Author's Note: I'd like to thank everyone for their support and concern in getting this chapter written. All the kind reviews really touched me and helped me keep going. This was a difficult chapter to write, and not just because of outside influence (though there was plenty of that). I know I promised this chapter much sooner than I have it now, and I apologize for my fellow Swede whom I told that this chapter would be ready before New Year's.
Also, I've gone back and changed the name of the Sangheili homeworld to "Sanghelios," since that's what the Bestiarum says. Bungie told me to do it. Yell at them, not me. But there may also be formatting errors, so if you see any, let me know.
Enjoy the story. Next update shouldn't be as long in coming.
Chapter 8: Dream Killer
The halls of the cruiser seemed small and cramped, and depressing. Oriné 'Fulsamee found his room without help from the Deck Master, dropping his meager belongings on his bunk and gazing at the dingy quarters. Though it had been announced as a cruiser at commencement it was in actuality a frigate, capable of staffing two-hundred and fifty warriors, though from the looks of things it crewed far less. There was a chance that, of the four bunks in the room, only his would be occupied.
After abandoning his friends and the gala besides, he had wandered about before finally deciding to find the ship Blind Devotion. He hadn't been impressed with it when he saw it, but then, what was the point? Impressing him was the last thing it would do. He had been condemned by the Head Master to a slow death. Thinking about it a new wave of shame had struck him: his parents had been watching the ceremony. What would they think of him now? He had never informed them of his affair with Ekla, so it was likely they wouldn't know why. Perhaps he could play the victim…
No, he thought, shaking his head. How personally dishonorable would it be if he were to lie to his own parents? He had no honor left; whatever scraps he could bring together would be sacred; he had to protect it.
Dejectedly he fell back and sank into the gel, and fell into a fitful sleep. When he was roused, it was less than gently by the boot of the Deck Master.
"The Ship Commander wishes to speak with you," the crimson-armored Sangheili growled. "Meet him on the bridge."
Oriné forced himself to be upright when he walked through the halls despite the weight of his shame on his shoulders. Whenever he passed by another Elite he felt judged, each another blow against him.
However, at one point he passed by an observation window. The ship was already underway, it seemed, getting itself further away from Institution before it could slip into the alternate space. Oriné stood there for a good while, looking out and watching until the deck shuddered beneath his feet and a white film descended over the window. When it had passed, there was only a black void beyond.
A short journey later he found himself standing in front of the door leading to the bridge. He pressed the chime, and was summoned inside. Within he saw the command deck, the raised platform in the center of the bridge area, where a golden-armored Elite Zealot stood, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the various screens and readouts before him.
When the doors had closed, the Zealot turned and regarded the Elite Minor. "You are Oriné 'Fulsamee?"
Oriné spied the glowing markings on his armor and bowed. "Yes, Excellency." The other Elite was the Ship Commander, in charge of the ship when the Ship Master had more pressing duties or perhaps just did not care to bother with the drudging task of maintaining the ship when there was no combat or glory to be had.
"Are you aware why you have been set upon this vessel, why you are underway to such a dreary destination?"
Is everyone out to shame me? "Yes, Excellency."
"Very well." The Ship Commander huffed and turned away. "You have full access to the habitation level, the meditation garden, and the galley as you see fit. However, you are restricted from all other decks. Understood?"
"Yes Excellency," Oriné said, still bowed. "Thank you, Excellency."
"You are dismissed." The cobalt-armored Elite Minor turned and left the bridge, hurrying to escape that wretched place. When he was in the hallway, though, he couldn't escape the heavy feeling in his chest. Glumly he trudged back through the corridors to his quarters and found that, still, no one had come to claim any of the other bunks. His hand traced over a glyph in the wall and three illumination panels lit up above his head. He dropped into his bed, removing his helmet and lying back, staring up at the underside of the other gel bed.
What horrible existence is this? It wasn't fair. He had just made that one mistake, a simple and tiny error when compared to the rest of life in the galaxy, when compared to the Forerunners' design. How had it all gone so wrong?
Unconsciously he reached over and seized the human book he had purchased in High Charity. It felt like it had been so long ago… had it really only been less than a year? He tried to forget about Ekla, to move on, but every so often she resurfaced in his thoughts and tormented him. At night he sometimes dreamed about her soft caresses and her light laughter…
A growl rose in his throat. Here he was, doing it again. How pathetic was he? Other Sangheili males could simply move from one prospective mate to another; why was he still hung up on her? He had no answers for himself.
Oriné sighed and looked at the cover of the book. It was rough leather with inlaid gold lettering in the sharp human glyphic. He flipped it open and found that inside was a much thinner paper with black ink printing, but the difference was negligible: he still could not read it. His experience in human studies, however, didn't fail him entirely. By the general format and feel of the book he judged it to be older than it seemed, probably a book that had been passed on for several generations.
He contented to flip page by page, eyes skimming over all the text. The symbols repeated constantly, and Oriné counted fifty-two of the bigger symbols and approximately twenty-four of the smaller ones. A few of the bigger symbols resembled each other. There were ones that were twice the size of others and the majority of them seemed to occur after the small dot, though others seemed to happen at random. Some were preceded by odd hanging marks, others by small partial loops at the bottom of the line, and still others just standing tall in the middle of a line. It was terribly confusing and, at times, tedious. How could the humans stand to look at such uniform text, let alone procure any sort of enjoyment from it?
Yet he was entranced, going page by page, recognizing the symbols over and over again. Time passed without his knowledge until his hunger grew so great he felt it clench an iron fist over his stomach. He rose from his bed, stretching his back, arms, and mandibles in one movement before leaning on his legs to work out any possible knots. Before he left the room he placed a small marker on the last page where he had ceased his investigation.
The galley was in the same mood as the rest of the ship: dark, brooding, and depressing. The food was of a poor quality as well: the kashalai had been overcooked, but Oriné wasn't feeling all too picky. He needed sustenance, and this would do. Field rations, he had heard, were even worse. Easing himself into a seat beside a row of fellow Minors he nodded his greeting and began scooping the fried worms into his mouth.
No one spoke to him, but here and there was a muttering and a hand motion. There was a jest that was beyond Oriné, but the Elite sitting next to him leaned into him and nudged him with a shoulder, chuckling. The clack of armor filled the hall as the conglomeration of Sangheili ate. There were no Unggoy or Kig-Yar, and certainly no Jiralhanae. The Grunts and Jackals probably had their own galleys as they had their own dormitories as well.
