Negative Halo, Part One: Institution

by CaptainRaspberry

A soldier, a believer, a martyr. Oriné 'Fulsamee wants to serve the Covenant as an Elite, and he relishes the opportunity to lay his life upon the altar of sacrifice in service to the Journey. However, as he takes up this mantle, he will pay a price in blood and innocence which may consume him and his family. (This story no longer matches official canon.)

7. Commencement

Chapter 7: Commencement

Fear gripped Oriné 'Fulsamee as he walked through the halls of Institution. Every shadow seemed to take a twisted, demonic form, with claws that reached out to tear him to shreds. His eyes darted around nervously, looking for whatever it was that made his neck tingle so; but there was nothing, just him and the empty corridor.

Since his return, he had not felt at peace. Upon learning of Ekla's true identity as the daughter of Institution's Head Master he constantly expected swift death to fall upon him. His unease was only made greater by the fact that, so far, no reprimand had been delivered. For such a dishonorable action anyone would be punished, and Oriné did not think himself to be free of that rule of society. So why had there been no retribution? Nightmares filled his slumber, of him being dragged from his bed and publicly tortured, of him being thrown into an airlock and ejected into space, of him being stripped naked and forced to fight against a Yorahii in a small, cramped space, alone and destitute. The worst, however, were the dreams where he was dragged into the Chamber of the Head Master and placed before his mercy. He was always veiled in shadows, possessing a deep voice and shining, blood-red eyes that cut through the mystique surrounding him. Always he would speak, but Oriné couldn't understand the words; they made no sense. Finally the shadows surrounding the figure would expand and swallow him whole, and he would wake in a cold sweat.

The journey through the corridor was complete. A door slid aside and Oriné entered his squad's quarters. Several of the Sangheili within called out greetings, but he just nodded back and made his way towards his bunk. Around him his comrades were preparing for sleep; a few tooled through their Lumidexes for a few more moments before finally putting them down. They removed their armor, except for the dermo-suits, and climbed to their appropriate positions, with those in the first row of bunks settling in before everyone else, activating their gravity step, and the second row doing the same, and so on. Oriné was on the third row of five, and thus had to climb into his own bunk, lie down, activate the force-field, and watch nervously as his squad mates climbed over him to get to their own beds. Would that be how the Head Master was to kill him? Deactivate the field just as someone was walking over, his hoof coming down on Oriné's head and killing him?

That's ridiculous,the rational part of his mind told him. The Head Master didn't have remote controls for the force-fields, and even if he somehow programmed it to accidentally fail, such an accident would surely hurt but would not be fatal. Still, the Elite Junior felt paranoia seize him and he pressed himself deeper into the padding.

Sleep came quickly, and mercifully the dream of meeting the Head Master did not come. It was a dream Oriné had not yet experienced: he stood at the edge of a great circular platform, with a similar-yet-smaller one above and, if he looked through carefully carved holes in the floor, one below. Everything was matte grey. Surrounding him were Sangheili, but they were... fuzzy, distorted, as if they weren't actually there but instead somehow imprinted upon the air. Each had battle wounds, mortal bludgeons from the looks of them; they were ghosts, Oriné quickly realized.

He began to walk between them, and as he passed, each looked at him. Injustice, they all cried out, but there was no sound. The Elite Junior continued to move about them, stepping between the phantoms as if he was looking for something; but he did not know what he searched for.

Blasphemy, one "said" as he passed it, and he stopped. A diabolical trick, a betrayal of faith, but no faith in the betrayal.Sensing that was all he would hear he moved on.

Lies of truth, another said.

Promises of sacrilege.

The Age of Annihilation.

Oriné was confused. They spoke in riddles, and he walked on as if he searched for something. Suddenly a new phantom appeared, fading into view near the center, but this one was different: he was bathed in golden light. Unconsciously the Elite Junior moved towards it.

As he approached, he felt... familiarity. He could not understand, but it was there, tickling his mind, guiding him towards this being. When he was near, it spoke:

Oriné?The Elite Junior's head snapped up. How did this figure know his name? Oriné, my friend, is that you?

Oriné held out his arms as if to embrace the figure of light.

A chime shattered the dream, and Oriné jumped awake, his head coming up and smacking into the force-field mere inches above it. He fell back down, stunned and confused; where was he? What was this coffin he was trapped in? For a moment his mind panicked and he began to thrash about; then reality came back to him and he calmed down, but his eyes were still wide and his body soaked with perspiration.

He glanced around and saw his comrades also awakened and confused. Checking the time as displayed by his bunk, it was a full two hours before they usually got up. One sight, however, caught all their eyes. The Major stood in the doorway of the room, glaring at them, his hand resting on the chime console set into the door frame. It was only accessible to instructors and administrative personnel.

"Rise, cadets," he growled. They obliged, though not by choice. One by one the rows deactivated their bubbles and walked over their comrades to the door. As Oriné reached the bottom he yawned and stretched, gravitating towards Yarna 'Orgalmee.

"Do you know what's going on?" he asked. The other Sangheili merely shook his head.

"Don your armor, and be quick about it!" The Major's order was followed to the letter without question, and in the space of one minute all of the Elite Juniors were dressed in their emerald-green armor and standing at attention. "You will now follow me." They complied.

The walk was short, and when it reached its conclusion they found themselves in front of the armory. Once the door slid open they filed in and stood at perfect attention while the Major addressed two Minors quietly and sent them scurrying off to fetch something. As soon as they were gone the crimson armored Elite turned to regard the students.

"Remove your helmets," he instructed, and they did so. "These will no longer suit you. As of this moment you are considered Rank One, and will thusly no longer use simulation equipment for your personal training." One of the Minors reappeared and walked about, collecting all the helmets and depositing them on a hovering tray. "New ones shall be distributed momentarily. Right now, however, we must install new equipment in your armor." The Minor collecting helmets completed his task and returned to the Major's side while the second came through a doorway, pulling a container behind him on gravity treads. The first one stepped forward and cleared his throats.

"We will now install your shield and active camouflage generators," he said. "Approach one at a time as we call your name and we shall endeavor to make this go as quickly as possible." They began calling names, but Oriné soon lost himself in daydreams. Rank One! This was it. The final leg of his journey, and by far the hardest. From the stories he had heard told from the Elite Minors stationed at Institution, this was the time that he would have to prove himself. Live fire exercises, vehicular training, platoon tactics, command exams... and, once he had overcome them all, Commencement: his beginning as a soldier of the Holy Covenant. What glories awaited him on the front lines? How many foes would fall before him? How much closer would he grow to the glorious Forerunners?

"Oriné 'Fulsamee!" The sound of his name pulled him back to reality, and he mechanically marched towards the front. Upon his arrival they indicated for him to turn around; he did, and immediately the two Minors set to work upon his armor. He felt them tug and pull, and heard something beep in response. They fumbled with something for a moment behind him before he felt a pressure push into his back, an increased weight just behind his shoulders, and a satisfied sigh cascaded over his neck. "Finished. You may return to your place." He did so, and watched as Yarna received his generator as well.

Once all fifty cadets had their generators in place the Major stepped forth into the limelight again. "Bring up your wrist units. If you'll notice, the standing option has been removed and replaced with your generator status. Please take note that this is only the hardware condition; the percentage strength shall be covered later.

"From this menu you can activate and deactivate your shields and camouflage, but in a moment I will show you a better method. For now, however, use this control to activate your shields." Oriné reached down, as all his comrades did, and touched a finger to the appropriate icon. Suddenly an electrical charge surged down his spine, and he clenched his mandibles against the sensation. A few of his friends hissed in surprise, but most stayed quiet. A film was briefly visible over his arms and hands but quickly faded.

"Your shields have now activated," the Major continued, "and are now protecting you with the Forerunners' brilliance. Fear not the discomfort you just experienced, for you will become acclimated to it; that feeling will even become a relief. The shield works in harmony with itself; if you try to bring your hand to any part of your body you shall find passage uninhibited. However, try to lay a hand on your closest comrade."

Oriné reached over to touch the shoulder of the nearest cadet but quickly found his hand deflected, a sharp shimmer flickering over both his friend's upper torso and his own hand. He pulled back, anxious. "The shields are not yet in tune with each other, but once they establish their network they will function perfectly."

Once more the Major turned to an Elite Minor and nodded; the soldier turned and produced a helmet from the container. It had slightly different contours, an extra spike in the back and the wings on the side swept out a bit more. The Elite Juniors could only speculate the significance.

"Distribute these," he ordered, and the two Minors set about giving each cadet a new helmet. When Oriné received his he turned it over in his hands, admiring the shining newness, but also locating the most important design change: on the inside, set into the lining, was a peculiar array.

