Terminus Systems, World of Terrask.
An ordinary agricultural colony inhabited by Batarian refugees, Turians who left the Turian Hierarchy in search of a different life, and a dozen Elcor. The total population is less than fifty thousand sentients. For the most part, they earn a living through agriculture and local mining. Of value—only a chemical plant. Small enough that from time to time, a local "company" consisting of a single transport ship can fly through the local Mass Relay and sell the cargo. And in the event of a pirate raid, the colony can field a dozen fighters. It's enough to drive off a gang, especially since the colony leadership regularly pays a percentage to local "fixers," and they are left alone.
Thus, the plant provides this small, remote colony with "protection" from the Blood Pack gang operating in the region. Yes, Krogan protect the colony for food and the plant's products. For those who understand business a little, this is normal. Slavers are a pressing problem for a colony with almost no normal defense. This way, everyone is happy.
Many like to portray Krogan as dim-witted brutes. The only problem is that dim-witted brutes don't live long. And they don't build civilizations. There is always a need for those who will work in factories and grow food. Which means Krogan are perfectly capable of all that. They can trade, and they can handle collectivism. But people often forget that, it's a fact.
During the incident that evaporated the Attican Traverse, the colony was not affected. No, the news reached the colony about two months later. But no one believed it, seriously. Almost no one has the Extranet; no one is going to pull a connection out here, it's just not profitable. And maintaining the equipment in working order is a bit too expensive.
So the story was considered an ordinary tall tale, discussed in the evenings at the tavern, and then forgotten. Really, who would believe that an entire sector of the galaxy suddenly died out? Fairy tales! The narcotic delusions of high and drunken mercenaries.
And then one night, a quiet but distinct hum of a descending ship echoed over the colonists' settlement. A torch, roughly seven hundred meters long, roared over the colony with a howl and disappeared behind the forest. Then came an impact, clearly indicating a crash, and a flash of detonation. Sentients who ran out at the noise quickly located the crash site by the glow of the fire and moved in that direction with flashlights and weapons, driven by curiosity. After all, anyone could have crashed in their backwoods. They had to help.
Fortunately, the ship fell only a few kilometers away, plowing through the forest with its hull and leaving more than clear evidence. And the fire helped determine the direction. After a while, the sentients from the colony, rangers, reached the purple wreckage, which partially blocked the river; the water had begun to rise and prevented the flames from spreading. An elderly Batarian peered in with interest.
"Hey, who is this? Whose tub is this?"
And indeed, whose? The neat, almost cast, rounded contours of the hull were completely unfamiliar for Citadel ships. It didn't look Batarian either. And none of them had ever seen Covenant ships.
"I've never seen ships like this," said a Turian, illuminating the unfamiliar ship hull with the flashlight of his rifle. Purple, resembling a sea creature, crushing trees, but looking almost intact. A yellowish mist was coming from cracks in the armor that the squad had reached. The Batarian, who stepped closer and ran his fingers along a crack, began to cough. It stank.
"What, kha, is this junk, kha," taking a few steps back, he spat and added, "this crap clogs the lungs, it's impossible to breathe. If it's the same inside, they'll all suffocate in there."
Suddenly, another Batarian raised his weapon.
"Quiet! Did you hear that?"
The squad immediately tensed, listening to the crackle of burning wood and hissing.
"What? Stop, quiet!"
And they heard it. A rustle. Quiet, monotonous, and completely incomprehensible. Attempts to illuminate the space around them brought no clues, although a rustle sounded again somewhere in the darkness. And then a squelch, like footsteps. Weapons were immediately pointed at the sound.
"Who's there? Show yourself immediately!" the Turian demanded, "or I will fire. What?"
He fired a burst point-blank when a bloated yellow figure in unfamiliar armor leaped from ten meters away and landed right in front of him. The figure ignored the fire to its stomach, splashing yellow goo and flesh from the hits, and then delivered a sweeping blow with a limb tipped with whips. From the blow, the Turian slumped into the mud, and noticeable dents remained on his chestplate. Dents that, without protection, would have simply killed him. His breath was knocked out, such was the strength of the blow, but the experienced soldier wheezed:
"Fire! Kill it!" the militiamen began to shoot, searching for movement with their flashlights, highlighting more and more bloated monsters.
And they ignore the bullets. New enemies jumped down from the ship's hull. And more. Ten. Twenty. Fifty. Then a living carpet of flesh poured from the ship's hull onto the defenders.
The Batarian screamed, covered in small living sacks with a bunch of tentacles and sharp beaks, gnawing their way into his organism to the rustle of numerous legs. But the screams turned into a wheeze, then fell silent. And then the defenders, having become the same bloated creatures, stood up and headed back toward the colony, obeying the will of their new, collective mind. And soon the colony was filled with screams.
The only ship that tried to take off from the colony was blown up by a plasma flash from the crashed ship and crashed a few kilometers away. This saved those who were flying away on it; they lived a little longer.
The bloated figures, having slaughtered the inhabitants, scattered, searching for biomass and owners of nervous systems. A construct formed in their minds that they were to create and a plan on exactly how to do it.
