is the Prophet of Truth? Is he here?"

Gersha reviewed the transmissions. "It seems not, Arbiter. His ship came out of Slipspace much further out in the system and is approaching on impulse power alone. Some unforeseen difficulty reaching this world, they believe, something to do with a safety protocol and proximity to the Ark."

"Then fortune is on our side." The hero looked towards the human. "So long as the Prophet is not yet here, the Brutes will be in a frenzy to ensure everything is prepared for his arrival. If we are to slip beneath their notice, now is the time to move. Where would your command structure be located?"

The commander looked at the map. "Well, if Australia is gone, and knowing Lord Hood... he would stay close to the action. I'd say Africa is our best bet."

"Very well." The Arbiter turned to Gersha. "Ship Master, when Africa comes to this side of its rotation, prepare to jump. Until then, hold station and gather as much data as you can."

"Yes, Arbiter," he said, saluting. A sudden alert, however, cut him off.

"What is that?"

The navigator's voice crackled in again. "Excellencies, we are receiving transponder data from a Covenant ship, broadcasting a weak expiration signal."

Gersha pursed his mandibles. An expiration signal was sent out with the last energy available to a ship, alerting all nearby cruisers to its ultimate end. Traditionally the signal was activated as the last action of the doomed Ship Master. Regret's fleet had been composed of fifteen ships, of which only one arrived at Delta Halo, being Regret's personal carrier. Then again, there had likely been combat between whatever had remained of the human forces and the Brute fleet when it arrived.

"Where is it coming from?"

"The surface of the satellite."

"Can we receive a visual?"

"Yes, Excellency." A few moments later the viewscreen on the left changed to a visual image of a large crater, miles wide. In the center was the twisted wreckage of a Covenant cruiser. It appeared to have gone down, bow first, into Luna's surface. It was an honorable action. The result appeared like a massive gravestone, the marker of a true warrior fallen.

Gersha flexed his mandibles. "Is the signal broadcasting a name?"

"Yes, Excellency, it claims that this is the grave of the Steadfast Knight."

The Ship Master bowed his head, as he saw the Arbiter do beside him. In a softer tone, he asked, "Do we know who commanded her?"

"Yes," said a voice from behind them. Gersha turned to see that one of the Elite Minors had walked up onto the ramp of the command platform. 'Kaeromee was ready to strike him for his insolence before he saw the look on the young Sangheili's face. "It was Ship Master Orita 'Fulsamee," he continued, lowering his head, voice full of sorrow. "He was my father."

The rage left Gersha as quickly as it had come on. "Then I grieve for your loss," he said, "but all indications are that he died an honorable warrior's death. There is little more a Ship Master can ask for in this life."

Maka nodded and retreated, but his shoulders sagged perceptibly. Gersha understood the pain of losing a father in battle, but he admired the young warrior's spirit. A lesser Sangheili would have perhaps broken down and gone immediately into full mourning, but the young 'Fulsamee was stronger than he seemed.

Like all others of that line, he thought to himself, remembering days long past.

Turning back to the front of the bridge, he was surprised to see the Arbiter still bowed in a protracted moment of respect. "Arbiter," he said, "you grieve so? Did you know him?"

"Yes," the hero replied, straightening. "I did, he and his sons. Honorable, all."

The Ship Master nodded. "I agree. I had the fortune of meeting his sons. They were the finest kind of soldier I ever met. He did a fine job raising them."

"Yes, he did," the Arbiter nodded, turning and stalking off the bridge. His escorts followed closely behind, but the humans lingered a moment, somewhat taken aback by the display of Sangheili emotions. Much like Gersha had found it surprising that the humans had religion, they seemed shocked the Sangheili had compassion.

Such is fair, he thought, listening to them leave. We have committed genocide upon them for so long. We must appear as heartless monsters to them, like the dai'korai beasts of stories, simply ruthless with a thirst for blood.

He heard the bridge doors slide closed behind him and lock themselves automatically. Finally, for the first time in a while, the Ship Master had his bridge to himself.


"Ship Master!" Rtas shook his head, coming out of a light meditation. "There is movement within the Flood fleet!"

He keyed the rune for the tactical station. "Status?"

"The Flood ships congregate in a spherical formation around High Charity, Excellency. They mean to attack."

"Bring this vessel to general quarters, alert the fleet," he ordered. "How progresses the destruction of the ring?"

"Their task is almost finished."