"Place them upon your heads," the Major instructed. There were several audible snaps as the shielding overlapped the armor, but the helmets fit snugly. "Activate the button hidden behind the right protective wing." They did so, reaching up their hands and pushing against the necessary toggle. Immediately a blinding light filled Oriné's vision and he cried out in surprise, unable to contain himself. It vanished quickly, but suddenly there were... things in front of his eyes.

"This is the holographic display. It is generated by the helmet. In the bottom left corner of the image is your shield generator and motion tracker. Weapon, ammunition, and grenade counts will be displayed along the top; the suit will automatically detect what weapon you are holding and create a network with its onboard computer to monitor the amount of charge left in the battery. There is also a small orb just off of the top left corner; when this is highlighted your active camouflage will be engaged." The Major began pacing. "When it is engaged, your shields will be automatically deactivated, and their power rerouted to keeping your camouflage on. When you reactivate your shields and turn off your camouflage, the shields will have no power for a short time while the armor recycles it. You must give it a chance to recharge."

The Major stopped and looked out at the group of Elites. A disquieting expression passed over his face; if Oriné didn't know better he would have sworn it was a smirk. "Your armor systems will require testing. An exercise has been prepared for you. Proceed to the Hall of Honor, you will be briefed there." The Major and his two attendant Minors took their leaves, and the students turned and left the armory.

As they moved through the hallway, Oriné's eyes drifted to his own motion tracker. There was a central yellow dot that he assumed was himself, and then forty-nine other yellow dots at various points around him. Allies, he realized. The suits networked with each other, making contact and identifying themselves as friends. He supposed that to identify enemies the same process was invoked, but a lack of response or an incorrectly encrypted one would result in the system being tagged as hostile. What had the Major called it, a "motion tracker?" So it sends the signal based on movement.

Orinéwas so fascinated with the new device that he hardly noticed it when they were in the Hall of Honor. Faux human buildings had been built here, reaching an average of three stories; it had been designed to follow the standard, seemingly senseless order the structures could be found in on their planets.

The Major walked out from between two alleys, followed by his two Minors. Each of them carried a bundle of maliers. "Take one," he ordered, and the Elite Juniors walked forward and grabbed one each. They returned to their places and put themselves into proper formation.

"Now we will begin," he said, signaling the two Minors to leave. "Standard combat, but now you fight until you cannot lift your weapon. There are no more standings, only pain and glory." He walked until he stood at the exit to the Hall. Glancing over his shoulder, he shouted, "Begin!"

Immediately there was a swirl of activity. Oriné was barely able to raise his malier in time to block the swing of a nearby cadet, but he parried and struck out at his comrade; the shaft slid off the shield of his opponent, stopping the actual harmful metal but not the kinetic force. His opponent reeled back and Oriné pressed the advantage until he was struck in the side by another cadet. Roaring, the Elite Junior rounded and slammed his malier into his attacker's face.

It was a bloodthirsty melee. There was no strategy in anyone's motions, just random beating and deflecting of staves. At any one point Oriné had no idea who he was attacking or defending against; there was only combat. Yet it was too much. He had to clear a path, or just clear his head. The fighting was fierce, but eventually Oriné began to see less and less cadets on the streets. Suitably beaten ones dragged themselves into the shelter of buildings, cradling wounded and broken limbs. Dropped, bloody maliers covered the ground.

After a good while of fighting, Oriné was able to appraise himself. A few bruises, and he had perhaps strained his left wrist, but beyond that he was thankfully intact. Not many still stood, but the battle had spread out; fighting was continuing in other boulevards, in alleys, inside buildings. Considering his options, the Elite Junior decided to pursue opponents on the other side of a building. He took a step towards the entrance, but thought better; inside was bound to be a death trap, and the two story building wouldn't be hard to go around. So he changed direction and headed for the alley next to it.

When he entered the shadow of the structure, a sudden chill washed over him. There was no sound, but a sensation built on the back of his neck; warily he glanced up and saw a shape falling towards him. Instinctively he dived to the side and brought up his weapon, prepared to fight; Olah 'Seroumee glared at him.

The battle began there in the alley. Olah charged but Oriné deflected it, turning and striking the Sangheili in the shoulder as he passed. His shields flared blue, but the other Elite Junior paid no heed, spun on his heel and lashed out, catching Oriné in the ribs. He doubled over in pain but recovered enough to parry Olah's next blow, the sound of metal impacting metal ringing through the closed space.

There was a strange look in Olah's eyes, Oriné could see. Something was guiding his actions, influencing his moves; he got so caught up in trying to determine what it was that he lost his advantage, Olah levying a savage attack and sending Oriné's malier skittering away. With a single movement Olah slammed Oriné against the wall, holding his malier hard against his throat and pushing. His shields absorbed the attack for but a moment, but they failed, and then the metal was against his bare neck.

"I was told to kill you today," Olah growled softly. The pressure increased and Oriné struggled to free himself, eyes wide. Am I to die here, and the hands of a comrade? "I was told to make it look like an accident, make it look like I had simply gotten carried away in a training exercise." For a moment, Oriné felt his windpipe start to collapse; his eyes began to black out. But just when he was certain he was going to die the pressure disappeared and he collapsed onto his hands and knees on the ground. He waited for the deathblow, but it didn't come.

Terrified, Oriné looked up. Olah stood there, clutching his malier in his hand. "But you have your honor, and I have mine," he said. "I won't kill you today." The cadet stalked off, but paused at the exit to the street. He looked back. "By the end of this, though, you may wish that I had."

---

Training was tougher, even more so than after the transition from Rank Three to Rank Two. In Faith, entire chapters of the Forerunner Divinidex were to be memorized and recited, word for word, in front of a Lesser Prophet. Oriné often struggled up until the minute before he was called forward to memorize the passages. Despite many slips and mistakes, however, he somehow miraculously managed to slip through. In Knowledge, the focus was finally coming around to the humans. Human history was a common lecture topic and often took up great deals of time, as much had been gleaned from historical archives in captured museums prior to the glassing of a planet. "Elite Inquisitors are responsible for bringing us this information," Magister 'Alsakee said one day, looking directly at Oriné as he said it. "We should be thankful for having it, because without it, insights into things such as human battle doctrine and philosophy wouldn't be possible."

In Combat, things were accelerated dramatically. One of the newest additions to the roster was zero-gravity training, involving donning Elite Ranger suits and venturing into the space beyond Institution. At first the lessons revolved around getting a feel for space and basic maneuvering: the idea of up and down was quickly forced from the cadets' minds by their trainers. It was a trap, they were told; the best option was to locate any two objects and arbitrarily mark them as the direction of up and down. That way they would avoid becoming caught in such a horizontal mentality when fighting. After that came advanced maneuvering and combat. Oriné failed miserably in every aspect of space battle; during training exercises he was assigned by his teammates to be a stationary gun, which suited him just fine.

Regular vehicle training was implemented too, demanding the cadets demonstrate mastery of the various vehicles at the Covenant's disposal: Ghosts and Wraiths were the primary offensive vehicles, the small and maneuverable Ghost scout craft being a popular choice among speed-loving Elites while the heavy and armored Wraith mortar tank was picked for its offensive capability. Banshee fliers were mandated for operation, but the Spirit-class dropships were available if brave trainees wanted to try flying one. Many attempted it but only a few were any good at it; they were selected for continued training as pilots. Several prototype vehicles were also on display, but none were yet approved for operation by Juniors. When not training, however, they could go down and watch them be tested: Oriné found himself to be drawn to what seemed to be a militarized version of a Chimera. There was room for a single driver at the front and, for the mounted plasma turret on the back, a gunner; but along the wings, above where hover units were stored, there was room for two soldiers to sit and be able to brandish weapons. It seemed vaguely reminiscent of the human Warthog.

The other major change in Combat was the introduction of live weapon training. Each squadron had time to go down to the firing range and test the weapons available to them once they were on the battlefield. The plasma rifle was the primary weapon of the Elites, firing blue blobs of energy rapidly and, if the operator was not careful, overheating the unit and burning one's hand. Twice Oriné was dismissed to the infirmary where he had to have a quick-acting healing salve applied. Besides that there was the Needler, also available to infantry, which fired purple crystalline needles that could home in on targets and exploded upon burying themselves in a surface. A plasma pistol was essentially a scaled-down plasma rifle, but with a charge function. Oriné had little taste for either the Needler or the pistol because of their lack of stopping power. The only other weapon there was available to test-fire was the Fuel Rod Gun, firing an arcing glob of green radiation that could destroy Hunter plate. Two other weapons were there, but they were prototypes and like the vehicles were not available to cadets.