His meal was finished quickly and he exited, heading back to his bunk. When he arrived, he found the food had added a weight to his mind that made him feel sluggish, almost bloated. After a moment of trying to read his book he finally put it aside, removed his helmet, and settled into the gel of the bed.
The remainder of the trip was fairly uneventful. Nobody made any particular attempt to get to know Oriné, and likewise the young warrior did not attempt to befriend any of the others. When not eating or exercising he stayed in his lonely bunk, reading the human book until he got a headache, at which point he would nap and resume upon awakening. He remained unbothered by outsiders, a fact which he was grateful for: if anyone had intruded, they certainly would have inquired about the book.
After a week of travel, the Blind Devotion arrived at Devil's Gulag, and Oriné quickly disembarked. He was not surprised to find the station was even more grimy and filthy than the cruiser: the metal was tarnished, the floor looking severely burnt and cracked; the walls were bare, in some places with paneling removed so one could observe the conduits beyond. Everything was the standard violet and steel colors of the Covenant and no effort whatsoever had been made to decorate it or make it more livable.
A soft chime sounded in his ear and the universally recognized Covenant computer assistant began speaking. For once, Oriné was happy to hear the familiar voice. "Oriné 'Fulsamee, arrival from Institution," it droned on, "report to level C, barracks two for assignment." Nodding to no one in particular, Oriné proceeded as directed, locating a gravity lift. Surprisingly he realized that these gravity lifts were not dually directed like Institution's, or possessed of differing "flows" like High Charity or large cruiser gravity lifts; instead two operated beside one another, one exclusively going up and the other exclusively going down.
They must not expect much traffic, the Sangheili decided, and stepped into one going up. Level C was only two levels above him and was composed entirely of four barracks sections, and from what Oriné could tell, they were not all full. When he located the second section he stepped in and gazed around: of the room's capacity for thirty, only seventeen of the bunks were occupied. Their occupants had been lazing, some lying down and dozing while others sat and talked, a few squatting on the floor and playing a game of Rocnas'al.
However, Oriné's arrival had broken their lackadaisical routine, and they all turned to stare at the newcomer. Under the uncomfortable of seventeen scrutinizing looks the young warrior stopped, held his place, and shifted uncomfortably. All movement within the barracks stopped.
Finally he managed to speak. "Greetings."
Those inside exchanged looks and one seemed to make to rise, but a coolness fell across Oriné's neck and he turned to see the tallest, bulkiest Sangheili he had ever seen standing behind him in crimson armor. His arms were crossed and his golden eyes set into a squint.
"A newcomer?" he growled, and Oriné felt a stone settle in his stomach. The warrior's voice was gravelly, raspy, as if he had just swallowed fire. The look in his eyes did little to dissuade the newly arrived Sangheili that he had not. As it were, all Oriné could do was manage a nod and pray he was spared too severe a beating.
The Major's arms unwound from each other and a hand came down. Oriné braced himself for the blow, but found himself quite unprepared for the hand to open up and lay itself gently on his shoulder. With a small gasp of surprise Oriné looked up again to see that the Sangheili was now smiling warmly where before there had been only a harsh scowl.
"Welcome to the unit," he said.
Following a brief introduction session, Major 'Qulahtee had brought Oriné down a few levels to what Oriné came to understand as his post aboard the station. His assignment, as it turned out, was to act as Watchman for the armory, where he would record equipment requests and transfers. It was simple to the point of being tedious, the larger Sangheili explained, but not a disagreeable job.
"You shall have many and more opportunities to get to know the beings on this station," 'Qulahtee told him as he showed him his station: a terminal located beside the great door leading into the armory. Oriné immediately realized the tactical position of it, allowing him to see all activity coming and going. And once he had toured the armory, he realized his duties did not extend only to weapons, but to general supplies as well. He essentially had the entire non-essential inventory at his command… and under his supervision.
"The process is thus," 'Qulahtee instructed him. "When someone wishes to requisition equipment they must fill out a proper form and have it filed in your database. For an Unggoy or Kig-Yar to pick it up they must have the proper authorization, which will be noted on the form. Otherwise any creature may retrieve it. Once retrieved you must make note of the item's use and, if a temporary requisition, the approximate amount of time before the item will be returned. However, if it is not going to be returned, then you will need to record the loss so another may be ordered. On the requisition form there is a field defining the purpose of the removal, but you needn't worry about that.
"By and large, this duty will be without stress," the Major continued, resting his hands on the opposite side of the terminal. "Your working period will be eight hours. Be mindful that this will be your primary duty, not your only one; the other time left in the day may be put to other uses." 'Qulahtee gave Oriné a curt nod. "You will find it not to be too strenuous, however. I wish you well, and I shall see you back at quarters later." With that he turned and strode off, leaving Oriné to stand at the terminal and, over time, puzzle over the controls. They were sparse and, from the looks of it, fairly intuitive.
He settled himself behind his station, noting the lack of a chair but not missing it; at Institution he and the other Juniors had been made to stand at attention for hours on end, either as punishment or practice. Standing leisurely behind his terminal would be much more relaxing.
Perhaps, he mused, this won't be too terrible at all.
The Unggoy quarter was not grouped with the other dormitories on Devil's Gulag, even though it was easily the biggest one there. The Sangheili and Kig-Yar dormitories were fairly large as well, as they were the second most populous species on the station. After them in size came the Jiralhanae and Lekgolo quarters; few Jiralhanae ever staffed the station at any given moment, and the allowance of space for Lekgolo was purely ceremonial, in case any were ever on one of the small ships that made port. None of the twelve-foot tall armored warriors were kept on the station.
But there was another reason for the Unggoy exile that didn't have to do with size ratio: atmosphere. Their home world, Balaho, was rich in methane, and it was in this concoction of gases that the Grunts could breathe freely, without the need for bulky aids. However, besides being utterly toxic for the other races, methane was highly explosive; if a wayward spark were to ignite the gases the blast could have easily blown the station apart.
So the Unggoy quarter was moved to the very "bottom" of the station, at the end of the docking extension, where such a detonation would minimize damage to the station or any docked vessels. It also meant that the way down was longer and more trying for the five-foot Grunts than it was for any of the other species present, having to brave several rail-deprived walkways and many perilous ladders, not to mention a faltering mechanical elevator for the last leg of the journey. It often broke down, leaving unfortunate Unggoy stranded until repair crews deigned to fix the problem; this was often perilous for the Grunts, as their tanks had limited life spans.