"Have them rejoin us the instant it is done. We don't know what treachery the Parasite plans." Killing the communication, Ship Master 'Vadumee called up the war map of the surrounding regions, as well as any cameras he could access. The Flood cruisers had indeed begun forming a phalanx around High Charity. It was unsettling, to say the least. What he was witnessing was a flawless execution of a common Sangheili command tactic; that the Parasite could mimic it so efficiently made his hearts skip.

Remembering something, he keyed the communications rune. "How goes the loading of refugees onto ships bound for Sanghelios?"

A pause. "Well enough, Ship Master. The ships are loaded and are on an outbound vector as we speak."

"Keep me updated on their progress."

"Yes, Excellency."

Markers appeared on the tactical screen, showing the ten cruisers assigned to ferry the civilian refugees from High Charity to Sanghelios. Many were Sangheili who would be found homes among the lesser castes for the time being, until they could be properly relocated. The numerous Unggoy who had also been rescued would doubtlessly be put onto a transport bound for their own home world, Balaho, as soon as possible, so as to keep them from becoming a problem.

However, the civilian Kig-Yar would likely be detained and placed in refugee camps on Suban, one of Sanghelios's two moons. The Jackals had sided with the Prophet in turning against the Elites, and as such they would be treated as potential threats until either the opposite was proven or the war was over. Similar treatment would likely be allotted for the few Jiralhanae aboard the ships, but Rtas suspected the males in the group would meet with "unexpected accidents" along the way.

He did not find himself moved by pity.

Tuning in to the transmissions between ships, he realized they were about to jump into Slipspace to begin the long journey back to Sanghelios. Rtas decided he would watch them go, and observed as they fell into a wedge formation.

"Excellency," the tactical station interrupted, "a single Flood ship has departed High Charity."

"What class?"

"A cruiser."

Small and ineffective against the fleet, but still, the Parasite was a dangerous and unpredictable foe. "Keep it in your mind, but do not stray from your duty."

"Yes, Excellency."

A strange hum filled the bridge, and Rtas turned to see that the Oracle had wandered in. The humans had left it aboard, saying that they did not wish to bring it to the site of possibly the most powerful artifact yet discovered. This was most wise especially considering the construct's history of eagerness to activate the Halos. The Ship Master turned back to the screens.

The refugee ships powered up their Slipspace generators, a subspace rift forming around their bows detectable even at extreme range. One couldn't tear a hole between realities and expect the process to be invisible. The only time a Slipspace jump could be stealthy by any means was if there was a high-gravitational body between the jumper and the sensor array.

But as the ships prepared to jump, excited chatter began to build up amongst the quarantine fleet. Something was happening in the Flood ships; there had been detectable power spikes all over, indicative of weapons being charged to fire.

The refugee ships jumped. And hell broke loose.

The Flood-controlled ships began firing salvo after salvo of plasma outwards against the quarantine fleet, diverting power normally reserved for life support to recharge the plasma batteries faster. High Charity itself brought what defenses it had left to bear against the Sangheili. "Return fire!" Rtas thundered over the radio. "Burn the Parasite to ash!"

As the fleet returned fire against the onslaught, however, an alert distracted the Ship Master. "Excellency, a ship is attempting to flee!" Immediately the viewscreens focused on a single contact rapidly accelerating away from the battle. It was the same ship that had emerged from High Charity mere moments before the refugee ships had left. The realization hit Rtas like a stony fist to his gut: it meant to pursue the refugees and reach Sanghelios!

"The Parasite uses this attack as a ruse!" He keyed the fleet-wide transmission. "Make haste! The Flood will make hosts of our people if we do not catch it!" A list of ships appeared before him; the Ship Master knew that a smaller group of ships would be able to give chase much more efficiently. There were three nearby battlecruisers that would fit that profile perfectly. "Holy Fire, Cruel Augury, Beloved Oath; rendezvous with the Purity of Spirit to give chase. We shall hunt this Parasite down and condemn it to the vacuum!"

As the ship exited fleet range, the Oracle rushed over to the screen. "Calamity!" it exclaimed. "A type-four alert is in effect!"

"Calm yourself, Oracle," Rtas said. "We will not let the Flood spread."

"That vessel contains an Index beacon," it continued. "The Flood must not maintain possession of the Index!"

This made the Ship Master look up in shock. "The Sacred Icon?!" His mind raced. He didn't know what consequences would arise from the complication of the Parasite having the Sacred Icon in their grasp, but another question was in the forefront of his mind. "How did the Flood come to possess it? I thought the human commander still—"

"It is the Index of Installation Zero-Four, the one the impertinent construct stole from the control room." At first, Rtas didn't understand, but it slowly dawned on him. The construct to which the Oracle was referring was the leftover human AI that Blessed Unit had encountered during their mission to High Charity. It was aboard that ship.