However, for a brief time an additional exercise was added to the Combat roster. Oriné and the rest of Squadron Twenty-two shuffled into the armory. Set up against the far wall was a set of Elite armor, uncolored and unshielded. One of the trainers paced back and forth.

"Welcome to the live fire test," he said. "Here we will demonstrate the destructive power of human weapons." He walked to a depository set into the wall and slid the door into the wall, revealing a locker of human weapons within. He removed a human assault rifle.

"This is the current standard of human frontline troops," he began, flipping it over in his hands. "I'm aware that it is considered dishonorable to use a human weapon, but it is not forbidden in the Divinidex, so I will be able to show you exactly what to expect from one of these weapons." With that, he strode so he was standing about three yards from the armor on the wall, raised the weapon, and held down the trigger. A stream of solid-state projectiles flew from the barrel and struck the armor, enveloping it in smoke. After a while the gun clicked repeatedly, signaling that it was empty. He tossed the rifle aside.

"Look at the armor," he said as the smoke cleared. "As you can see, these bullets do not penetrate too deeply on their own, but there are a lot of them. It takes an average of one 'clip,' as the humans say, which amounts to sixty rounds, to drain your shields; while the armored parts of your body, such as your chest, back, arms, and legs have little to worry about, there is still the problem of more lightly armored areas, such as your neck and face." The trainer continued with the demonstration, showing off weapons like the pistol, which fired powerful semi-automatic rounds, to the deadly and formidable shotgun that tore up anything at close range.

Finally, he walked to the front of the armory and pressed a button against the wall, the molested armor falling loose from its magnetic holds and clattering to the deck. He glanced at it for a moment. "Now, by the Head Master's recent decree, all squadrons are to 'experience' the feeling of a human round hitting your shields." A wave of shock and tension passed through the crowd of cadets, but the trainer raised his hand to maintain order. "It is risky, yes, but we will only fire one round from the pistol at your chest, which is the most shielded. The bullet will not penetrate." Unease was still very much present in the room. No one stepped forth to volunteer.

"Understandable," the trainer muttered, then produced a Lumidex. "Very well. A name will be chosen at random by the computer. The first to be shot... er, to experience the battlefield will be... Oriné 'Fulsamee!"

Obligingly, but with no lack of apprehension, Oriné stepped forward from the crowd. He trudged forward until he stood at the front of the group, stood straight, and waited for the command. Outwardly he hoped he appeared confident; inside he was frightened and fearful. What if his shields failed? What if there was a mistake?

He was afforded no time to voice these concerns. The trainer picked up a pistol and took aim right at Oriné's chest. "Activate your shields, please," he ordered, and Oriné did as he was told. There was a crackle down his spine, but by now he had gotten used to the sensation, and actually found it marginally pleasant. The trainer double-checked his aim, looked down the sights of the weapon, and pulled the trigger. Suddenly pain exploded across Oriné's chest, white overcoming his eyes, but a second later his vision returned. There was no more air in his lungs; he had to draw a breath in consciously before he fell. The shield bar in the corner of his eyes was half-empty, and his hand instinctively went to the place where the bullet hit.

Except it hadn't. There was no hole exposing his vulnerable innards. His shields had held. On the floor was a flattened solid round, shining dully in the armory light. Looking around, he saw his comrades looking at him in a mixture of admiration and fear. Finally he nodded to them that he was all right.

"Well done," the trainer said, and then waved him down. He picked up his Lumidex again. "Any volunteers now? No? Then the next cadet will be..." His voice trailed off and he frowned. "Oriné 'Fulsamee?" He looked around. "Wasn't he just up here?" Several Elites nodded yes, Oriné most fervently. The trainer shrugged. "An overlooked glitch, I suppose. Let's try it again." Yet no matter how many times he tried to select a name randomly, the computer always gave him the same name: Oriné 'Fulsamee. After several minutes an Elite Minor technician was called for and the squadron dismissed.

As they left, Oriné overheard the conversation between the trainer and the Minor. "Is the program faulty?" the cobalt-armored Elite asked.

"No, it can't be," the trainer replied. "The Head Master himself oversaw the final encoding."

---

"We have been at war with the humans for several years now," Magister 'Alsakee said, pacing in front of a blank holographic screen. "In that time, we have learned much about them: their hygiene, their physical anatomy, their genetic makeup, and even their mating habits." Several of the Rank Ones who made up the audience shuddered at the memory of that particular lecture. "However, one thing that we rarely consider is how much we have learned from them."

Runes faded into view on the screen and quickly turned into individual scenes of combat, visual footage captured by soldiers of the Covenant. "Though no self-respecting commander would ever admit it," the Magister continued, "our own tactics have benefited greatly from observing humans in combat."

Oriné sat in the third row and was considerably intrigued. Human tactics employed by Covenant warriors? All he could imagine were Elites fleeing haplessly from their stations, which warranted a frown. Such an image seemed completely inaccurate, not at all what he would think of a Sangheili warrior. He immediately banished the picture from his mind. He would not stand it.

'Alsakee smiled, looking over the incredulous faces of the cadets. "Do you not believe me?" The screen faded to a model of a Sangheili soldier, dressed in the cobalt armor of an Elite Minor. "The tactics of sniping, flanking, and taking cover have been well-known battlefield maneuvers since war was first created." The model lay down in a prone position, holding an invisible gun, before jumping up and hiding behind an invisible wall. "For millennia, the Covenant has employed such tactics on the battlefield, though not quite to the same effectiveness as the humans." Several of the audience members murmured to each other, not properly understanding what the Magister was getting at.

"Please observe this footage taken during battle on the human world known as Jericho Seven." The screen changed again, this time showing the clear video of a battle taken in the midst of combat. The image bobbed up and down as it moved forward, but only slightly; the Ossoona in charge of recording the data must have been quite experienced. Speeding up, the footage advanced to the appropriate place: a group of humans, prone behind what remained of a wall. It could hardly have been six inches in height, yet simply by using it to help minimize their profile and exposed area infinitesimally they were avoiding being struck by the incoming plasma fire. One pulled and primed one of their fragmentation grenades, throwing it over the miniscule barricade. An explosion sounded moments later, and the plasma fire stopped completely. One of the humans peeked over the incline and let out a cheer.

The video changed, this time showing possibly the same Ossoona moving with a squadron of other Covenant. Suddenly there was a loud cracking sound and the Elite Minor who was leading the squad crumpled to the ground. The camera immediately began to shake as the Ossoona moved to cover, perhaps because he had been caught in the open without his active camouflage, but the sound of more sniper fire was easily heard. For a moment a Jackal was caught in frame, and just as he appeared his head exploded. When the camera looked away, the image froze, settling on a half-destroyed building. Scrutinizing the image closely, Oriné could see a slight vapor trail in the air leading back to a shadow on the fourth floor.

"From analyzing this," Magister 'Alsakee continued, "our own troops have been able to formulate similar strategies." The image changed again, this time becoming a video of Covenant warriors lying in wait. A single Warthog appeared, moving down a road between two buildings. As it passed between two alleys, a pair of plasma grenades flew from the shadows and attached to the front wheels, detonating in a cloud of sapphire flame and vaporizing half the vehicle. The audience of students cheered at the sight, and another video appeared: this time, two squads of Covenant soldiers were trying to advance down a street but stationary guns deployed by the humans were preventing them from moving. One of the Elites gave a garbled order to a Jackal, who nodded and began scaling the building with his partner. They reached the top without being spotted, moved along the top of the building until they were over the humans' position, and began firing down at them. The distraction was all the other warriors needed as they broke cover and advanced quickly.

The video faded and the holographic projector hummed down. Magister 'Alsakee paced in front of it. "The humans are heretics, have no doubt, but in their testing of our faith we can learn much. Even in space they have proven to be quite cunning, with maneuvers such as the 'Kiiz Loop'.

"The next lesson for today concerns the anatomy and edibility of certain flora and fauna on the human planets..."

---

The lessons in Combat, Faith, and Knowledge were long, brutal, and often; when the call came for squadron twenty-two to regroup in their quarters it had been a relief, but the walk back was painful for the students who were almost constantly bruised and sore.

As he shuffled into his place in the line of students, Oriné was not surprised to once again see the Major standing before them. His crimson armor was as radiant as ever, his face as chiseled and unreadable, and his stance rigid enough that it made people cringe to look at. Briefly the young Elite Junior wondered if he would ever learn the Major's name.

When everybody was assembled, the Major began to pace and speak. "I'm aware that your leave is coming up, but there is something that must be discussed prior to that, and that is your commencement assignments.

"Following your successful completion of training here, you will undergo the commencement ceremony. During the ceremony your achievements will be announced and judged, your dedications will be brought to light, and, most importantly, you will receive your assignment."