It was after such a near-death experience that one Unggoy, disgruntled and weary, trudged into the misty and cold dormitory. He shrugged off his scuffed triangular harness and placed it in a small stasis field beside many like-colored orange ones. With care he released his breather from his face and set it on the tip of the unit, and then breathed deeply. The methane was stale and recycled, having been purified and pumped into the space again and again for at least a month, but a replacement tank was expected soon… whenever they could manage to remember to send one down.
Relieved of his burden he waddled over to an empty couch and eased himself down into the padding. Three of his kind were nearby, but one was asleep and the other two engaged in a conversation, undoubtedly about the poor quality of the food nipple. He was about to nod off himself when a clawed hand tapped him on the shoulder. With a look he determined the newcomer to be his acquaintance, Gatgat.
"We have work to do, Rurut," the Grunt said.
Rurut tried to curl up into a ball. "I'm finished working."
"The Elites ordered us to go to the holding deck."
"I was already at the holding deck! I scrubbed blood off the vents! What more could they ask of me?" That had only been one of his tasks, in fact; the others had involved heavy lifting, including dragging several newly-ordered anti-matter charges into the armory. He and his brethren had struggled but finally managed to get them into their holding stations near the door.
"They want us to watch the prisoners," Gatgat said, once more prodding Rurut with his claw. The latter snarled and swiped at his companion, but Gatgat simply stepped backwards and allowed the hand to strike only empty air. "You know what they do to insubordinate Grunts, don't you?"
Rurut didn't need reminding. His broodmate, Yagyaw, had defied an Elite's orders once, and paid the ultimate price. Rurut could still hear the screaming; still see the barely recognizable body of his brother on the floor, fluorescent blue blood dripping between the grating. Even worse, Rurut had been ordered to clean it up.
With a heavy sigh, the Grunt lifted himself from his comfortable position. Shooting his companion an undeserved dirty look he waddled back over to his harness and shrugged it on. The pair headed for the elevator and rode it up as far as it could go, using the ladders and walkways for the rest of the journey.
Three hours into his duty shift, Oriné had revised his opinion. This is Hell, he discovered. Already there had been twenty attempts at supply retrievals, and only four of them had gone flawlessly. The others had become complicated and elongated endeavors as Oriné fumbled his way through the system, trying to decipher what meant what. In the process of trying to fill one order he summarily deleted three others in waiting, forcing them to resubmit their paperwork.
One Elite Major had accosted him, threatening to dually report him to 'Qulahtee while running him through with an energy sword. All Oriné could do was assure him that the supplies he was looking for was prepared; all he had to do was specify what it was, exactly, he was looking for. As it so turned out he was only looking for a replacement anti-gravity generator for his Type-32 Rapid Assault Vehicle.
Beyond that, however, the shift turned out to be dreadfully boring. When his eight hours were up he was glad as he notified the Sangheili in charge of the armory and took his leave. Once he had returned to the Sangheili quarter he found 'Qulahtee.
"I have finished my duty shift, Excellency," Oriné said.
"Good," the Major replied, looking up from his Lumidex. "There is nothing else for you to do for the day. If something comes up I shall inform you." He nodded. "Dismissed." Oriné saluted and walked out, suddenly finding himself in possession of a queer thing: free time. For a moment he was unsure of what to do; surely there were training facilities on the station, but he felt no need to exercise his muscles.
So, instead, he wandered back to his bunk and retrieved the human book. He turned it over in his hands. The rough cover felt nice against his skin. Furtively he glanced around, ensuring that no Sangheili eyes were watching him, and then opened the book. The letters were still the same as they had been on the Blind Devotion: simple, structured, and illegible.
Holding the book in hand he made his way down the gravity lift to the meager meditation gardens. Once inside he took his place on a bench, said a quick devotion, and opened the book. Perhaps, he thought distantly, it would be considered heresy to bring a heretic's tome into a sacred place such as this, but for once Oriné could not bother himself to work up enough anxiety to find another compartment. He was already comfortable.
Once more he became lost in the book. He could not rightly understand the words, but already he was getting a sort of feeling from them. Just from what he could puzzle out they were telling a story, some type of narrative, he believed. Oriné flipped through the pages, drinking in the glyphs and trying to comprehend their greater meaning.
For hours he sat there reading; at one point, for comfort's sake, he removed his helmet and set it on the bench beside him. Yet no matter how long he read the book, no matter how intensely he focused on the material in front of him, he simply could not decipher it.
Without a key or codex, there is no hope I can discover what it says, he realized glumly, but did not relinquish the book. Instead he felt himself be drawn even further into it.
Oriné was so caught up in his book that, when the door to the gardens chimed open and a large shadow fell across him, he didn't even realize it. It wasn't until a booming voice right above him spoke his name that he came to and realized that Major 'Quhlatee was standing over him, gazing down with a concerned look on his face.
"Are you all right, warrior?" he asked.
"Y-Yes, Excellency," Oriné stammered, quickly closing the book and placing it on the bench, covering the title with his palm. "I am fine. What are you doing down here?"
"I came to find you," the Major said. "I've been trying to raise you on the communications band." Confused at first, Oriné glanced over to his discarded helmet and realized with a start that by taking off the headgear he had effectively disconnected himself from the ComNet and unwittingly denied his commanding officer's attempts at contact. Apparently his shock and guilt registered on his face, for 'Quhlatee chuckled, a deep sound.
"It's all right, warrior," he said. "It was nothing too important, only if you wished to accompany us to the mess hall." The crimson-armored Sangheili cocked his head and looked beneath Oriné's hand, attempting to get a look at what it was he was hiding. "Apparently you found something more entertaining." As Oriné tried to move the book the Major reached down and snatched it up. A tense moment ensued as 'Quhlatee stared wordlessly at the book and the younger Elite Minor fidgeted on the bench.
"Well," the crimson-armored Sangheili said at last. "This is interesting."
"Excellency, I—"
He looked down at Oriné. "No need to explain, warrior." 'Quhlatee motioned for the younger one to rise. "I believe there is somewhere we must go."
Rurut squeaked in boredom. Guard duty was dreadfully dull, and though his mental fatigue was irritating he knew it was far better than being stationed on the front lines where he would be used as mere cannon fodder for the humans' guns.