The Flood ship disappeared into Slipspace. "Battle group, enter Slipspace! We must catch that ship!"


"The target continent has appeared, Arbiter," Gersha said over the radio. "Are you prepared?"

"Indeed," came the reply. "We are aboard a Phantom. When we disembark, we will attempt a landing as close to the Covenant forces as we are able, and from there attempt to locate the human leadership."

"Very well, we are about to jump. Make ready." He cut the channel and keyed navigations. "Execute the jump."

In-system Slipspace jumps were often very disorienting. As opposed to a longer journey where the ship moved through the alternate space, these precise movements were often akin to a sudden shift in reality; one had to have blindingly fast reflexes to even see the pitch-black realm of subspace.

This particular experience did not disappoint. One moment, Ship Master 'Kaeromee was staring at the dark side of the moon and the next there was a hostile fleet above and a planet below. "Completed, Excellency," said the navigator. "We are now above the human home world."

"Signal that the Arbiter depart right away!"

"Yes, Excellency!"

"Ship Master! The Jiralhanae ships are coming about!"

Gersha consulted the tactical map. The entire fleet was turning inward towards him. "How long until the core is ready for a jump?"

"Two minutes!"

"The Arbiter has cleared the hangar bay!"

"Bring us about, broadside," Gersha ordered. "Warm lateral lines, prepare for full volley! Bring the energy projector online! Cover the Arbiter's descent!" Suddenly the deck rocked beneath his hooves, a sudden jolt that nearly threw him to the deck. "Status!"

The engineering rune blinked steadily. "They have disabled our engines, Excellency! We cannot move into the alternate space!"

"The Brutes insist we power down our weapons and lay down our arms," replied tactical. A Jiralhanae carrier was coming towards them, not fast enough to be an attack run but not with anything resembling caution either. Gersha glared, fiddling with the energy sword at his hip. He longed to feel the sensation of Brute blood running down his wrists, but he had to consider his tactical position. On a ship full of brave warriors, attempting to hold its own against impossible odds, there was not much to be done.

Surrender was not an option any true Sangheili warrior chose to acknowledge.

"Excellency, the Jiralhanae demand an answer."

Gersha's resolve hardened. "Burn our answer into their hull."

The Honor's energy projector spun into life, firing a thin, lancing beam of plasma and carving through the enemy ship. It sliced through shielding and plating as if it weren't there, cutting a geometric path through the midsection and breaching the plasma core held within. In a brilliant blossom of sapphire the ruptured containment released itself and all its inhabitants as gas into the void. The sound of large debris hammering against his own hull brought great satisfaction to the Ship Master.

Immediately the other ships reacted, firing with pulse lasers and plasma torpedoes. The Honor replied in kind, answering the probing attacks of single fighters with point-laser fire and fending off enemy attacks as best it could. Gersha watched as his shields fell, but knew that with every hit they took, they critically damaged another vessel, taking it out of the fight.

A sudden jarring brought him out of his prideful reverie as klaxons blared throughout the ship. He nearly lost his footing as his vessel gave a dying shudder. "Excellency," reported tactical, "energy projector impact! We have lost the rear section of the ship!"

"How is core containment?"

"Holding, but unstable. It is moments away from achieving a runaway state."

So this is it, Gersha thought. This planet is to be the final grave of my career. So be it. "Eject the damaged fuel cells into space. Hopefully when they explode they will wreak havoc among their forces." He punched the ship-wide communications channel. "All hands, abandon ship! Make for the planet below!"

"Excellency, what of us?" Of course, the station officers; they had served him loyally through countless battles, and Gersha hardly knew their names.

"Escape," he told them. "Live to finish the fight."

There was a moment of hesitation, in which 'Kaeromee wondered if they would dare defy him, but one by one the runes went dark. Soon he was completely alone in controlling the ship.

As it should be. There remains only one thing to me.

He called up the manual controls and surveyed the damage. The core was leaking plasma but the fuel cells damaged by the attack were now floating in the gravity well. With any luck, some of the Brute ships would blunder into them. As it was the Jiralhanae fleet had stopped firing at him, but several of the smaller vessels, run by all-too-eager Brute Ship Masters, were attempting to close the distance in hopes of destroying the escapees. Gersha knew that not all of the ship's crew would make it, but he delayed the inevitable as long as possible.