He stopped pacing and shot a glare into the cadet line-up. "Those of you fortunate enough to have a sponsor within the fleet will be assigned to that warrior's ship and that will be the end of that. You shall have nothing to worry about." Oriné noticed a few shoulders droop in relief before recovering.

The Major continued both his walk and his speech. "For the rest of you, there are two likely deployments: the front lines, and Institution. The front lines are fairly self-explanatory: you will be on human worlds, fighting for the Forerunners, their artifacts, and the sake of the Great Journey. This is also the most likely assignment, and I can guarantee that ninety percent of the cadets who will be promoted to Elite Minor will be sent to the front lines. You will be placed in a lance; a few students will be promoted to Elite Major, and they will have much bigger responsibilities.

"The second likely deployment will be here, at Institution. The reasons for being assigned here are numerous and plentiful, mostly pertaining to either a need for Elite attendants or the Head Master feeling a student needs additional discipline." He paused for only a second, but to the Elite Juniors it was easily discernible, a habit they had come to notice and understand in their several years at Institution. "It is not a permanent assignment, and following the completion of a 'satisfactory' stay you will be sent to the front." As he said it, he turned away and looked to the wall. For a moment his gaze remained firmly affixed there, and his shoulders shook perceptibly; but when he looked back, his glare was as fierce and venomous as ever.

"Be warned, though," he said, "those are only the most likely deployments. There are other possibilities, such as being assigned to a scouting ship or to High Charity, but these are all honorable paths to follow."

Yarna, who was several Sangheili down the line from Oriné, stepped forward. The Major turned towards him and nodded. "Excellency," the Elite Junior said, "are there any dishonorable deployments?"

"Yes," the Elite Major replied, "but straight out of Institution there are few. You might be given the assignment of what is called the 'Moon Guard'. It may sound strange and exotic, but it means nothing more than being deployed to an outpost located on a moon within our own space. Those are reserved for troublemakers and suspected traitors who might be sympathetic towards the humans. With enough work and valor, however, you could be rotated out and to the front lines."

The Major resumed his pace, but it was much slower and menacing, and coming towards Oriné. "Another possibility is being posted on survey duty. While a Surveyor your unenviable task will essentially be Inquisitorial follow-up; you will spend most of your time scanning and cataloging destroyed human planets, searching for missed sections and possible things of interest. However, you will likely never know combat unless you're facing surviving humans."

He was almost in front of Oriné. "The third possible dishonorable deployment is duty in a gulag. Human prisoners are sent there to be interrogated and... executed" There was a curios emphasis that left Oriné feeling uneasy. "Gulags are not located on planets for tactical reasons, and are instead free-floating space stations located in the rear lines. If you are sent there, you will never see combat, and will almost certainly never be transferred out. It is a dead end, and a terrible place to be."

By now the Major was standing directly in front of Oriné. He looked down the line that Oriné occupied. "You will, however, most likely not have to worry about these situations, so long as you have not seen fit to slight a higher official." It seemed like his cold eyes had settled on Oriné. His hearts sank. "If you have, pray that the Great Journey may sweep through soon after, that you will not be sullied and weighed down by your heresies and unable to be taken into godhood.

"Inoculations begin next week. Dismissed."

---

It was nearly time for leave.

Oriné found himself unable to focus after the lecture from the Major. He was consumed by grief and fear, both regretting his affair with Ekla on High Charity and resenting the society that caused it. There was little he could do, however. The weeks wore on and his fatigue grew: he managed to fail a spot-examination in Faith, was "killed" nearly every day in Combat, and fell into a fitful sleep during a Knowledge lecture. Magister 'Alsakee had noticed and placed a bowl full of water on the slumbering Sangheili's lap; when he woke up the bowl tipped over and spilled on his armor. Everyone laughed, even Oriné, though it had been a pathetic, exhausted laughter.

Most students claimed the same when he admitted his weariness, though for them it was simply having spent years in Institution's walls doing nothing but training. They wished to get out and enjoy themselves. Leave was nearly there, and all the students became antsy and unable to focus on their work; it was nothing new. "It happens to us all," 'Alsakee had told them after a particularly violent display of restlessness had wound up rendering a Lumidex airborne aimed for his head. He had dodged successfully.

The inoculations were painful as well. The Elite Juniors had blood samples taken and evaluated for a disease risk factor. Most Sangheili had a high disease tolerance when compared to other races, and it was true that a lucky few would not need inoculations and would be able to develop their own immunity rapidly upon exposure. Everyone else was given a plethora of vaccines based on their own risks.

Somehow Oriné was evaluated as an extremely high risk and was required to have each and every shot available, though the precise number escaped him. He had lost count around fourteen. Yet it made no sense: when he had been younger there had been no problem with disease. He never caught anything more serious than a flu. Prior to his departure to Jisako his father had insisted he be tested, and the results came back as low risk.

He asked a Healer one day while he was getting his dose for something called "meezelz".

"When we drew your blood we sent it to the lab here in the station," the Healer replied.

"How did it get back to you?"

"They transmitted the results over the network."

"Could they have been intercepted and changed?"

"I suppose, but why would anyone want to do that? If you suspect something is amiss, you're more than welcome to visit the laboratory and check the results yourself. But there's no harm in getting all the shots, even if you don't need them."

Oriné told himself that he would check the lab, but in the end he never did. He was often sore following his inoculation sessions, and always tired from the stress. All he did instead was think of the enemy he had made himself and which of the horrible fates would fall to him.

Finally, however, it came time for leave, and with it a different bunch of mixed emotions. The destination for the students would be High Charity, the holy city, and the city where Ekla and her family made their home. Oriné would be glad to be away from Institution, he knew, but what would he do if he saw Ekla again? Or her mother? Or, Gods forbid, her father? The latter wasn't a rational worry, as Ekla's father would still be at Institution, but there was a possibility that he'd be closer than he'd like: it was tradition that the top three students in a squadron would have the honor of staying in the Head Master's manor. Everyone else would be put up in barracks.

Before boarding the Phantoms to take them to the ship which would, in turn, go to High Charity, the students were being stopped and instructed individually by the Major. Oriné couldn't hear what he was saying, and all too soon it was his turn.

"Oriné 'Fulsamee," the Major muttered upon stopping him. "I understand you had an eventful stay at High Charity last time you were there."

The Elite Junior fidgeted. "Yes, Excellency."

The Major grunted. "We shall be sure not to have a repeat of that. You are to be assigned to barracks, where hopefully any disorderly conduct will be squashed by the authority there." He nodded and motioned Oriné onward, and the young cadet went. I have built an unsavory reputation for myself, he thought solemnly. I deserve every word.

---

High Charity had not changed since his last visit. The Forerunner ship still stood in the center, crowds still swarmed in the streets, and everything was just as grand as he remembered... but the grandiosity hardly penetrated his skin.

It had been different experiencing the city alone. He had stopped to admire the smaller things, such as the way a tree swayed in the wind, an insect that crawled across a flat surface, or just the simple atmosphere. Yet, in a group, Oriné found that his priorities were different. He and his comrades were constantly searching for a means of entertainment or amusement as opposed to relaxation or enlightenment. At one point he directed them towards the Kig-Yar sweets shop that he had found last time, and the group of seven that accompanied him quickly set about diminishing their accounts. Properly fed they resumed their pace through the city.

There were many attractions that appealed to the cadets, one of which was the ability to rent Eidolons and go for a ride. Eidolons were demilitarized Ghosts with much steeper swept wings and less armor, but retaining the maneuverability and speed of their armed counterparts. In the evening the group of Elite Juniors would take their out and race them through the empty streets, often earning chastisements from the soldiers set to watch over them. Yet the speed was intoxicating, and they would sneak out and repeat the act every night.

Ekla, however, dominated Oriné's mind. At every turn he expected to see her, for her to jump with delight and run up so they could embrace again. Everything he saw reminded him of her, and he saw her in every face of every stranger. Several times he held back from running forward and embracing a female from behind, observing and finally deciding that the woman was not his lost love.

One night Yarna had caught him lingering outside the barracks after they had gotten back from a particularly high-speed race that left the older Sangheili as the winner. He snuck up behind him and gave him a violent push. Oriné nearly lost his balance but stepped out with one hoof to catch himself. He turned around and growled a challenge.

Yarna merely shrugged. "Why do you pine for her?"

"I love her," Oriné replied, flexing his hands.

"Do you? How can you be certain?" A dark look filled Yarna's eyes. "Does she love you?"

Oriné didn't reply in words; how could his friend possibly understand? Instead he swung out a fist, aiming for Yarna's head. The other Sangheili ducked and got inside Oriné's defensive area. He sniffed. "Have you been indulging, my dear friend?"