As he trudged along he glanced from left to right at each cell. The translucent purple barriers were all intact and wouldn't allow anything in or out… if there was anything to get in or out, that is. Only a few humans were still here, most bloodied and bruised and near death. They sat silent, resigned to their fate, in the corners of the cells, moping to themselves, nursing new burns, or simply sitting there and staring at the wall.
He finished his brief patrol and ambled his way into the guard station. A mind-numbed Elite Minor sat within, staring off into space; undoubtedly he was daydreaming of winning glory and honor on some far off world, leading troops and commanding Unggoy to their deaths.
Despicable.
"Excellency," Rurut said. "I have completed the patrol. There is nothing to report. Everything is functioning perfectly."
The Sangheili started in his seat, having been so occupied with his daydream that he failed to realize the Grunt had wandered in. Turning he nodded to the Unggoy. "Very well, do one last patrol and you may go to the rest station. Be alert, however; I might have need of you."
Need of me for what? Rurut thought bitterly as he bowed and exited. To scrub the walls and floors? To tap on the force fields to make sure they're working properly? He walked down the hall, barely glancing at the cells, and exited on the other end. He turned a corner and walked through an open door to where the other Unggoy who had been called for guard duty were reclining. A few jabbered at each other, deep in a discussion, but most just napped.
Rurut was just about to settle himself in when he heard a door open. Peculiar, there aren't supposed to be any more patrols. He edged to the door and peeked out, curious as to the origin of the unknown sound. What he saw were two Sangheili, an Elite Minor and an Elite Major, conversing in low tones, walking slowly towards the hall Rurut had just returned from. At this distance he could only catch a few words, but once they went into the hall the Unggoy was able to sneak closer.
"Excellency, I can explain, please…"
The crimson-armored Sangheili shook his head. "I've told you before, Oriné, you need not justify yourself. Look around you. What do you see?"
Passing just out of eyesight, there was a pause before the Minor, this Oriné fellow, answered. "A prison block, Excellency, but why…?"
"Inside the cells."
Another pause, and a barely uttered "Oh" followed. The Major, still half in view, nodded. "Yes. This is the function of the gulags: we keep captured humans here for interrogation. From these installations we have learned much of their history, their society, and"—he held up something Rurut couldn't see—"their language. If you'd like to study them, this is the best place for it."
The Minor spoke again. "Excellency, this… would you permit me?"
"Certainly. There are only three humans here now, but more may come. And we have all our files from previous interrogation sessions on the network. You may study until your heart is content.
"For now, however, I must insist you eat something. Research is best done on a full stomach and with a clear mind." The Major turned and began to come back, prompting Rurut to spring back and hasten his way back to the rest station. As he watched the two shadows pass from the safety of the room he sat back and pondered what he had just heard.
Over the course of the next few days, Oriné immersed himself in studying whenever he could. Once he completed armory duty for the day and confirmed that, at least tentatively, he had no pending assignments, he would head down to the prison level and begin reviewing the data present in the network. As the sleepy guard simply dazed off at his post the younger Elite Minor would be perusing the archives and watching old recorded interrogation sessions. He had already absorbed the summaries and reports written up by the Sangheili who had administered the torture and absorbed the data, but Oriné wasn't convinced that they might have skimmed over details.
Slowly he was compiling a much deeper working knowledge of the human language. When they spoke it was in a quick and heavy tongue, not ridiculously far from the Jiralhanae's native language. However there were several exceptions within their speech patterns that suggested their current language was a conglomeration of other dialects; some spoke with different accents as well.
When he discovered this, Oriné had devoted a full night into a deeper consideration of human oral anatomy. He discovered that their jaw-and-palette configuration allowed for a greater range of sounds than the Sangheili, who had no palette and whose tongues were concealed deeper in their throats.
He repeatedly listened to audio recordings of the humans speaking and tried to recreate the sounds. At first it was frustrating and nigh-impossible to do, until he learned to move his lower mandibles in harmony to simulate their lower jaws and use his upper mandibles to do what their tongues did to the best of his ability. After hours of practice his voice came out stilted and heavy with accent… but the words were undeniably human.
Gradually he picked up on the meaning of some words too, and began forming a rudimentary lexicon of the language using a Lumidex and practicing the words every night. Major 'Quhlatee had told him, on their way down to the prison block that first day, that most higher-ranking Elites knew the human language and assigned specific people to teach it to their troops, so many front line warriors knew more or less how to speak it; but Oriné knew, without such demand here, he'd be hard pressed to catch up. So he studied extra hard, sometimes even sneaking a file into the roster of supplies when at his armory station so he could study when there was nothing better to do.
But soon, even that was not enough.
After his duty station one day, and after completing a harrowing space walk-and-repair mission, he approached Major 'Quhlatee.
"Excellency," Oriné began, "I would like to speak with a human."
The Major looked up from his Lumidex. "An interrogation?"
"Akin to that, yes," Oriné replied. "I'm trying to understand their language. I think… interrogating one would be the best opportunity I have to really experience how they use their language."
'Quhlatee paused for a moment and then said something Oriné didn't recognize. When the Elite Minor cocked his head and extended his lower mandibles in a sign of confusion, the Major only chuckled. "That is one of their curses, and one of many that will be undoubtedly thrown at you. If you wish to schedule an interrogation, you may do so. The cruiser Truth and Reconciliation has contacted us to let us know they have a few more humans that may know vital information. Once the regular interrogators have finished you may do what you will."
Oriné bowed in thanks, saluted, and left.
It was several more days before the interrogation schedule was cleared, and when it was, he placed his request. The confirmation arrived via network as he was working at the armory; the suddenness caught him by surprise and he nearly dropped a small crate of plasma grenades, much to the dismay of the Unggoy who had come to pick them up. Once the little creature was calmed down and the crate properly stored on the gravity trolley Oriné let him go and quickly sent his response:
"Affirmative, interrogation session confirmed. I shall be there later today. Any human will do."
He kept his word. At the preordained time he entered the small interrogation room. It looked no different than any other room on the station and indeed resembled the size of a large supply cabinet. However, Oriné's eyes quickly settled on the human. It had been restrained in a gravity field, its shirt torn away revealing a scarred and burned chest. The Elite Minor was able to recognize several old plasma burns, doubtlessly remnants of an old battle, but there were other, much more recent and distinctively shaped burns.
Perhaps an interrogator has come through already to make him weak, he thought.