Was he doing the right thing? It was strange to him, for these thoughts to come so calmly now, of all times. At his end, he wondered about his life up until this point, what these actions here would mean. Should he have attempted to flee sooner? Should he have surrendered? Perhaps he should never have volunteered his services to the Arbiter, but in that case, would another ship, another Ship Master, have done as well? Would he have done better? He had never been much of a philosopher, preferring to instead resolve his dilemmas on the battlefield.

I will never know the answer, he consoled himself. Some fuel cells remained intact, more than enough for this last action of a doomed Ship Master: firing the attitude thrusters, he oriented himself towards the planet, aiming for a large island off the eastern coast of the African continent. Without the primary engines' force to help him resist against the pull of the planet, the gravity well had already captured him and was yanking him from the sky he loved so dearly.

"Luck be to you, Arbiter," he said, reciting to no one in particular the final canto of a long-forgotten poem told to him by his father. The viewscreens turned red, then white, and then blanked out from the heat of reentry. "But, as for me, I continue on to Paradise." The holographic panel began to waver as the halls outside his bridge began to howl with the voice and fire of a true devil, the natural forces of the universe reclaiming into energy that matter which had been its own from the beginning.

Gersha 'Kaeromee stood, arms crossed, facing the bow of the bridge as white fire enveloped him.

To Paradise!


The Slipspace pursuit had dragged on for several hours now, but the Flood ship remained ever in front of them. Though technically within the strictest definition of weapons range, Rtas 'Vadumee was hesitant to open fire; combat in the alternate space was notoriously dangerous, as the omnipresent eddies and flows often distorted the effects of plasma fire. Reports existed of the shaped projectiles arcing back and destroying the very vessel that launched it.

So, until they were much closer, the newly appointed Ship Master would hold back.

He activated the communications rune. "Status on our escort?"

"They are matching our pace, Excellency. The Ship Master of Beloved Oath wishes that I inform you they could push their engines harder and pull ahead, to act as a forward scout."

A grin rose on the aging Sangheili's face. "A noble sentiment, but it would be futile. We will require our weapons at full power when we emerge in order to purge the Flood."

That he would be commanding a ship of his own, let alone a battle group, had been a dream Rtas 'Vadumee had given up on a long time ago. His father, Lyos 'Vadumee, had been a Fleet Master at the end of his career, a decorated and celebrated war hero from the subjugation of the Jiralhanae. The old Sangheili had predicted to his son by way of transmissions home that the Brutes would be resistant to Covenant teachings for a long time to come, but he had been wrong: if anything, they had embraced the new faith with uncanny zeal, even going so far as to edge out the Sangheili in their devotion.

The Elite Ultra wondered what his father would think of the current situation, had he not succumbed to disease of the lung only a year ago. How ironic, he thought, that the two species' roles were now reversed.

"Ship Master, there is an anomaly."

Snapping out of his thoughts, Rtas keyed the radio. "What is it?"

"A large gravitational disturbance ahead is distorting Slipspace beyond its normal boundaries," the navigation station replied. "If we wish to navigate it safely, we must drop out of the alternate space until we are clear of its influence."

"What of the Parasite's ship?"

"It is preparing to drop out as well."

"Then prepare for combat," the Ship Master said, curling his hand into a fist. "When we emerge into normal space, we shall burn the Flood from the face of the universe."

When the Purity of Spirit dropped out of Slipspace, accompanied by its three escorts, Rtas had expected a large planet, but his eyes were met with a beautiful crimson nebula a scant few lightyears off of the bow of his ship. There was nothing about a nebula that would affect Slipspace, except for perhaps any stars that had already formed within, leaving Rtas wondering what had so affected their path, but it was then that he saw it: a large distortion. Stars were bent far beyond their normal spherical appearances, all of space seeming to warp around a location off to port.

"Navigation, what is this?"

"Initial readings indicate a super-massive black hole in this region," the Sangheili replied. "Its gravimetric distortion is reaching through the folds of the dimensions and condensing Slipspace around this location. Had we not exited, we would have been trapped within subspace until our drives failed."

Rtas felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, but kept his composure. "And the Flood ship?"

"It skirts the event horizon, but is still beyond the edge of the black hole itself."

"Very well. All ships, move in for the kill! Weapons, ready plasma volleys to fire on my mark. Stagger our attack with those of the cruisers." The formation of ships closed in on their target, waiting until it entered extreme weapons range before firing. One by one the magnetically-shaped blobs of blue-white plasma were hurled from the vessels' lateral lines, arcing though pre-calculated trajectories towards the object requiring destruction. To Rtas, there was nothing more beautiful or heavenly.