He had. Oriné had gone to the temple where Ekla studied in hopes of finding her, but after two hours of searching the grounds he had determined she wasn't there. After that he had found a pub and had a few bowls of wine. He was far from drunk, but there was a tingling sensation in his brain.

The emerald-armored Elite jumped back and swung again, this time aiming low, but Yarna merely stepped back. Oriné stepped forward and kicked, catching the other in his chest, but the older Elite Junior moved with the blow, turned around faster than the eye could see, and caught his friend's ankle. Caught in an awkward and unbalanced position all Oriné could do was hop and look indignant.

"Are you ready to calm down?"

"No."

"Then I'll just hold you here until you are."

They maintained their position for a good five minutes before finally Oriné's shoulders sagged. "Release me."

Yarna did so. Oriné did not try to attack again, merely turning away and continuing to sulk. Despite his best attempts, however, his friend was quite belligerent. "What is it that troubles you so, my friend?"

A sigh exploded from between Oriné's mandibles. "We hadn't even time to say parting words. How does she really feel? Does she wish to see me again at all? Was she punished for our affair? Where is she now?" It felt like a fantastic weight had been placed on his shoulders. "I wish I could speak to her again."

Yarna was silent, but a moment later his hand appeared on Oriné's arm. "We do not always receive the closure we search for in our lives," he said sagely, though in a careful and calm voice. "If you are sure of your feelings towards her, be confident in those. If you cannot find her, then so be it. But do not forget yourself: you are a warrior first. You must fight for the Covenant. Duty to females comes second."

Oriné nodded. There was truth and wisdom in Yarna's words. Without quarrel he allowed his friend to lead him inside, where their friends were engaging in games of Rocnas'al between the Elite Minors who already staffed the building and the Juniors who were staying for the duration of their leave.

"Oriné!" One of the cadets waved to him. "Quickly, we need your help! These scoundrels are leading by three games, and we must put them in their place."

Despite himself a smile came to his face and Oriné nodded, walking over to take up a board and challenge any who dared come forward. By the end of the night, the Elite Juniors had won by two games, and Oriné was recognized as the undefeated champion of Rocnas'al.

The rest of the two weeks went by quickly. Though he had not forgotten about Ekla, Oriné found himself to be more and more distracted and entertained by the company of his comrades. Together they toured almost all of the lower districts, meeting new people and experiencing new things. A few dared express an unwillingness to leave, but it wasn't sincere: they would be soldiers; that was the way of things.

On the day of their departure, Oriné broke off from the group long enough to go again to the museums. Much to his dismay, however, he found the Hall of Heresy had been closed. The building it once occupied was empty, totally devoid of the intrigue that had once pervaded the place.

"What happened to it?" Oriné asked a passing Sangheili.

"It was decided the Hall cast the humans in too favorable a light," the stranger replied, shrugging his shoulders. "The displays were removed and the curator was charged with heresy. He may be released, but his honor will be too far gone to recover."

Heresy, Oriné thought as he left. It was a terrible charge. Those who stood accused were jailed and tried; in the unlikely event that they were found innocent, nobody ever looked at them the same way again. Their Lineage fell to dishonor, and unless it was recovered through penance, it would never return. The Elite Junior felt pity for the curator.

When the ship left, the incident with the museum was fresh in his mind, but Ekla was even more so. Oriné gazed longingly out of a window on the observation deck, watching High Charity slowly shrink behind them. Though the image was holographically generated, he felt as though he could reach out and touch it, perhaps seize Ekla and pull her away with him.

But she is gone, he told himself finally, pressing a hand against the transparent material. Inwardly he tried to come up with something poetic to add to the moment, but his mind was blank. There was no thought, no feeling... strangely, none of the grief he had felt only moments before remained.

He stayed but a moment, then removed his hand and walked away.

---

The Commencement Proofs were well under way. Already Oriné's squadron had faced and emerged victorious from the Proof of Knowledge and the Proof of Faith. In the former they were each given a Lumidex with a different essay of Sangheili history and told to read it and make corrections within twenty-four hours. Oriné's essay had pertained to the initial discovery of the humans, and he had finished correcting it in eight.

Magister 'Alsakee had beamed when he handed over the device. "I'm sure you have done well as always, Oriné," he said. "My sister is lucky to have you for a son."

Oriné bowed. "Thank you, Magister. Are you blessed with children?"

He nodded. "My wife is expected to lay within the month. It is fortunate that my time here takes pause for a while; I will be able to witness my child's hatching with my own eyes." Oriné had thanked him for all the years of kindness and left after that.

The Proof of Faith had proved a sight more challenging. The Lesser Prophets made them stand in lines, in random order, and one by one recite excerpts of the Divinidex from memory and in order. Oriné had nearly slipped and forgot to include a line, but recovered quickly enough to avoid inciting the Lesser Prophets' ire. After he finished the Lesser Prophet merely nodded and indicated for the next cadet to continue. Once the Proof was completed no one stepped forward to offer him undue congratulations. Just as well, Oriné thought to himself, Faith is not my strength.

Combat, however, was. The Proof of Combat was located in the Hall of Eternity, the largest in all of Institution, and more importantly, it was reconfigurable. For the Proof of Combat, it had been turned into a lightly forested plain leading into a mock human city. Squadron Twenty-two was to fight another squadron of cadets within; the former was on the offense, the latter defending. It was Twenty-two's duty to completely scour the city in six hours' time. The hall was massive and the city impressive in its size as well, though not so big as to be overwhelming.

However, this time it was made to be more real. Each Elite Junior in the squadron was given a small group of his own, consisting of a Jackal and two Grunts. Though not the first time he had seen a Jackal, it was the first time Oriné had one directly under his command. The Kig-Yar soldiers were over from their own mercenaries' academies, and their performance in following orders would ultimately decide if they were ready for combat. The Unggoy, however, would be sent to the front whether or not they made a "satisfactory" battle. What was riding for them was a position as a Grunt Minor or a Grunt Major.

The arsenal was mostly what was to be expected: training rifles and pistols, plus grenades. The Jackal had his own teal arm-shield that blocked the signals transmitted by the weapons, so it worked according to real combat. It was the same for Oriné's personal shield, though there was no recharging; after a certain number of hits, depending on what area was struck, the shield would fail and he would be defenseless. However, there was an additional armament allowed the Sangheili; most of the Elite Juniors had elected to bring their malier, but Oriné had clipped his twin nadier to his back.

Though the entire squadron had been deployed at the far end of the hall, amidst thin and wiry trees that offered poor cover, they advanced quickly. Oriné, Yarna, and a few of their comrades had elected to lead flanking maneuvers while Olah led the rest of the squadron up the middle to distract the majority of their opponents. The flanking groups had gradually split off so as not to be caught en masse; and though the main force was using the Jackals as a phalanx in the frontal attack, Oriné had his Jackal deactivate his shield for the time being, so as to preserve secrecy.

After several minutes of creeping through the sparse foliage, Oriné's group found themselves on the edge of the city. At first glance no patrol was evident, but they were already an hour and a half into the Proof; it was likely other such groups had been deployed in defensive positions.

"Lyt," Oriné said, looking back at the Jackal, "can you discern any movement?"

The Kig-Yar mercenary nodded. "In the window, Excellency, you can see how a curtain sways?"

Oriné frowned. "That is only the wind. I meant enemy troop movements."

"Look closer," the creature hissed. "It moved against the breeze." It took the Elite Junior a moment, but finally he saw it. Tentatively he raised his rifle towards it.

"What awaits us?"

"None of my Jackal brethren would make such a mistake," Lyt said confidently. "And your Elite comrades are far too concerned with glory to hide in such a way. It is only an Unggoy we face, nothing more." Oriné nodded. Though the mercenary was brutally honest in his manner, he was well educated in scouting.

"Very well," Oriné replied. He turned back to the Grunts. "Throw a grenade into that window, and be sure to hit it properly! When it goes off, we will have only moments to get to the shadow of an alley." One of the Grunts nodded and withdrew a training grenade. With a mighty throw the sphere was rendered airborne and fell into the window before a loud explosion was heard. The grenade didn't actually detonate but it mimicked the sound well enough; just as it did, Oriné rushed forward with his group on his heels, making a beeline for a dark alleyway. Once inside they ducked down behind human refuse containers. In the distance Oriné could hear the sounds of the main attack hitting the defensive line: fake artillery sounded, as well as the ring of plasma weapons discharging.

Oriné flattened himself against the wall as the Jackal did the same, but the Grunts' breathers were too bulky to mimic the motion; instead they just crouched down behind a replicated large trash unit. So far no one had come to investigate the sound. The Elite Junior waved his unit forward. Between the buildings the sound of their boots and hooves seemed unbearably loud, but the only other option was running through open ground, which would be suicide behind enemy lines.