Its eyes followed him as he paced into the room and the door slid shut behind him. Oriné noted a distinct edge to their stare, betraying a feeling of resistance that remained firmly lodged in his psyche, but the Elite Minor did not particularly care to try and snuff it; he had come for information.
Drawing his Lumidex, he quickly called up one of the human symbols and enlarged it. It was one of the bigger ones, of which there were only twenty-six. Once it was clearly visible he held it out for the human to see.
"What is… this?" Oriné said in the human tongue. Speaking wasn't a struggle, but it remained to be seen if he had learned it properly. Among his study materials had been recordings of interactions between humans in their cells.
It gave him a look and answered in a strange tone. "A letter?"
Oriné frowned. "No. What sound?"
The human looked perplexed and, more obtrusively, guarded. "Why do you want to know?"
This one was proving obstructive. Letting a loud growl out of his throat, he slammed his fist against a wall. "What is the sound?"
For a moment, it looked like the human wasn't going to answer. Oriné was about to strike it when it answered, "It makes the sound 'aye.'"
Oriné hesitated. "Aye?"
The human nodded slowly. "Unless it's short. Then it's 'ih.'"
The Sangheili rolled it around in his head for a while, testing the sound in his throat until it came naturally. He reached down and keyed up the next letter.
"What is this one?"
Rurut was constantly stationed on guard duty. As such, he found his days full of boredom and a dulled interest in the newly arrived prisoners. These had more fight in them than the previous ones, having only been brought in a scant two weeks ago. When he walked by they yelled at him in their strange tongue.
That Elite Minor had been down repeatedly, interrogating several of the humans one right after the other. Most of the Sangheili who tortured humans only did it so many times, but this one was down almost every day after his duty shift. Stranger than that, though, was the condition the humans returned in: completely unharmed. They were slowly becoming less and less frightened of the Elites and more defiant.
The station commander didn't like that at all.
"Who is that Sangheili?" the Elite Zealot demanded. Rurut stood by the door, silently fascinated, while the young Jailor worked several holographic runes.
"A Minor stationed at the armory, Excellency," he replied after a moment. "He came here straight from Institution."
The older Sangheili snorted. "I wonder what he did to deserve this station," he muttered. "Keep an eye on him, and torture all those who he lets go without punishment." The commander turned to leave, but paused at the door. "And, if you can, find out what he did."
The Jailor nodded, and the commander departed. Rurut watched him leave. There was an odd gait to the Zealot's walk; he had most likely been injured on the frontlines and sent back here while he recuperated. As he passed the holding cells, he glared at each human in turn, snarling and snapping his mandibles together when they returned with some obscene gesture.
Once he was gone, Rurut waddled into the room and stared at the screen. He couldn't make out the name of the Elite, but he could divine that he was quite young.
The Jailor had slipped back into daydream mode, so Rurut quietly took his place by the door again, staring down the hall. His relief would come sooner or later, and after that he could get some sleep.
His relief, in fact, came much sooner than he anticipated, and in greater numbers. Three Unggoy came staggering down the corridor, leaning on each other and giggling as they tried to shush each other. When they were a full meter away, Rurut grimaced under his mask. He could smell the grog through his mask. Dread seized his stomach.
"Gatgat, what are you doing?" Rurut hissed once they were in range.
The Unggoy only giggled and shoved past him, his two friends following closely. Rurut made to go after them, but suddenly stopped as the Elite snapped out of his daydreams upon the latest intrusion.
He snarled at the Grunts. "What is the meaning of this? What business have you here?" But they, so drunk they couldn't even see straight, ignored him and began fiddling with controls.
At first, the Jailor merely shouted at them to cease, but his yells of irritation quickly changed to cries of panic. "No, stop!" His warning came too late as one of the Unggoy flicked a switch and laughed, and a familiar hum died out. For a moment there was no sound, just a quiet unfamiliar to the jail hall unless all the cells were already empty.
"You fools!" the Elite bellowed in his loudest voice, snapping the intruders from drunken reveling to overwhelming panic. The three quickly bolted out of the room and fled down the hall. They would have been at the other end and gone in another few seconds had not the humans, now no longer restrained by force fields, leaped out and wrestled them to the floor. As the Unggoy screamed, a human wrestled one's plasma pistol away and shot it in the head. The others panicked but rapidly fell to the same fate.
Immediately the humans turned towards Rurut, raised their plasma pistols, and fired. He blundered backwards into the room, green bolts of superheated gas slamming into the bulkhead where he had just been. In a flash the Elite had rushed to the door, fired his plasma rifle into the hall, and pressed the emergency door release. A heavy blast door slammed into place, sealing off the control room.
"Damned Unggoy!" the Jailor cursed. "Even in death they cause us trouble."
Rurut didn't bother to mention that he was an Unggoy. Instead he merely stared at the door nervously. The Elite caught his gaze. "Fear not, they cannot breach this door with such weapons."
"We must warn the rest of the station that the prisoners were released," Rurut said.
The Elite nodded and turned to the console. While he fiddled with it, Rurut listened carefully. He heard the humans briefly pounding on the door before becoming disinterested and ceasing. Beyond that, however, he had no idea what would happen next.
"Damned Unggoy!" the Elite repeated, slamming his fist against the console. "They've disrupted communications to the rest of the station."
"What does that mean, Excellency?"
The Jailor checked his plasma rifle charge. "They are on their own. And so are we."
Oriné was at his duty station when he felt the rumble beneath his hooves. Several other soldiers nearby looked similarly puzzled at the clearly unexpected quake. One Kig-Yar sniffed the air tentatively and gave a grimace even deeper than its usual scowl.
"The air is moving," it hissed. A split second later, there was a shrill alarm, and blast doors shut all around the hall. Oriné barely slipped out from under one as it came crashing down, blocking off the armory. For a moment his warrior side lamented before he checked his hip, upon which his Needler remained fastened. Now at least comforted by the presence of a weapon, he could investigate.
"What is the meaning of this?" A nearby Sangheili picked up an Unggoy and held it before his face. "What is happening?"
The creature squealed and writhed, giving Oriné the impression that it had no better idea than the Elite. The taller warrior scoffed in its face and let it down, whereupon the diminutive Grunt backed off and looked for a place that was far away from any Sangheili.
"I believe," said a nearby Elite Minor, "this is part of the station's atmospheric breach protocol." He tapped on one of the bulkheads. "Should a breach occur, all parts of the station are undoubtedly sealed off so the problem can be located and fixed."
