No other world like it in the Forerunner universe.
Here lay the center of Forerunner power and the repository of the last twenty thousand years of our history, housing the wisdom and accumulated knowledge of trillions of ancillas serving a mere hundred thousand Forerunners—mostly Builders of the highest forms and ranks.
There were so many ancillas for so few physical leaders, most never actually interfaced with a Forerunner, and so never assumed a visible form. Instead, they performed their operations entirely within the ancilla metarchy, an unimaginably vast network coordinated by a metarch-level intelligence that answered ultimately to the chief councilor.
As we approached this magnificence, a thin silvery arc rose into view above and millions of kilometers beyond the southern axis. My blood cooled and my heart seemed to thud to a stop. Slowly looming in an orbit slightly downstar from the capital, staggered in perspective like the entrance to a tunnel, eleven great rings had been arranged in neat, precise parking orbits.
Halos.
The combined might of the Master Builder’s weapons—all but one—had been moved to within a few million kilometers of the center of Forerunner power, separated by a minimum of distance and looped together by the slenderest curves of hard light.
My other self expressed something beyond alarm—more akin to horror—and I had difficulty stifling an outburst. They should not be here! Halos should not be allowed anywhere near the seat of governance. Even the Master Builder forbade such a thing. Something has gone very wrong.…
The three males among the young councilors did not seem to find the rings even mildly disturbing. One said, “When we intercept and retrieve the final one, perhaps then our portals will return to their full efficiencies. Moving useless monuments like these puts a strain on all space-time.”
Another added, “They’ve set our reconciliation budget back several thousand years.”
In the shadow of doom itself, they think only of commerce and travel.
Now the female Warrior, Glory, faced me fully, eyes still narrow, wary, as if unsure who or what I was—but seeking some sign that I recognized her disapproval of this scene.
I met her look but could say or do nothing. Too many internal contradictions. She looked away, disappointed, and stepped to the other side of the group on the command platform.
“How long must we suffer for the Master Builder’s arrogance?” Splendid Dust said. He then addressed me, utilizing—perhaps without realizing it—the forms of speech used toward those of lower rate. “The weapons of the old regime have a regal beauty, do they not? Soon all will be gathered here, and a decision will be made as to their deactivation and disposition. Truly, this will be a new age for the Forerunners, an age free of suicidal madness and fear. A time of peace and security will soon be at hand.”
Within five thousand kilometers of the capital, our ship was silently surrounded by the flowing rainbow pulses of the capital’s controlling, enmeshing sensory fields, then chivvied gently by hard-light docking nets. Hundreds of small service craft quickly flew up to surround us like a swarm of gnats around a campfire.
Splendid Dust formally congratulated the ship’s ancilla, and in turn received a ceremonial token of record for the journey—a small golden disk bearing the cost of reconciliation from the slipspace fund.
He requested immediate transport for all on the viewing platform to a reception hall five hundred kilometers below, on the outer edge of the greatest of the fanned slices. I listened to the formalities with rapidly dulling interest. Something unpleasant was in the offing, that much I was sure—the Didact within me was sure. I didn’t care to distinguish between the two of me anymore.
Together, we knew the Master Builder better than any of these young councilors: a Forerunner of nearly infinite complexity and mental resources, cunning with as many centuries as the Didact himself, wiser still in the ways of Forerunner politics and technology.
Splendid Dust watched two of his colleagues depart for their waiting transit craft, the males chatting happily about the journey they had just completed. He and Glory of a Far Dawn stayed with me.
“We’re moving you to a secure domicile,” the young councilor told me. “You’ll be afforded all the protection we merit, as councilors, and perhaps more.”
“Why?” I asked. “I can’t complete my integration. I’m useless to myself, much less to anyone else.” I couldn’t bring myself to offer him my even blunter assessment of his situation. Caution above all. I could not know who was actually friend or foe, dupe or master.
And I felt distinct shame before the Warrior female.
“I admire your fortitude,” he told me. “And your presence of mind. But in fact I am politely observing the request of the Librarian, who may soon be able to return from her duties. When she does, we will, I hope, learn why you are so important, and how you may finally be of use.”
“She shouldn’t come anywhere near this place,” I growled.
“I agree,” he said. “Not all those who had supported the Master Builder are content with the current state of affairs. But the Lifeshaper rarely listens to reason—Builder reason, that is.” He gestured to Glory. “Accompany Bornstellar to his quarters, and acquaint him with his security detail.”
She nodded and complied.
THIRTY-SIX
MY DOMICILE, ON the outskirts of the equatorial disk-city, bore the Council’s austere yet supremely comfortable hallmark. My escort instructed me in the functions of the small chamber, saw to my immediate needs, and assured me that I would be free to come and go once all precautions had been taken.
“I am used to these appointments,” I told her. “Remember, I’m a Builder.”