He looked around intently for any sign of enemy troops, but none was to be had. Satisfied he waved his troops forward across the street and into the next alley. When they arrived, Oriné realized that by using that tactic he could leapfrog his way up the avenue and flank the enemy as they repelled the main attack force.

But why not just run up the middle of the street? He considered that thought. Many Sangheili warriors he knew of would do something such as that; after all, it seemed clear enough. But upon looking up, the Elite Junior realized how ineffective a tactic it would be. The windows overlooking the open space had a great view if he ordered such a maneuver, and though nothing could stop a possible sniper from reporting them, running from cover to cover would certainly reduce their chances of getting shot.

With care the group continued their way through the streets, not meeting any resistance. But with every step the sound of simulated battle grew louder. He waved down his comrades, giving a hand signal to tell them to check their noise levels. Peeking around a corner, he spied a group of Elite Juniors with their Grunts and Jackals running past towards the edge of the city. At first Oriné puzzled as to why they hadn't seen him, but then realized he had fortunately stopped in a shadow. He looked down at his armor, realizing that though it was still glittery, the color was muted and his opponents were looking for the bright emerald of armor caught in the artificial sunlight.

Oriné waited only a moment before shouting out the order to open fire. Surprised, many of the other cadets turned and brought up their training rifles, but Oriné's squadron was already firing. Several Grunts and Jackals fell under the simulated barrage, their training equipment paralyzing them as they were "killed." A few Elites had the misfortune of being too distant from cover and were similarly cut down, but many were able to dive out of the way. The return fire was erratic and uncoordinated, the commander obviously having not properly planned for the attack. A distance away Oriné heard Yarna's own group performing their own surprise attack from the opposite flank, and at the same time the fire from the main forces intensified. Caught by three fronts, the wiser students in the opposing squadron recalled their units while they still had the chance; those who had glory on their minds as opposed to victory were quickly cut down.

Oriné's own squad mates poured in through the opening, and he could see Olah leading the charge, his rifle in hand and his malier on his back. The squadron commander ran at the head of the spear maneuver, firing his weapon at the retreating enemy. As he passed, Oriné's squad fell into place beside his commander, and Yarna did the same but a second later.

"Who do you believe we fight?" Oriné asked.

Olah grunted. "Squadron Seventeen, I think."

At this Yarna let out a hearty laugh. "Seventeen against us?They haven't a chance!" Several of the cadets in earshot let out a battle cry at the words, Oriné lending his voice. The Unggoy cowed slightly at the noise, but several found courage enough to add their own high-pitched snarling to the din; the Kig-Yar, however, held back, remaining silent.

The push into the city was relatively easy from that point. A few of Squadron Seventeen's groups hid in buildings and harried the troops as they passed, but by and large Squadron Twenty-two's entry went unimpeded.

After about an hour and a half of fighting, Squadron Twenty-two had finally managed to secure the city except for their final objective: the enemy squadron's headquarters. It was located in a large two-story human building, with large pillars in the front and a decorative dome atop it. Olah sent scouts around the building to look for possible entry points, but none were apparent; only windows high up on the second story were visible, and without piton guns reserved for the Special Operations, they were inaccessible..

"Very well," the squadron commander growled. "We shall commence a frontal attack." He motioned for two groups to go in first and check out the initial area they would encounter; as the cadets ascended the steps, Oriné stood back and wondered why they had not been attacked. A few rifle-wielding students in the front doorways could hold off any number of advances from the attacking force. Furthermore, though Unggoy and Sangheili were plentiful, why had they not yet found...?

A cry rose from the groups sent forward. All eyes were immediately upon them, but there was a loud noise and suddenly the cadets at the doorway spasmed and crumpled to the ground. Two Hunter pairs appeared behind them; one pair jogged out of the building, pushing aside the incapacitated cadets as they did so, while the other remained in the doorway, adopting a defensive position and raising their fake Fuel Rod Cannons.

Chaos began to take hold, most of the groups panicking and beginning to run every which way. The Grunts seemed especially receptive, many dropping their weapons and running around in circles while waving their arms in the air. Oriné was so preoccupied trying to keep his group in line and his own mind calm that he barely registered Olah's call for grenades. He unhooked one from his belt, primed it, and threw. The grenades all bounced off the Hunters' armor plating, being just training grenades and unable to fuse to anything; they detonated on the ground, causing more harm than good. The armored Lekgolo continued their advance, firing from their cannons and decimating entire groups at a time.

Survivors scrambled to get behind cover, a few recollecting themselves enough to offer suppressing fire, but the shots had little to no effect on the massive beasts. Oriné watched helplessly as one of them took aim at his group; he and Lyt dived away in time, but his two Grunts were caught in the simulated blast and were rendered useless. The Elite Junior managed to scramble behind a wall before the Hunter could draw a bead on him, but he did not know where the Jackal had gone.

Perhaps he has been hit, he thought. Looking at the holographic HUD, he paled when he saw his shields had been reduced to a third of their power. For a moment he considered using his active camouflage, but then remembered it had been disabled for the Proof. Something about being unfair, he could not properly remember; the craze of the battle at hand was clouding his mind. He tried to fight through the fog, remember what his training told him to do, but the cloud was too thick. His arms felt heavy and unresponsive. Were it not for the surprised gasp that filled the air, he may have closed his eyes and pretended to be dead.

At the noise he peeked around the wall and saw that Olah 'Seroumee was standing alone in the middle of the open, the two Hunters a safe distance back. The armored spikes on their backs were raised in alarm, and though their weapons were aimed right at the Sangheili neither of them was firing. Even the pair at the entrance to the building had ceased their barrage.

Oriné saw that Olah's rifle lay discarded nearby, but the cadet smoothly reached behind him and drew his malier. With practiced ease he slid into a martial stance, prepared for a melee battle. The two Hunters exchanged looks, hesitating. Perhaps they feared injuring the Sangheili in a melee duel, or maybe they were simply incredulous at what was happening before them. Either way the lack of action was enough to motivate Olah into action: in a single leap he was right in front of the Lekgolo. They took a step back, clearly surprised, but the cadet simply slid to one side and jumped off the heel of one hoof, getting behind one of them. With a precise blow he struck the Hunter in the exposed orange flesh of its "back," making it stumble forward; a second forced the Hunter down, and it did not rise again. The other, recovering enough of its wits, charged forward, but Olah merely sidestepped the blind rush and repeated the maneuver, bringing down the second one. Neither of them made to get up, but audible groans could be heard.

By now the students behind cover began cheering, their morale restored. Oriné and his comrades raised their rifles and began firing on the surprised pair in the doorway, catching them by surprise and forcing them back. As one they charged up the stairs and into the building, swarming over the dangerously armored Lekgolo. While firing on the crowd, but with significantly less composure than before, more of the cadets got in behind them and attacked their weak backs. Less than a minute later both lay incapacitated on the ground.

That was when Squadron Seventeen's trap was sprung. Out of the shadows cast by the high windows the other squadron struck, catching Squadron Twenty-two in a dangerous crossfire. A few groups managed to make it to cover, but several, including Oriné, were caught in the open. With no other alternative the Elite Junior stood his ground, firing back with his rifle. His shields rang with alarm as they were steadily drained, so he took to moving about, ducking and sidestepping randomly in order to reduce the number of hits he took.

His shields were near depleted when a shape lunged out of the darkness. Barely having time to react, Oriné dropped his rifle instinctively and leaped back. As it came into the light, Oriné realized just who the shadow was.

"Rtas!" The older Elite Junior was holding his own nadier, whirling them about and striking at Oriné. Ducking and dodging he was able to avoid his friend's attacks, but a lucky strike hit him in the side, bringing his shields down to zero.

There was no time for words. Oriné spun away from another blow and drew his own dueling rods, raising them and blocking a double downward swing. The rods bounced off each other, jarring their forearms, but quickly the two swung again. Oriné forced his opponent into the defensive, making several fruitless strikes towards Rtas's abdominals; the Elite Junior reciprocated in kind, but was likewise blocked. All around them the battle raged, but out of respect none of the combatants were firing at the pair locked in a duel, it being too sacred a thing to interrupt. The two cadets fell into an awkward dance, both having skill yet lacking the grace that came with experience. They twirled and jumped over obstacles, ducking each other's blows and lashing out whenever possible.

Duck. Thrust. Parry. Thrust. Slash, thought Oriné, though words were beyond him at this point. He did not think, he just acted. Slash. Cross. Back. Step. Thrust. Parry. Parry! PARRY! Suddenly his arms seemed sluggish, stiff; they were not bringing the weapons back to deflect Rtas's incoming attack. Yet, at the last second, Oriné's body moved of its own volition, sliding him barely out of the way as his opponent put all his weight behind the thrust. As if the Forerunners were guiding his very movements his arms whistled through the empty air, Rtas sliding by in slow motion. The nadier reversed in his hands and he struck hard against the back of his friend's helmet. Rtas's scant shielding vanished and he fell forward, paralyzed.