However, a complication quickly made itself known. The torpedoes became distorted, quivering in the void as the magnetic fields became erratic. Some became twisted, banking off in unplanned directions, looping themselves into the black hole; the others simply dispersed, the guiding fields having collapsed. Within seconds, their lethal attack had become nothing more than a pithy light show.

"What is the meaning of this," he growled.

"It appears we have underestimated the effects of the black hole, Excellency," said tactical. "The Parasite seems to have positioned itself within a field of effects in which our weapons are incapable of working."

'Vadumee's mind raced. "Can we follow them in?"

There was a pause before navigation replied. "It is possible, Excellency, but we do not know what effects this field may have on our ship. More than our weapons may malfunction within that maelstrom."

"It is a risk we must take. Plot a course to follow closely behind the Flood ship, maximum speed. We must burn it before it navigates through and continues its journey."

The four ships assumed a tighter formation and plunged towards their target, taking care not to stray far from the Purity of Spirit. None wanted to become trapped beyond the event horizon. All remembered stories from their respective war colleges of what happened to those trapped within black holes, different versions of the same horrifying story, and not one of the Ship Masters present wished to transform from flesh and blood into a cautionary tale for cadets.

At maximum speed, however, the battle group clearly had the advantage. The Flood cruiser seemed to be operating under partial power, not going as quickly as it could; and with its larger plasma core, the Spirit caught up to it quickly.

Rtas watched as the target came comfortably within weapons range. "Status of weapons?"

"No ill effects yet, Ship Master."

"Charge lateral lines, prepare to fire torpedoes on my mark."

As he kept a wary eye on his target, he felt the deck rumble oddly beneath his feet. "Excellency, there is an anomaly in the plasma lines."

"What?"

He heard a muted thump. An alarm rune preceded a panicked shout from tactical: "Breach! We're experiencing a plasma overflow in all lateral lines! It is spilling directly out of the generator!"

Rtas swore. He feared there would be some drawback to approaching so close. His mind raced to come up with a solution. "Shut down the generator, vent all excess plasma directly out from the lines!" Almost immediately the ship was surrounded by a turbulent blue light as the coils dumped their energy into the void around the black hole. The plasma curled towards the spatial distortion, moving with unseen eddies and whorls. "Status?"

"It worked," the tactical officer said. "Excess plasma vented into space."

The weapons station reported in. "Plasma weapons inoperable, Excellency. With the generator disabled, we cannot form or fire torpedoes."

The Oracle hovered about the bridge, unreadable. Rtas wondered what it thought of the present situation, or indeed if it even thought at all. Was it sentient? Not long ago he would have attributed its erratic behavior to it being of a higher plane, a guide left by the Forerunners. Now he thought that perhaps the construct had gone a little crazy during its isolation.

"Oracle," he said, "can you assess the situation?"

"Certainly." It hovered down to his level and studied the readouts. "The severe gravity distortions render most normal space attacks laughably inadequate. Do you possess a level five anti-gravimetric field or better?"

Rtas thought about it and decided he had never heard of anything like that. "No."

"Unfortunate." Suddenly it fired a blue beam from its eye that pierced the holographic controls hovering nearby. Rtas jumped back out of shock and was about to attempt to physically stop the Oracle until the beam ceased and the construct moved back slightly. "I have reconfigured your low-yield laser weapons with a standard gravity correction algorithm. It should counteract the effects of the high class gravimetric object nearby."

At this, the Ship Master was puzzled. What good could the pulse lasers do? Even if they were no longer affected by the black hole, they were a light weapon at best. It was difficult to get close enough to cause any real structural damage; at the range between the two ships currently, the best he could do was peel back some armor after the shields were penetrated. Of course, that was with the lasers at standard power.

Rtas quirked a mandible and activated the weapons rune. "Status on the pulse lasers."

"There was what appeared to be a system glitch, but all seems as it was."

"Run a diagnostic."

There was an audible scoff. "What use are pulse lasers? We cannot purge the Parasite like that, even if we were to disregard the black hole."

"Run the diagnostic, Shipman."

The officer grumbled. "Yes, Excellency." There was a pause as the computer calculated the status of the pulse laser system. "All is well within the system. What are your orders, Ship Master?"

"Divert power from the shields and plasma stability systems into the pulse laser network."

Another pause. "From all of the plasma stability systems?"

Oh, right. "Maintain minimum safe power on the plasma core." That could have been disastrous. Rtas was reminded he was still a novice Ship Master with minimum experience.