"How do you know this?" Oriné asked.
He shrugged. "The vessel I had been stationed aboard before my reassignment here was punctured by a wayward piece of starship. A similar reaction occurred following the breach."
Oriné was about to inquire further when his radio crackled. "All warriors, this is the station commander. There has been a disturbance; telemetry from all parts of the station is down, so we cannot determine what precisely has gone amiss, but we believe it originated in the area of the prison and the docks. The failsafes are preventing us from raising the doors at the moment, but the Huragok are working to fix this. For now, however, we need search teams to go to the prison and the docks and discover what has happened. Fireteams, organize as best as possible and proceed to the objective."
Seconds after he finished, Oriné's squadron channel came alive. "Oriné, this is Major 'Quhlatee."
"Excellency, where are you?"
"Myself and the majority of the squad are trapped on the habitation deck. Are you at the armory?"
"Yes, Excellency."
There was a pause. "Rendezvous with any forces you can find and begin making your way to the target area."
"Yes, Excellency."
Oriné cut the channel and looked about. It seemed that most everybody present was in a similar way, cut off from their usual squad mates. But that did not mean they were not willing to make do with those available. The Elite Minor from before approached him.
"Shall you come with us?" he asked, holding out his hand in a gesture of camaraderie. "Or are you waiting for your squad?"
"I am cut off," Oriné admitted, nodding towards his hand. "I will join you until such a time as my lance will catch up with me."
The Sangheili smiled. "I am Hada 'Sobotee."
"Oriné 'Fulsamee."
Together they polled the remaining forces trapped in the armory area. Most had been, as Oriné suspected, completely cut off from their usual squads and were more than willing to join with the two Elites, with a few exceptions, namely the gruff Sangheili who had physically abused the Unggoy.
"I shall remain here," he said, "and wait for the majority of our forces to come through." Oriné nodded at him, then turned to the armory.
"We must get this open," he said. "Inside are cutting torches we can use to reach our objective."
'Sobotee examined the blast door. "Do you know of any overrides?"
Oriné shook his head. "My job was simply to organize and inventory our supplies, not to..." He trailed off as a realization came to him. Oriné jogged to his console and pushed aside the Lumidex he had been using to study the human language, instead looking at the inventory screen. He scrolled through the list: Type Twenty-Fives, Type Thirty-Threes, Fuel Rod Guns... aha, here we go.
"Look here," he said, motioning 'Sobotee over. "There are several anti-matter charges stocked inside the armory."
'Sobotee examined the list carefully. "And this signifies... what?"
"They can be remote detonated," Oriné said, "via the Battle Net. They are close to the door, too, and should make an entryway for us."
"And eliminate half the armory."
"The cutting torches are on the far wall, and those are what we truly need. They should be safe from the blast." He called up the appropriate list of commands, found the detonation codes, and uploaded them to his armor's built in computer. "Quickly, away from the door!" 'Sobotee obeyed, as did all others within hearing range, getting to whatever cover they could find. After he was sure everyone was secured, Oriné keyed the proper frequency and engaged the explosives.
There was a moment when nothing happened, and then there was a bright flash that blinded everyone in the room. He felt the deck heave beneath his hooves and he collapsed, losing consciousness briefly. When he came to, there was no more wall where once there had been.
"Well," 'Sobotee said beside him, picking himself up. "That worked better than I thought." He helped Oriné up. "You are an interesting warrior, 'Fulsamee."
Oriné said nothing, instead walking forward and stepping over the remains of the blast door. He picked his way through the wreckage, noting that the blast had been aided by secondary detonations caused by containers full of plasma grenades cooking off. However, as he had anticipated, the cutting torches remained undamaged. Both he and 'Sobotee grabbed one and approached the crowding group of soldiers.
"Those able to carry them, pick a torch. There will be many doors for us to cut through along the way." As everyone filed in, Oriné approached the nearest blast door and put the nozzle against the metal. He gave the main compartment a slight squeeze, and a thin stream of plasma blazed forth, slicing right through the door as if it were nothing. Quickly, with a steady hand, he dragged the torch in an arc, bringing it back to the floor several feet away. Once he was done, he took a step back and delivered a heavy kick to the door. The section he had cut fell inward with ease, and the other soldiers, now armed with whatever weapons they had been carrying plus more cutting torches. Oriné double-checked the fuel in the torch: he had enough for a few more doors at least.
The group continued through the hallways, linking up with other teams when they could. After five doors, Oriné's torch was too low to cut through another one; frowning at the tool in his hand, he clipped it to his belt and drew his Needler.
When they finally made it to the prison level, they had assembled a force of over fifty various species.
"Spread out and search," ordered a Major that had joined them at one point or another. "Find out what has gone wrong." The floor plan was divided up quickly, and Oriné and 'Sobotee were tasked with finding the Jailor. They set out in the direction of the appropriate office.
About halfway to their objective, 'Sobotee set a cautionary hand on Oriné's shoulder. "I believe I've discovered what went wrong," he said quietly, and Oriné glanced to either side. The translucent energy barriers that would ordinarily hold the prisoners were deactivated, and there was no sign of any humans. As he took a careful step forward he felt the grip on the bottom of his boot slip slightly; he glanced down and saw the floor was slick with bright blue blood.
Unggoy blood.
The pair hastened towards the office, whereupon they discovered the bodies of three Grunts had been piled in front of a blast door that had been sealed tight.
"Does your torch still have fuel?" Oriné turned to 'Sobotee.
The other Minor nodded, motioning for Oriné to stand aside. He stepped up to the door, activated the torch, and was just about to start sliding the concentrated stream of plasma through the metal when the lights around it flashed and the blast door slid up into the ceiling. 'Sobotee jumped back, taken off guard, and another Sangheili was seen crouching behind the door, plasma rifle ready and aimed right at him.
Recognition flashed through the Jailor's eyes and he lowered his weapon quickly.
"What happened here?" Oriné asked.
The Jailor's eyes narrowed, but he turned to the side and made a motion with his hand. An Unggoy in dirty orange armor crawled out from its hiding place further into the room.
"The humans were released," the Jailor growled. "The companions of this one were responsible."
Oriné couldn't place the expression on the Grunt's face, but it certainly didn't appear recalcitrant at all. One thing Oriné had discovered in Institution was that, if an Unggoy felt truly responsible for an action, it would be in their eyes, no matter what its posture. This one, though its shoulders were slumped and its head inclined downward, his eyes were resolute in their defiance.