Glory listened with a strange sort of deference that seemed to mock me, but without disrespect. My other memory regarded this with an odd, youthful thrill. I could not imagine the Didact having ever been young—or feeling such a thrill in the presence of a female of his kind.
Our kind.
“You must never remove your armor in chambers,” Glory said. “Witnesses for the Council are afforded the highest levels of protection, which require armor at all times. Such measures may be adjusted after the trial.”
“And the trial is scheduled for when?” I asked.
“Within ten domestic days. The accused has been in Council custody for a pentad—the fifth part of a domestic year.”
Since shortly after the incident at the San’Shyuum system. The Didact’s wisdom within me made no comment.
Glory and her security team withdrew. I felt snubbed, for no good reason—she had left without a backward look or any other sign.
What would you expect? She’s honorable.
I studied my confines. The walls could melt away at whim and show any number of environments—beautiful artificial environments mostly, created by ancient masters.
I cared nothing for that. I was alone with my armor and ancilla, and no doubt variety of morally acceptable entertainments, highly mannered and formalistic, though—once again, as always now—I was not alone in my thoughts.
I put my armor through an unnecessary diagnostic, found no problems, then made a brief attempt to determine the state of the Domain. As I had been informed, it was still not accessible. My ancilla expressed regret and dismay at this state of affairs. “The Domain is essential to an event such as a major political trial,” she said, her color shading to a disappointed purple. “The judges assess precedent through the Domain, and through the Domain, the witnesses and their testimony may be subject to verification.…”
“I’m just glad it isn’t my fault,” I said.
“No. But that would be a more reassuring explanation. Perhaps I can find clues in the Council’s physical knowledge banks. At least we have been guaranteed access to those. As for your own integration, I believe you should be allowed to sleep. Your dreams may be useful.”
“Is the Domain like dreaming?”
“Not truly. But some have theorized that the dreams of anci
ent Forerunners accessed the ground that supports the Domain.”
I shuddered. “Forerunners seem to get along quite well never leaving their armor. Never sleeping, never dreaming.”
“Some would say this practice is not optimal, that individuals lose flexibility.”
She was either testing my patience or trying to draw out a response. None of the females around me—even this simulacrum—were providing any sort of ease or solace. I remembered Riser’s comment about the blue female. “And some say that we place entirely too much trust in ancillas to manage our mental states, our personal, internal affairs—true?”
“Yes,” she agreed primly. “Some say that. I hope you disagree.”
“Slipspace is overloaded with transit,” I said. “The Domain is inaccessible. Our highest officials are either locked in power struggles, exiled, in hiding, or confined for trial. I’m not who I once was. My family suffers for my actions, and everything I ever wanted to know or do has turned out to be horribly complicated.”
“For that, I must assume a portion of blame.”
“I would say so, yes. And the Librarian must share it with you. I see her mark all over these events … don’t you?”
“Have I ever denied her influence?”
The Didact’s wisdom roused at this—I could feel his interest—but for the moment did not contribute.
“But to what end?” I asked. “Why promote the creation of a distortion such as me—and why give the humans a deeply buried geas? What good did that do them? They are no doubt dead, and all their ancient memories with them. You’re as much a victim as I am. And a victim is not likely to be of much use to another victim.”
“I am an artificial construct. I cannot be a victim. I do not have a presence in the aura of the Mantle.”
“Such humility.”
The figure in the back of my thoughts pulsed with something like indignation, then withdrew from my internal viewpoint. “I will conduct my poor researches as best as I am able,” she said. “Humility will be my watchword.”
I could of course summon her back any time I wished, but I felt no need for now. Against instructions, I removed my armor and sat cross-legged on the floor, as I had observed the Didact do on Erde-Tyrene and on his ship, it seemed ages ago. I wanted to closely observe everything I naturally possessed, all my internal states.
You do this instinctively, first-form?
I tried to ignore this. I would take charge of my own thoughts, restructure them if I was able.…
Reshape myself, create my own internal discipline without the Didact, without the ancilla, without the support of family and form, and of course, without accessing the Domain. An impossible task.
Not so impossible. It is what every warrior does the dawn before battle. Strength in conflict does not arise from the niceties and never has. Do you feel it—that battle is about to begin?
“Please be quiet.”
Agreed. This is your time, first-form.
“Without your guidance.”
Of course.
“I’m so glad I have your permission.”
Think nothing of it. In fact, think nothing.
That proved amazingly difficult.
* * *
Somehow, hours later, I emerged from a blankness like a fish flying out of a deep pond. I could almost see myself twisting in the air, spraying glittering drops—
And then I was simply a first-form of no particular distinction, sitting alone in a minimally comfortable chamber.
But I had done it. I had thought of nothing and maintained that state for a considerable length of time. I allowed myself a small rictus—all I could manage—and then got up to put on my armor. I felt far less defiant now than I had just hours before. Not compliant—just at peace and ready for whatever might come.