"Very well, Excellency. It is done."

"Tactical, what is the status of the target's plasma drives? Have they powered down their generator as well as ours?"

It took a second for the tactical officer to respond. "No, Excellency. Their systems are powered and active, they are simply not using their plasma channels."

"Good. Weapons, target the starboard plasma channel of the enemy ship." He waited a heartbeat. "Fire."

On the forward screen he watched as a concentrated stream of protons lanced from the belly of his own ship toward the Flood. The normally blue beam had an odd violet tint that worried him for a moment, but such concern evaporated as soon as the laser struck the enemy. It tore through their shields in seconds and pierced the hull, dragging itself across the armor and slicing deep into the vessel. Moments later the starboard side of the vessel erupted as the plasma channel exploded into space. As the gravity-assisted lightshow flashed into and out of existence the ship began to list to port. The blasts increased in intensity and the ship was pushed further and further into the event horizon.

Rtas held his breath. "Tactical," he said, "status of enemy vessel?"

"Hold on, Excellency," came the other voice, just as tense. "It is... gone! Beyond the gravimetric threshold!" Rtas exhaled in relief, watching as the Flood ship's engines sputtered, attempting to regain control of itself as the gravity pulled it in further.

"Is this satisfactory for your 'containment,' Oracle?" Rtas asked.

The Oracle bobbed in place and hummed for a moment. "I suppose," it said, sounding sullen. "It will do, but the Flood has been known to be incredibly resourceful even in such situations. To leave the ship here unguarded is invitation to disaster, as history has shown. If only we could have recovered the Index..."

"You speak the truth, Oracle." He called up the communications officer. "Open a channel to the Cruel Augury and send the following message: remain on watchtower duty in this sector and heed the activities of the Parasite."

Navigation came up next. "Ship Master, where shall we go to next? Back to the Quarantine Fleet?"

"Yes, set course—"

"Ship Master!" Rtas's eyes snapped to the communications rune. "Incoming distress signal!"

"From the Flood?" That could be problematic. If another Covenant vessel were to come to the rescue, the Flood may find a way out of the gravity well and hijack another ship.

"No," said the communications officer. There was a foreboding in his voice that put Rtas on edge. "It comes from Sanghelios."


Oriné hadn't slept all night, but he watched the sky grow lighter with the coming dawn. The sun still hadn't risen, but the air hummed with life as it awoke, even in this desolate battlefield.

There was more, however. The Sangheili had noted that the wind had changed direction suddenly and violently, and the temperature had risen steadily over the past few hours. They are glassing this continent, he thought as the Brutes roused themselves from sleep and stood, preparing to move out again. Oriné wondered about his fate: moving on foot, he would be a large impediment to their progress. Had he been in charge, he would have ordered the captive executed, but so far despite the beatings they seemed to have no desire to kill him. But that could change quickly.

Gnaelus sauntered over and grasped his restraints. "On your feet, dog," he said, dragging him onto his hooves. "We are moving."

Suddenly he heard the sound: a low whine. A Phantom. It appeared above the rooftop, held station for a moment, and then moved out over the street. The Jiralhanae processed out, Gnaelus dragging Oriné behind him. Outside they rendezvoused with a small contingent of Grunts and Jackals. The Sangheili immediately caught sight of Rurut but gave no indication; he didn't want to draw attention to his friend.

One by one they ascended up the Phantom's gravity lift; once inside, Oriné was forced into an uncomfortable kneeling position in the corner for the duration of the ride. It didn't last long, and soon he was forcibly shoved out the side and onto the deck of a Covenant ship. He fought the urge to grumble and moan about his treatment; in dealing with Brutes, he had learned that being vocal about discomfort only encouraged such behavior.

"With me," Gnaelus said, once again pulling him up and shoving him ahead. With the Jiralhanae guiding him from behind, he found himself being led through familiar corridors towards the command deck.

I suppose the Chieftain is acting as a Ship Master now? He mentally scoffed. How droll.

The doors leading to the bridge parted and Oriné was pushed through. Around him buzzed activity, several Brutes manning holographic consoles that had been brought in and called up for secondary functions. He almost laughed. Clearly they didn't understand the intricacy of using the runic internal communications system. Perhaps it is too complicated an idea for them.

On the raised platform stood a Brute in much heavier armor and a grander headdress; it had intricate carvings all over its surface laced with gold, but the main color of the armor was that of a deep crimson. It shone with a newness that Oriné had never seen even on Sangheili combat harnesses.