Oriné sighed in relief, and slowly came back to the world. All around him, Squadron Seventeen either lay on the ground, incapacitated, or stood with their arms raised in surrender. They dropped their rifles and kicked them towards the center. Puzzled, the Elite Junior analyzed what remained of the battle-lines: Seventeen had them surrounded and outnumbered. Why were they admitting defeat?

A shrill tone blasted through the Hall of Eternity, sounding the end of the exercise. The cadets relaxed, and those on the ground groggily got to their feet. Several of their former opponents came and congratulated the members of Squadron Twenty-two, including Rtas, once he was upright again.

"That was an expert feint," the other Elite Junior said, rubbing the back of his neck. "You have never done that when we trained."

That is because before today, I had no idea it was possible. Instead of saying so, he only nodded and muttered something affirmative under his breath. Eventually the Major's voice boomed through their radios, ordering them to clear the battlefield before the next pair of squadrons up for their Proof of Combat entered.

As Oriné left Lyt suddenly materialized at his elbow. Suppressing his surprise, Oriné turned to see the Jackal giving him a stiff nod. "That was masterfully done," he hissed in his harsh tongue.

"What do you mean?" Oriné was still at a loss why the other squadron had abandoned what could have been certain victory.

The Kig-Yar clucked. "Eliminating their squadron commander," he said. "It is an honor usually reserved for your own squadron commander, is it not?"

Oriné felt himself go pale. Rtas had been Seventeen's squadron commander? He had not realized. Suddenly he remembered being pressed up against a wall by Olah, malier slowly grinding his windpipe inwards. With wide eyes he looked over to where his own squadron commander was standing, silently hoping he would not look in his direction. Yet the older Sangheili did, and for a moment Oriné was seized with fear; but then Olah nodded, ever so slightly. Oriné relaxed. It was all right.

As they filed out the Major met them in the corridor. "Squadron Twenty-two was the victor today," he said in his loud, deep voice, "but both sides fought with great honor. Do not fear this Proof, young ones, for you have passed.

"Commencement is in two days. Good luck to you all."

---

Yarna 'Orgalmee stood in front of the reflective hologram, fidgeting with his armor. It was brand new, which meant it was stiff as a board and about as easy to move around in. Anxiously he stretched and flexed his shoulders, trying to get them to loosen up before suddenly remembering that he would have to maintain a harsh at-attention pose for the entire ceremony. So what's the point?

He glanced back over the room, where forty-eight of his comrades were having similar problems. They moved about awkwardly but were going back and forth, congratulating each other on a job well done. Inwardly they all wished it was over and done with so they could go to the gala and the feast, and then to their ships; no one really wanted to be in their armor right now.

Except there was something to be proud of in the armor. Yarna looked back at his reflection and smiled. The armor was a deep cobalt blue, nicely reflecting the light cast by the overhead lamps.

Suddenly the hologram blurred as a shape appeared behind him; Yarna turned and saw Oriné 'Fulsamee, standing at attention but grinning so fiercely that the other worried one of his mandibles might break off.

"Well?" Oriné asked. "Tell me truly, dear Yarna, do I look fearsome enough to drive fear into the hearts of humans?"

Yarna grinned sardonically in return. "You could glass a planet with a look, Oriné. What of myself?"

His friend pretended to scrutinize him heavily, clicking his mandibles and pantomiming distress. "Blue does not accent your skin very well, I'm afraid. Perhaps you should go back to green?" Yarna punched him in the arm, but not hard enough to cause any actual damage. In truth, everyone was giddy with horror at the thought: after roughly three long years condemned to Institution, they were finally going to be shipped out. Their military careers began now.

"Were your parents able to attend?" Yarna asked.

Oriné winced visibly. "Unfortunately, no. They could not afford the passage. But they have given me their assurances that they will be watching via feed, so they will be with me in spirit." Yarna nodded, not wishing to discuss it further. Out of everyone in the room, Oriné had the most to worry about; his affair with the Head Master's daughter was well known. None of his comrades blamed him; they all agreed that Ekla had been at fault, and had even been leading him on the entire time. Though he remained quiet about it, Yarna sensed that he still held feelings for her deep within his heart. Many of the cadets who passed him grabbed his shoulder and said comforting words, but it was clear that he was incredibly nervous.

He has every right to be, Yarna thought. Oriné had fought with honor and courage in all his time at Institution, never faltering but that once. Surely the Head Master would see what a valuable soldier he would be, and perhaps at worst send him on a two-month tour in the Moon Guard. It was rumored that he wasn't going to allow Oriné to be promoted, but because he defeated the enemy squadron leader, the Head Master had no choice but to allow it or make himself look poor. Then again, Ekla had been his daughter, not only his flesh and blood but a valuable political bargaining chip. She could be married off to cement ties between families or to patch up slights and misgivings, but few takers would be interested in "soiled" goods.

Yarna shook his head. The realm of politics made him ill. How his father could be drawn to it, he'd never know. Perhaps he'd ask him tonight; both his father and mother would be in attendance.

Across the room the door hummed as it opened, and two figures dressed in the crimson armor of the Elite Major strode in. The first was the Sangheili known only as "the Major," as he had never offered his real name, and none of the then-Elite Juniors had been privileged to know it; none of them really wanted to anyway. The second figure was far more familiar: Olah 'Seroumee. For his consistently outstanding performance in every field he was bypassing the Elite Minor rank.

At their entry, every Sangheili in the room dropped what they were doing and saluted the pair rigidly. They were no longer cadets, green rookies fresh from Jisako; when in the presence of their superiors, not even the subtle nudging and whispered jokes were allowed. They were Elite Juniors no longer.

Now they were Elite Minors.

It was not the Major who spoke, but Olah. "Warriors, your ears!" The soldiers remained quiet and attentive. "We are about to begin commencement. Follow me to the grand assembly hall." He turned and strode out of the room. The Elite Minors hastily arranged themselves into a neat, tight formation appropriate for walking through the halls, and filed out of the room. Most of them would return to gather various items after the Commencement but before the gala. Their assignments would include a ship they would reside on, and they could have their possessions sent to their cabins.

They marched through the halls, passing several of the faculty and staff who paused to watch. A few favored them with half-bows or nods of approval, but most just looked on and smiled. Yarna did not move his head, but rotated his eyes to watch; he couldn't acknowledge them, for doing so would be improper.

When they ceased, they found themselves to be third in line, with two squadrons up ahead. As a fourth fell in behind them, Yarna took the opportunity to briefly touch foreheads with Oriné.

"Do not despair," he whispered. "All is not lost. You are a warrior of our Lords, with all their strength." Oriné nodded in return, but didn't say anything, returning his gaze forward. Yarna's lingered on his friend's features, but did the same after only a moment's hesitation. The wait was long, and as they waited Yarna could not help but fill his head with thoughts and daydreams of glory. Marching on new worlds, slaying heretical humans, watching as they burned to cinders under orbital bombardment... all the while his own honor would grow and grow. And one day, after hard work and sacrifice, he would be offered the coveted position of Honor Guard. He tried to imagine himself in the red and gold of the station, with the glowing flashes adorning his helmet and pauldrons, holding the ceremonial spear; but the idea excited him too much, and he found himself fidgeting. Quickly he corrected his posture and recomposed himself. His hopes would only become a reality if he fought and gained favor with the Hierarchs and the Forerunners.

Up ahead a shout rang out, and the squadron commanders, all Elite Majors, relayed the order to the warriors. "Prepare!" Olah shouted. "On my signal, march!" No signal seemed to be required, in actuality, for as soon as the line ahead of them moved the rest followed suit. In such a formation did they march into the majestic hall, with all the eyes of the Covenant upon them, it felt like. In actuality, it was probably a much smaller fraction.

Utter discipline was maintained in the lines, and the pace was constant and quick. Somewhere up ahead, probably on the main dais, someone blew a war horn, a long and low note that hovered over their heads. Yarna was aware of the crowds on all sides, but dared not turn to look or even rotate his eye. He was situated in the middle of a line with Oriné to his left anyhow, and wouldn't be able to see much of anything.

They soon came to a stop, turned, and began filling in close to the dais. It was the same round central platform they had witnessed upon their first arrival, Yarna realized, thinking back to so long ago. He had been scrawny then, he and all his comrades, all only a few weeks removed from Jisako. Surprise flashed across his mind; had it really been three years since then? A year and a half for Rank Three, and then about equal time of nine months for Ranks Two and One. Had their training been accelerated? His father always spoke of the four to five years he had spent here. There was a pang of worry in his mind as he wondered why new soldiers would be needed so soon, but he quickly banished it. It would not do to think of such things, especially now.

