Halo: Cryptum

I tried to recal al that I had seen. Most of it was fading already. I had only a vague impression of the captive—vague, but frightful.



Clearly, those questions that the Didact had not resolved to his own satisfaction were more difficult to flush out.



But the process had somehow pushed forward a question neither I nor my other memory could answer: Why would they need me if the Didact himself had been released and reinstated?



Why not go directly to him?



THIRTY-FIVE



THE YOUNG COUNCILOR seemed to float in place on the command platform, now suspended inside a great sphere, one half of which was also transparent. As I came up through the lift, I saw he was in the company of three others, in appearance much like himself. No doubt more young councilors. Two were male. One was female.



Splendid Dust greeted me with one of his disconcerting smiles, and introduced me to the others. The names of the two males I did not retain, my memory was so disordered and disjointed—but the female’s name stuck with me. She was clearly a Warrior-Servant by rate, tal er than the others by a few centimeters, graceful y but powerful y built—and against al my old and inbred prejudices, she made my heart leap. Her name was Glory of a Far Dawn.



They gathered to inspect me. Surrounded by this new breed of first-form Forerunners, I felt wretchedly out of place. And in front of this Warrior female, with her cool, sharp-eyed gaze lightly sweeping me, then turning aside—I felt like a distorted, storm-twisted stump in the middle of strong green trees.



However, they treated me respectful y enough, and watched with pride the Council ship’s approach to the capital of our civilization. We were a mil ion kilometers away.



The grandeur should have been overwhelming.



I tried to share their pride, but more of the Didact surfaced. He had been here before, a thousand years ago, to stand in opposition to the wishes of the Master Builder.… Not pleasant memories.



Greatness and power are often allied with defeat. It is how civilizations are shaped—some ideas prosper, others die. The quality of the ideas has little to do with the outcome. It is personalities that matter. Pay attention to those around you.



“A little cynical, aren’t we?” I spoke aloud. The councilors turned to me, al but Glory, whose eyes barely flickered. Splendid Dust drew their attention back to the capital itself, and I forced myself to go with this particular flow, for now.



It is with difficulty that I describe the capital as it was then, so little like anything in your experience. Imagine a planet a hundred thousand kilometers in diameter, sliced latitudinal y like one of Riser’s favorite fruits. Al ow those slices to drop in paral el against a plate. The slices are then pierced through their aligned lower rims with a stick, the plate is removed, and the slices are fanned out in a half-circle. Now decorate each slice, like a round stair step, with an almost infinitely dense array of structures, and surround it with a golden swarm of transports and sentinels and a dozen other varieties of security patrols, thick as fog.… 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 tril ions of ancil as serving a mere hundred thousand Forerunners—mostly Builders of the highest forms and ranks.



There were so many ancil as for so few physical leaders, most never actual y interfaced with a Forerunner, and so never assumed a visible form. Instead, they performed their operations entirely within the ancil a metarchy, an unimaginably vast network coordinated by a metarch-level intel igence that answered ultimately to the chief councilor.



As we approached this magnificence, a thin silvery arc rose into view above and mil ions 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—al but one—had been moved to within a few mil ion 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 wil return to their ful efficiencies. Moving useless monuments like these puts a strain on al 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 ful y, eyes stil 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 al wil be gathered here, and a decision wil be made as to their deactivation and disposition. Truly, this wil be a new age for the Forerunners, an age free of suicidal madness and fear. A time of peace and security wil 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 control ing, enmeshing sensory fields, then chivvied gently by hard-light docking nets. Hundreds of smal service craft quickly flew up to surround us like a swarm of gnats around a campfire.



Splendid Dust formal y congratulated the ship’s ancil a, and in turn received a ceremonial token of record for the journey—a smal golden disk bearing the cost of reconciliation from the slipspace fund.



He requested immediate transport for al on the viewing platform to a reception hal five hundred kilometers below, on the outer edge of the greatest of the fanned slices. I listened to the formalities with rapidly dul ing 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 stil in the ways of Forerunner politics and technology.



Splendid Dust watched two of his col eagues 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’l be afforded al 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 al . I could not know who was actual y 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 wil , I hope, learn why you are so important, and how you may final y be of use.”



“She shouldn’t come anywhere near this place,” I growled.



“I agree,” he said. “Not al 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 Bornstel ar 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 hal mark. My escort instructed me in the functions of the smal chamber, saw to my immediate needs, and assured me that I would be free to come and go once al 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 thril . I could not imagine the Didact having ever been young—or feeling such a thril 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 al 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 wal s 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 ancil a, and no doubt variety of moral y 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 stil not accessible. My ancil a 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 al owed to sleep. Your dreams may be useful.”



“Is the Domain like dreaming?”



“Not truly. But some have theorized that the dreams of ancient Forerunners accessed the ground that supports the Domain.”



I shuddered. “Forerunners seem to get along quite wel 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 ancil as 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 al 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 al 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 wil conduct my poor researches as best as I am able,” she said. “Humility wil 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 natural y possessed, al 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 ancil a, 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?