But the Brute himself was very old. He had chipped yellowing tusks and long silvery-grey fur around his face, some like-colored tufts poking out from joints in the armor. It wasn't as stark a white as Tartarus, but significantly lighter than most Jiralhanae furs that he knew. Perhaps such coloration was tied to his age.

Regardless, Oriné realized who he was as soon as he was stopped at the edge of the ramp. "Bracktanus," he hissed.

The Chieftain regarded him stoically, eyes sliding over Oriné's armor. "An Ultra?" He beckoned for Gnaelus to bring the Sangheili forward and the soldier obeyed, hauling him up to the top of the raised platform. He inspected the name emblazoned on the harness more closely. "I was told you had been in command of the expeditionary force, Commander 'Fulsamee," he said in a rough voice. "I was also told that you had died in the feedback explosion."

Oriné would not let himself be goaded. He stood straighter and adopted a reasonable voice. "Many did," he said, "including many of the warriors under my watch. But such was the responsibility of Regret, not myself."

Bracktanus backhanded him. The world reeled under the blow, but Oriné managed to keep himself steady. Shakily he stood, not as steady as before but he struggled to adopt the same formal stance as before. The Chieftain growled. "You should speak with more care about the noble dead," he said.

Oriné's eyes went wide. "A Hierarch is dead?"

"Two," the Brute corrected. "The Prophets of Regret and Mercy both perished at the second Halo."

The Sangheili tried to keep the shock off his face but was unsuccessful. A second Halo? Two High Prophets assassinated? Suddenly he wondered if Gnaelus had truly been mistaken about another Arbiter at all.

He shook his head clear. Much had transpired in his captivity indeed, but answers would come later. "What of the Prophet of Truth?" he asked. "Is he safe?"

"He is on his way here in the Dreadnought to oversee the activation of the Ark. We await a transmission from him now." The surprises kept coming. The Dreadnought had been deployed? It had not seen action since the War of Fortune; for it to be wrenched from High Charity would require an incident of significant proportion.

And if it had left, then what of High Charity? Without the delta-shaped craft powering it, it would be helpless. Suddenly a new wave of anxiety washed through him. Exactly how much had changed in so short a time?

"Chieftain," one of the Brutes around the bridge spoke up, "we are receiving a transmission from the Dreadnought."

"Bring it up," Bracktanus ordered. In the middle of the command deck a life-size hologram sprung into life, depicting the Prophet of Truth sitting in his gravity throne. "Your Holiness," the Chieftain said, bowing, "how is the journey?"

"I draw nearer," the Prophet replied. "We have passed the fifth planet in this system. How fares preparation?"

"We have cut off the head of the human leadership. With their prime center of command destroyed, their forces will be unable to muster a proper resistance. The planet is ours."

"Excellent," said Truth. His eyes flickered to Oriné. "And what of this one?"

Gnaelus stepped forward. "A prisoner we found in the streets, High Excellency, near the structure the humans fought so hard to defend. We believe that was their command structure."

The Prophet gazed at Oriné for a few moments. "Commander 'Fulsamee, it is a surprise to see you still live. When Regret sent his first transmissions from the new sacred ring, your name was included on the list of the dead. We had begun plans for a period of mourning before the betrayal of your race."

Betrayal? "You are too kind, Your Holiness," Oriné said, kneeling on the floor and bowing his head. "I am unworthy of such consideration."

"How is that you survived?"

"I am shamed to say, Excellency, that I was captured by the filthy humans. My dropship had been outbound away from Regret's carrier after we were given word that he planned to make a jump. I was intending to set up a base camp elsewhere on the continent but the Phantom was hit by the feedback shockwave. I was knocked unconscious, and the humans came and took hostage any survivors."

"How many survivors are there?"

"I know only of myself and my sub-Commander, Rurut."

"Why is it that you are still alive?"

Oriné grimaced. If the Prophet found out that Rurut had given the enemy any information, the Unggoy would be put to death instantly, despite the knowledge that he had been drugged. "The humans had somehow ascertained that I was acting commander for the expeditionary forces on the surface, perhaps through intercepting our transmissions. They wished to torture me for information."

"Did you give any?"

"No, Holy One. Through the strength of my tongue and the divine will of the Forerunners, I gave the humans nothing."

The Prophet grew silent and Oriné looked up. Truth was sitting back and appearing to contemplate the Ultra. Oriné felt his gaze, sharp and piercing, cutting through his soul. He dare not shiver for fear of upsetting such an already delicate situation.