"Where are the humans now?" 'Sobotee asked.
The Jailor shook his head. "Unknown. The Unggoy caused a great malfunction with the consoles. None of the cameras will operate, and we have been cut off from the Battle Net."
Nodding, Oriné reached up and keyed his radio. "Excellency, we have located the Jailor."
"Does he know what caused the malfunction?"
"He claims the humans have escaped captivity."
There was a long pause, during which time Oriné wondered if the Major was receiving confirmation of the fact. "All units, regroup and proceed to the docking shaft. The humans have escaped and may be attempting to steal a dropship."
"Let us go!" 'Sobotee turned on his heel and bolted; Oriné made a quick "remain here" motion to the Jailor and took off after his comrade. As they ran, a navigational marker appeared on their heads-up displays.
The docking area wasn't what Oriné had been expecting. He had thought that the station, because it catered to so few ships, would have a relatively small area for such. He recalled Institution's docking spike, and how, though massive, it was largely open-air walkways with one massive centralized gravity lift.
Unfortunately, Devil's Gulag was the polar opposite. No gravity lift and a spider web of closed-in corridors awaited the search party. Though Oriné had never seen live combat, what he had learned in Institution told him that this area would be a nightmare to clear out.
"Spread into fire teams," one Major instructed. "Begin clearing the sector. We will send more teams in as they arrive; report on movements every five minutes."
Once the fire teams had been selected, they began the unenviable task of sweeping through the hallways. Oriné kept his Needler up and armed, ready to be fired at a moment's notice. Three Unggoy wandered uneasily ahead of him, but it was 'Sobotee's presence that eased him slightly. So far, his fellow Minor had had proven to be an incredibly capable warrior, equal to his own skill.
Reports flew back and forth every so often, each one a negative statement concerning the presence of humans. Oriné encountered no humans himself, and neither did 'Sobotee. Every five minutes he reported as such and they continued their arduous searching. There were only so many places the humans could hide, and it wouldn't be long before they were found.
A scamper of movement caught Oriné's eye and his motion tracker as it blinked red, the color of an uncertain presence. He immediately raised his hand and 'Sobotee and the Unggoy ceased moving. Slowly he brought the hand down and motioned forward, taking a few steps himself. His breathing quickened. This was no training scenario, no idle daydream of glory; this was real. His opponent was armed, and so was he. They were aware of each other's presence.
Shadows shifted for an instant, and reflexively Oriné squeezed down the firing contact, the Needler bucking in his hand as a handful of pink luminescent projectiles were spat from the barrel. They slammed into the wall, reflecting this way and that off the solid surface, finding no purchase in a living organism. However, the light from the needles briefly illuminated the shadow and the Elite Minor saw with horror that there was a human there, crouched on the ground. It clutched a plasma pistol.
"Look out!" Green motes of light zipped through the air, splashing against bulkheads. From a small distance down the hall a second weapon fired in kind. Oriné threw himself backwards, nearly knocking over the Unggoy as he did so. He squeezed the trigger again, sending another wave of needles into the corner, but none locked on. The projectiles splintered harmlessly in mid-air.
The first human jumped forward at Oriné, impacting him heavily. The Sangheili stumbled and fell back; its hands clutched at his throat, and for a moment he was overcome by fear. The memory of Olah 'Seroumee pressing his malier against his windpipe resurfaced in his mind. It was a second before he realized that, though the five digits of the alien had found purchase they lacked the strength to at all hinder his breathing. As his mind was recovering, there was a report of a plasma rifle and the human screamed, slumping over and rolling off the Elite.
'Sobotee stood over Oriné and offered him a hand up. "They are tricky devils," 'Sobotee remarked as he pulled Oriné to his feet. The Sangheili nodded his assent and looked at the body, which twitched with dying spasms of its muscles. Several holes had been burned into the alien's back.
"Where is the other?" he asked, turning to look down the hallway. The accompanying fire had ceased.
"I believe it retreated," the other said.
Their radios crackled. "Report."
"Contact," 'Sobotee said. "Two humans. We have exterminated one, in pursuit of the other."
"Very well. Hunt it down."
The group took off at a jog, 'Sobotee taking the lead. Oriné still felt slightly shaken by his encounter, but was unsure as to whether or not it was because of the actual human or the unpleasant memory it brought on.
As they went, several of the other groups began reporting sightings of the humans. Most were just of quick contacts, but one or two claimed that fire was exchanged. It seemed to Oriné like they were gradually forcing the humans into a smaller and smaller area. Eventually they began to hear the distant discharge of weapons.
"Close up," 'Sobotee said, and immediately the Unggoy fell into a strict line behind him, with Oriné at the rear. A human darted in front of them and 'Sobotee fired, sending blue plasma cascading down the hall. One of the bolts caught the human in the ankle just as it began to dart out of view; they heard a cry and watched as the body fell out of sight, though the foot remained visible. It twitched and rolled.
Oriné took point and peeked around the corner. The plasma pistol had slid out of its reach and it lay prone on the floor, writhing in agony. He came fully into the hallway and looked at the human before him: so pitiful. In similar circumstance, Oriné mused privately, would I behave the same?
Unexpectedly the creature flipped onto its back and stared up at the Sangheili; Oriné was surprised by the motion but did not let it show. Its eyes were sharp, knowing the fate that awaited it. The Elite Minor tightened his grip on his weapon... then lowered it.
"Unggoy," he called out. One of them, a red-armored Major, waddled up. "Finish it." Not questioning the order in the slightest, the Grunt raised its pistol and fired. The human's head fell back heavily against the deck.
'Sobotee nodded. "Let us continue," he said, this time allowing the Unggoy to go ahead of them. As they took point, he fell into step beside Oriné. "Friend, are you ill?"
"No," Oriné replied. His voice sounded strained to him. "Merely distressed."
The groups had split up. Only one human remained unaccounted for, so the Elites had separated. Many had opted to bring a clutch of Grunts with them, but Oriné decided to go alone despite the warnings of his peers. He felt lost. Twice he had been in a position to kill a human, but he had hesitated. Why?
His thoughts drifted back to his father, back on Sanghelios with his mother, but he banished the thoughts from his mind. They had no place here.
As he turned a corner he raised his Needler out of habit, but quickly saw it hadn't been a wasted effort. The human stood there, back to him, cradling its arm. It was completely unawares. He raised his rifle... and once more stopped.