There was a Prophet on the platform, but he was unfamiliar and certainly much older than Regret had been. He wore the robes of a Hierarch, however. Beside him stood a councilor that he likewise didn't recognize, the Fleet Master Lyos 'Vadumee, and a figure clad in golden armor with emerald trim, with a matching cloak. It took him a moment to realize the figure was the Head Master of Institution. Unconsciously he glanced at Oriné, who was himself staring at the powerful figure standing upon the dais, but the cloaked official was too wrapped up in his conversation with the other three figures present to notice the slack-jawed looks of two Minors.

Finally all the soldiers were where they needed to be, in a circular formation around the platform and looking up. Last-minute nudges, forehead touches, and words of luck were quickly exchanged, but all fell silent as the Head Master strode forward. He looked out over the sea of former students and spectators, nodding with approval. Taking a step back he was in the direct center of the platform; the other figures filed off the stage, taking their places right at the base.

"Warriors," the Head Master began. His voice was of a surprising tenor, a higher pitch than what was expected. "Please, allow me be the first to congratulate you on your successful completion of training. It has been a hard and harrowing journey through the art of Combat, over the mountain of Knowledge, and down the road of Faith. You should be commended for your speedy and total mastery of these concepts that were lain before you when you were new, the soft skin of youth only having just been hardened by the harsh desert winds. Now you shall carry the weapons of a warrior, the tools of our Sacred Lords, and with them you shall purge the galaxy of all heresy.

"Our war with the humans draws closer to its end, we can all sense it. And with their destruction we will come one step closer to the Great Journey. You will be the soldier to end it. With the training you've had here, you shall have the power to destroy all heresy in the galaxy, and pave the way for the Great Journey." A mighty cry erupted from the horde of soldiers, shouting their enthusiasm. A grace passed over the Head Master's face as he stepped back. Fleet Master 'Vadumee came forward.

"In ancient times, when a Sangheili warrior proved himself through battle he would be given a new, unblooded sword," the massive Elite said. "We no longer have any use of metal blades, but the tradition remains." He nodded upwards; a large case floated down in a wave of inverted gravity. He stepped aside as it alighted on the dais. The aged Prophet floated up on his gravity throne, waved his hand over the case and muttered a prayer. He nodded back to the Head Master, who once again stepped forward.

"As we announce your name, step forward and accept your assignment and sword," he said. A hologram flickered to life in front of his eyes and he began to scan through it. He called out a name, and the named Sangheili would step up onto the dais. 'Vadumee would bellow his achievements and assignment, the councilor would hand him his sword from the case, and the Head Master would say something to the Elite. With that he would step down, return to his place in line, and wait.

The process was long and arduous, and Yarna found his attention beginning to wander. Dimly he was aware of the Fleet Master's son being given high honors, being an Elite Major, but it wasn't until he heard Olah's name called that he returned to the world.

They're on our line now, he realized as he watched the crimson-armored Sangheili march up to the platform. As he stepped up he bowed quickly to both the Head Master and the Fleet Master.

"Olah 'Seroumee commences with High Honors as an Elite Major," 'Vadumee called out, "as the squadron commander for the esteemed Squadron Twenty-two, he has commanded over one hundred successful missions and led his warriors against all manner of opponents. He is to be assigned to the holy carrier Transcendent Voyager, to be deployed in action on the front lines in the S'gor Legion." Olah bowed and walked to the councilor, who withdrew a sword from the case and handed it over. Bowing again, he made his way past the Head Master who said something to him and made his way down.

Two names later, and Yarna heard his name. Struggling to keep his pace measured and even he strode towards the dais. As he went he saw out of the corner of his eye the Prophet slumped in his chair, seemingly asleep. However, he dared not turn his head to look; to draw attention to him would be dishonorable. Instead he managed to make it up to the platform and manage his bows.

"Yarna 'Orgalmee is commencing with Honors as an Elite Minor," Fleet Master 'Vadumee said, "as a prominent member of Squadron Twenty-two. He has fought in over one hundred battles and come out in honorable triumph in sixty-four of them. He shall be assigned to the holy carrier Transcendent Voyager, to be deployed against heresy in the S'gor Legion." Yarna bowed, took his sword, and walked up to the Head Master.

"You have done well, young warrior," the elder Sangheili assured him. However, a dark look flashed in his eyes as he continued. "Be wary of whom you keep as a friend." A chill settled in his stomach, but he managed to bow and retreat from the dais. As he took his place, however, he heard Oriné's name.

To his credit, the younger Elite Minor did not flinch as he walked up to the platform, nor did he quake as he took his place before the Fleet Master and bowed to both him and the Head Master. For a moment, a pained expression crossed Lyos 'Vadumee's face. But he quickly composed himself, puffed out his chest, and bellowed.

"Oriné 'Fulsamee is commencing with High Honors as an Elite Minor, as a critical member of Squadron Twenty-two. He has, in his hundreds of battles, fought with only honor, chivalry, and distinction. He has shown proficiency with his rifle and his malier, and on four separate occasions he succeeded in besting other squadron commanders." For a moment, Yarna's spirits lifted. It was an impressive battle record, even for only simulated encounters. Surely the Head Master could not waste such talent?

The stricken look returned to 'Vadumee's face. "He shall be assigned to the cruiser Blind Devotion, and will serve on the orbital station Devil's Gulag to punish captured heretics."

Yarna's stomach dropped, and he caught the subtle exasperation of his squad mates out of the corner of his eye. Gulag duty. They had been cautioned against it, as the most dishonorable duty that could be issued at the Commencement ceremonies. Time seemed to move slowly as Oriné bowed, retrieved his sword, and bowed to the Head Master. It didn't appear that the elder Sangheili said anything; all that Yarna could see was a vicious scowl on his face. Oriné stepped down and walked back to his spot.

The rest of the ceremony went completely past Yarna. He could only look at his friend, trying to discern his mood. However, the younger Elite Minor had no facial expression: he only stared dead ahead with what looked like intent interest. Yarna didn't know what to do. He dared not nudge him, not while they were at attention.

Final words were given by the Fleet Master and the Head Master, the latter of which sounded almost relieved. With a bark, 'Vadumee dismissed the former cadets, and revelry broke out on the spot. The spectators surged forward to embrace family members who had been now officially promoted, while well-wishers formed a ring around the massive crowd. As the chaos erupted Yarna almost immediately lost track of Oriné; whether he had managed to slip through the people or just simply vanished, he didn't know.

Before he could look, however, a powerful hand seized him from behind and turned him around, two powerful arms seizing him in an embrace. He squawked in surprise before realizing the person who had hugged him was his mother.

"Oh, my son! My wonderful son!" Oslu Gal cried, wetness in her eyes. "You have done so well! Your father is so proud! The slaves at home gossip constantly about how great a warrior you will become!"

"Mother!" He struggled to free himself before the big woman finally let go. "Is father here?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, but he has gone to speak with his councilor friend and Fleet Master 'Vadumee. He has our assurances that he will be at the feast, however." Oh yes, the feast, Yarna reminded himself. Though he could not see Oriné in the crowd mixed with civilians and soldiers, perhaps he would be at the feast.

However, he did not appear. The families of the now-promoted soldiers were ushered into the incredibly large Hall of Eternity, where they had fought their final battle and which was now reconfigured to feed thousands of mouths. Grand tapestries depicting various famous warriors who had graduated from Institution and their most glorious moments hung from the ceiling, waving and flickering occasionally as the generators showed their age. The courses were vibrant, delicious gourmet, a far cry from what was usually served in the cadets' cafeterias. At various tables different holographic recordings of key moments in battles played, drawing the scrutiny of veteran Elites and causing jests and arguments to break out among the new soldiers.

As his father got into the wine and began scouring the recordings for his son, Yarna searched frantically for Oriné. A great many of the recordings featuring Squadron Twenty-two openly displayed his valor, and all around Yarna's comrades were questioning the sense in allowing such an accomplished cadet to be shuffled to the rear. Yet despite all the misgivings present, the soldier in question was nowhere to be found.

After only a short time he excused himself and began to stalk through the corridors. He recalled the fond memories he had formed not so long ago, with his comrades in arms and specifically with Oriné. Unconsciously he made his way back to the bunk room. It was eerily empty, though the personal items of everybody was still present, still slightly skewed out of place as if they were all going to return at any moment and go to sleep at curfew.

That is, everybody's belongings except for one. Oriné's Lumidex, nadier, and his peculiar human book were gone.