As his fate was pondered, Oriné decided to take a chance. "Your Excellency, if I may, of what betrayal do you speak? What has happened between the Sangheili and the Covenant?"

"Do not question the Prophet!" Bracktanus was poised to kick the Elite Ultra in the face, but a gesture from Truth stayed the blow.

"It is a fair question," he said, leaning forward and looking intently at Oriné. "Commander, I must solemnly inform you that your kind has forsaken the teachings of the Forerunner and turned against the Covenant and its people. In a brash display they declared civil war and began slaughtering the innocents upon High Charity and several colony worlds. To cement their heresy, they turned their fleets upon the Jiralhanae, allowed the Flood to take control of the holy city, and took action that directly prevented the Great Journey from taking place. In doing these wholly unforgivable actions they have been excommunicated and must be brought under reign before they create any more havoc."

Oriné's mandibles hung open in shock. He could not believe it. War with the Jiralhanae did not come as a surprise, but civil war? Slaughtering innocents? Stopping the Great Journey? Giving High Charity over to the Flood? Such lunacy could not have been of Sangheili design.

Yet the evidence was all around him. The Jiralhanae now commanded the fleets and the troops, in place of the Elites that had once known such roles. The other clients acknowledged the Brutes as military superiors, and the High Prophet of Truth, Voice of the Covenant, had said the Sangheili were cast out of providence. Oriné's entire race was disgraced and dishonored. Shame fell around him like cords of steel and he felt as if his limbs were bound.

Quickly a flame of realization sprung up in his mind: this was why the Hierarch questioned him so. His loyalty and motivation was suspect. No matter the madness of his species, the one constant he had known all his life was that of the Holy Crusade of the Covenant. His righteousness must not be questioned. "Your Holiness, the Sangheili may have fallen from the graces of the Gods, but I remain ever your humble and devoted servant. I am a warrior of the Covenant, first and only, and I know my place on the Path. Do not doubt my faithfulness."

Truth nodded somberly. "Well spoken, warrior," he said, "but words are the tools of heretics as well as heroes, especially given the history of your Lineage. I am afraid that such commitment will require a sacrifice of the flesh." The hologram turned and nodded at Bracktanus. The Chieftain dug into a satchel hanging at his belt and produced an oblong object hidden by his massive hairy hand, while Gnaelus undid the restraints binding the Elite Ultra's. He stepped over to Oriné and offered it in his open palm: the hilt of an energy sword.

"Take it," growled the Brute, and Oriné seized it in his hand. He admired it briefly: ten Forerunner symbols had been carefully carved into the material, much as with other such weapons, but on this were runes of beauty and poetry. A truly noble Sangheili had once owned this blade.

He looked up at Truth. "Excellency?"

"To prove your continuing loyalty to the Covenant," the Prophet intoned, "you must cut off your hand."

Oriné blinked, uncomprehending. "Y-Your Holiness..."

"If you do this, you will be again a member of the Covenant, a holy warrior crusading for the Great Journey. If you do not, you will be condemned as the rest of the Sangheili and struck down here, to forever wander the afterlife without knowing the smooth stones of the True Path." Truth sat back in his throne. "You must choose."

It was strangely quiet. The entire command deck had ceased their activities to watch as Oriné was made to decide between salvation and condemnation, but that was not the reason for unfamiliar silence. Instead, inside his mind, it was very calm. Usually in times of such crisis there was a great tumult in his head, a cacophony of deliberation and speculation, but now there was only resignation.

He thought of his past, his twin sister, Fulsa. She had been condemned as a heretic, punished and killed because of it, and he remembered the hells he had walked through afterwards to regain his family's honor. He had spilt the lifeblood of a dear friend to again claim his Lineage's place on the Great Journey; that day, he had vowed to never allow himself to fall into such a place of disgrace ever again, so that he would never have to make such a sacrifice.

Unconsciously he had activated the blade. It hummed in his right hand as he looked to his left. His race had forced this new sacrifice upon him, not he. It was the Sangheili who betrayed the Covenant, not him, not his sister. If he did this one thing, perhaps he could convince others to join him for their own salvation. Perhaps not. No matter what, his place on the Great Journey, the goal the Sangheili had striven for over the past eleven hundred years, would be guaranteed.

He looked up at the expectant face of Bracktanus, the cold and stony eyes of Truth's hologram; in his mind he imagined Rurut, his constant companion through battle. Would he suffer if Oriné hesitated now?

Finally his eyes rested on his left hand, outstretched in front of him.

One more sacrifice.

He raised the sword.