He almost felt the atmospheric change as the human became aware of him and turned slowly, eyes wide. Oriné recognized him; the first human he had interrogated about his language. They all looked alike, but he could see subtle differences in them.
Apparently it recognized him as well. They stared at each other for a moment longer before the human made to grab at his plasma pistol. Oriné tightened his grip on his weapon and it ceased its motion. "Well?" it spoke after a while. "Are you going to do it?"
Oriné did not budge. The human took a step to the side and began to sidle his way around the Sangheili. Oriné did not move, only turning when the human began to leave his line of sight. Finally it turned and outright fled. He watched it go, but soon after realized his folly.
Why am I so unsure? He raced after it.
He saw its back just as it jumped around another corner out into the middle of the hallway, weapon raised and charging. Oriné continued to run forward and caught the glint of gold out of the corner of his eye; the human had its weapon leveled at a Zealot.
Something clicked. Oriné squeezed the trigger, five projectiles jumping from the weapon and impaling the human. Three went into its torso, one into its thigh, and the other into its throat. When they detonated, crimson blood sprayed from the wounds. It collapsed to the deck, weakly clutching its wounds and then lay still.
Oriné looked at what he'd done with dulled fascination. There was his enemy, prostrate and lifeless before him, lifeblood all over the deck. He looked at his hands; red droplets had fallen onto his clawed gloves. With care he wiped them on his armor, tiny red streaks appearing. So that was death. As a child he had been kept awake by dark fears of the end.
Now he felt nothing.
Finally he glanced towards the Sangheili that had almost been shot and realized that it was the station commander. He knew he should have felt panic or fear or pride... but there was nothing. Instead he merely bowed numbly. "Excellency."
The commander was covered in the human's blood. He had not been shielded; if the human had fired, it would have been his undoing. He looked at the warrior in the cobalt armor. "You have saved me, young one," he said.
Oriné nodded.
The Zealot looked him over. "You have no honor markings," he said.
Oriné nodded again.
"This was your first kill?"
Oriné hesitated... then affirmed. "Yes, Excellency."
"What is your name, warrior?"
"Oriné 'Fulsamee."
The commander appeared to muse for a moment. "In drawing your first blood you have saved the life of a superior. There are few greater honors. Tell me, warrior 'Fulsamee, why have you been stationed here? What transgression did you commit that resulted in you being exiled from battle?"
"A..." The young Sangheili stopped himself. "I... was reckless and disregarded protocol. I was sent here as punishment."
The Zealot fell silent. For a moment longer they stood there, until finally the station commander raised his head to his helmet and keyed his radio. "The last human has been eliminated. All warriors back to your posts."
He began to walk away; Oriné automatically fell in line behind him. "Excellency," he asked after a while, "what caused the doors to close?"
"There was a hull breach further down the docking sector. One of the humans got down that far, perhaps looking for a useable ship, and entered the Unggoy dormitories. We assume he fired his weapon and ignited the methane.
"The entire Grunt living area was destroyed."
Oriné stepped into the station commander's office. It wasn't lush like he had imagined, instead quite sparse and bare. The walls were adorned only with a few token decorations, but nothing personal that might reveal the commander's tastes in art or his trophies won on the battlefield.
"Excellency, I am reporting as ordered."
The commander had his back to the door. It had been many months since the incident of escaped humans, and Oriné had settled into his routine. An honor marking had finally been inscribed on his armor, and a high one at that; though not technically signifying a higher rank, many other Elite Minors would nod towards him when he passed in the hallways out of respect.
But ever since that day he had felt the mark weigh him down. He hadn't earned it. 'Sobotee had slain a human in honorable combat. That deserved honor. If Oriné had only killed the human when he should have he never would have received the marking.
However the memories fell away from his mind when he saw that, as the commander turned to face him, he held a Lumidex in his hand.
"Elite Minor Oriné 'Fulsamee," the Zealot said, "direct transfer from Institution. According to your record it was decided that you required more time to properly understand the discipline and protocol of the military, though you were quite fit for Commencement when it occurred." He set the unit on his desk. "But a little digging revealed much more."
Oriné felt his hearts beat a little harder. The commander met his eyes. "You are truly an ambitious youth. You save your station commander from death and gain an honor marking, but it appears that was only a consolation prize for losing the Head Master's daughter." The young Sangheili felt himself go pale and his mandibles fall slack. How had he found out?
The Zealot chuckled. "Strange that one with such a mixed sense of honor should end up in our merry little band. Have you anything to say in your defense?"
Oriné struggled to find the words. He had been blindsided. He had not spoken to the station commander since the prisoner escape and all of a sudden here he was, suffering an interrogation of events best forgotten.
The golden-armored Sangheili cocked his head and clicked his mandibles, apparently satisfied with the young one's silence. "Very well," he said. With the flick of his wrist he sent the Lumidex sliding across the desk towards the Minor. "Your transfer orders."
"Excellency?"
"The Domain of Prosperity is a carrier bound for the front lines to reinforce the S'gor Legion currently entrenched on the human world of Pearl, and it is stopping by to restock its armory. I believe that is the same legion that your Institution squadron was assigned to? You shall join them soon."
Oriné stared at the Lumidex, not daring to hope. With a trembling hand he lifted the mobile screen and looked at it: there it was, in plain text. He was finally going to the front lines.
He lifted his head. "Excellency... why..."
"One of your skill should not be wasted here, no matter what a backwards and uptight Head Master may believe. Of course I am also transferring Hada 'Sobotee with you so he may keep you under control." The commander saluted. "Go with the Gods, Oriné 'Fulsamee."
When the ship finally arrived, Oriné and 'Sobotee said their farewells and boarded the Domain of Prosperity, destined for the front lines. When they reached their cabin, both put their meager personal belongings in the lockers provided but Hada made for the door immediately afterward. "I wish to go to the mess hall," he said, "to meet our fellow warriors and find some nourishment."
Oriné nodded. "Go on. I will remain here."
After 'Sobotee left, Oriné eased himself into the gel bed and retrieved the small leather book from his belongings. Since the incident he had plenty of time to continue his practice of the human language. He had become quite proficient with it, shocking even Major 'Quhlatee with his abilities. Now he could understand the words emblazoned in gold on the cover as well as those on the pages in between.
"Ringworld," Oriné murmured, "by Larry Niven." He sat back and began to read.