My ancilla returned and flashed in warning. I was being summoned. The door to my chamber opened and one of the embodied, armed, cyclopean ancillas known as monitors appeared, flanked by two guards from Builder security. Both were male. Neither were Warrior-Servants.
“The Council requests your presence,” one told me.
“I’m ready,” I said.
“We offer the service of checking your appearance,” the other guard said.
“Not necessary,” I replied.
“Indeed, you seem to have experience in such matters. Your armor fits in the fashion proper for Council inquiry. Your bearing is strong yet respectful.”
“Thank you. Let’s get this over with.”
They accompanied me through lift and corridor to the Council transit center, on the edge of the equatorial disk, and there into the nearest councilor shuttle. Four more monitors joined us—unnecessary force, I thought. Here in the heart of the Council’s power, it seemed unlikely I would need so much protection.
The Didact’s wisdom disagreed.
And I also noted, adjacent to our shuttle, that dozens of small, Falco-class space pods were being lined up outside the equatorial disk’s gravity gradient, in close vicinity to a lift station devoted to Council use. I wondered about that. Falcos were generally used in the evacuation of interplanetary transports.
The journey to the central courts tier took just a few moments. Through the shuttle’s transparent cowling, we watched as hundreds of other shuttles arrived with tightly choreographed grace and dignity, carrying the required quorum of five hundred councilors from around the ecumene. I wondered how many of them were first-forms from the new assignments.
Not our concern.
I wondered why not.
There will be no trial. Soon, there may be no Council and no capital.
That was all the Didact’s wisdom thought fit to convey—alarming enough. Again, I flashed on the eleven Halos in their parking orbits: impossibly slender, perfectly circular silvery rings flashing in the sun. The tangled weave of events was far from certain. There was nothing I could do for the moment but go along.
Splendid Dust and five of his aides, all first-forms, all smiling and proud, joined our phalanx of armed ancillas and Builder security. “A great moment is coming,” the young councilor told me as we followed a broad hallway equipped with high, rotating sculptures of quantum-engineered crystal. Soon, the walls themselves were decorated with regular patterns of the same sort of crystal. Splendid Dust proudly explained that these were spent slipspace flakes … many millions of them. Truly, the ecumene was ancient and powerful. Truly, that would never change—I hoped.
We then came upon the great Council amphitheater, a floating bowl connected to the rest of the capital’s main structure by richly decorated bridges and docked ornamental ferries (“Those are little used now,” the young councilor explained), along with arching lift tubes designed to drop the most senior councilors straight into the amphitheater without the indignity of mingling with their peers.
Ornate and decorated, indeed. Splendid Dust joined a group of his fellow councilors and spoke with them while our escorts located our boxes and seats, where we might most comfortably and prominently await our summons.
Pomp trumps security.
I looked up at the rows and wondered at how small the amphitheater actually was to represent the governance of the ecumene. Three million fertile worlds—yet only five hundred seats and perhaps a hundred boxes. Four speaking platforms at the four compass points of the amphitheater. All remarkably simple compared with the capital world itself.
The covering dome sliced into quarters and peeled away. Great display spheres dropped into place, sparkling with representations of the twelve great systems of the early Forerunners, each carrying a unique sacred epistle of the Mantle’s creed and prayer.
The young councilor moved closer and confided, “We’ll separate now. You’ll be vetted and prepared for your invocation. Three other witnesses will be inducted into the gravity of the councilor court.”
“The Didact?”
“His duties have taken him elsewhere. You will testify in his place.”
“Is that appropria
te? I have not his presence and experience—”
“You saw what he saw, with respect to these proceedings. And you have his imprimatur.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Would anything at all be left of Bornstellar when this was finished? Then I thought of the humans. Perhaps soon I would learn whether they were still alive—but only if their fates mattered to these powerful Forerunners.
Unlikely.
The amphitheater quickly and quietly filled. No one spoke as the court arranged itself. From the center of the amphitheater rose the platform that would hold the six judges, surrounded by a circle of cyclopean monitors, and the lower rank of dark-armored Council security.
Among them, I was quick to note, were four Warrior-Servants—including Glory of a Far Dawn.
The platform ascended to a height of fifty meters, revealing heavily-armed, gleaming black sentinels circling its great lower pistons. I asked my ancilla whether such protection was traditional. “No,” she said. “Listen closely to the Didact’s wisdom.”
“Is the Librarian here?”
“She was not invited.”
“Is she with the Didact?”
“They have not seen each other for a thousand years.”
That was no answer, but I knew better than to ask what could not be known. Too many secrets, too much power, too much privilege—suddenly I felt that cold repugnance so familiar from my days as a Manipular, when I feared becoming such as these. When I feared being responsible.
The assistants and aides cleared the main amphitheater to find their places on the outer tiers. Soon enough I sat alone in my box—alone, but flanked by two monitors, their sensor eyes bright red. I wondered if all these monitors were essential to the proceedings.