A Gravemind that must be created. They didn't know why; they didn't understand what they were doing. But they were absolutely sure it was necessary. The parasite needs to feed and grow. This is their purpose. The sentients around them are what is needed.
***
And in Covenant space, the assault on the San'Shyuum temple was taking place. The priests, though accustomed to relying on other races of The Covenant for protection, were defending their temple, their world, fiercely. But pointlessly. The Sangheili and their supporters were in a rage. After all, they found themselves on a planet that, according to all chronicles, had long since ceased to exist. The priests had lied to them; the priests had hidden the world, keeping a place for themselves to hide.
And when The Covenant began to collapse, they tried to escape accountability right here. This world was not subjected to bombardment. A raid had been conducted on High Charity, where, in the Hierarchs' chambers, the necessary coordinates were found. Coordinates which the Humans had quite readily sold to them.
Their machine mockingly clarified: did they really believe that the San'Shyuum lived on a planet three hundred kilometers in diameter? And if so, how did they even manage to build a civilization, being so naive? The warriors' wrath was powerful, but the leaders of the Swords of Sanghelios decided to find out the truth first and then decide who was guilty and who should be punished for it. And now, all their wrath descended upon the culprits.
Thel 'Vadam, having gunned down a San'Shyuum warrior hiding around a corner with a Beam Rifle, ran into a passage. Nearby, a transparent shadow of an Elite in yellow armor flickered, carrying a blade and a Plasma Rifle.
"They are resisting. Fiercely. Protecting this place. What are we looking for here?"
And this was indeed an unexpected Sangheili. It was assumed that Vras Tarkoh, as the captain of a carrier, was storming the Human world on the orders of the then-Hierarchs. But it seems the news reached them as well. And this is joyful, as Vras is a strong warrior. Thel 'Vadam replied:
"I am glad you are with us, Vras. Here is the residence of the Prophet of Regret. Hidden from everyone. Cowards! Perhaps we will find out why the Prophets betrayed us, went on The Great Journey themselves, abandoning everyone. And why they did not wish to answer for this betrayal."
A question that easily and quickly split The Covenant. And when the Sangheili, by right of being protectors, demanded answers, these priests… They rudely demanded to be left alone. And to leave the sacred planet altogether, not to desecrate it with their presence! What insolence!
Whether to hide information or because they didn't know themselves, no one cared anymore. They would pay. And answer.
The weight of the betrayal was great; the refusal to answer drove the forces of The Covenant into a rage. Especially after the raid on the Capital, which was never found. Only Humans, who gave them the answers. Answers that no one wanted to believe, but which were confirmed with every step. The San'Shyuum planet is intact, and High Charity is made from a random planetoid taken from who knows where. And this shook their confidence. But it instilled rage and ignited the determination to get answers at any cost.
The Sangheili deployed their troops, threatening, and then fulfilling their threat: to carve a path to the San'Shyuum knowledge vaults to get answers, over their corpses. The Mgalekgolo and some Unggoy joined the Swords of Sanghelios. Everyone had abandoned the priests; everyone demanded blood and truth. Thel 'Vadam sniffed; it smelled of blood and scorched flesh. But these sacrifices were not enough for his wrath.
This planet. Another lie! The San'Shyuum said it was destroyed, that everyone who did not stay on High Charity had died out. As if—it turned out to be just a beautiful fairy tale. The Prophets kept their secrets well. Including a planet with a population of three billion. A beautiful fairy tale for fools that they had all fallen for. This alone was enough for rage to flood the warriors, for the fall of the priests to become obvious. And absolute.
"And now, for the first time in thousands of years, a just punishment awaits them for everything. For every word, for every one of their lies. Truth, what an abomination. He called himself Truth!!!" It was unbearable to hold back a fierce growl, and Thel 'Vadam had no intention of suppressing his anger or being lenient. Not this time.
The priests know how to fight; they resist fiercely. But pointlessly. With a low roar, a pair of Mgalekgolo pinned a priest barricade to the wall, crushing them with their own bodies and the barrier. Smashing the priest-warriors in close combat. A pair of Sangheili approached a richly decorated locked door in the style of the gods' airlocks.
A blue kinetic barrier was positioned in front of the door.
"They hope to hold us back with this," Vras growled.
But Thel 'Vadam only snorted.
"It won't help. They wouldn't damage a sacred structure," the Sangheili replied, raising his blade and taking aim, "we just need to find the right angle and burn the mechanism."
"Are you sure about this?" his comrade asked, "it is sacrilege. If it proves pointless…"
Mighty paws rested on the shoulders of both Sangheili. Turning around, they saw a pair of Mgalekgolo, who, with a short jerk of the head and a guttural howl, suggested they not interfere. Is there any doubt the Sangheili stepped aside?
One of the Mgalekgolo switched his weapon to beam mode, pointed it at the wall, and grunted questioningly. Thel 'Vadam showed an empty hand, then corrected the weapon slightly, pointing it at the mechanism. It's not worth causing too much damage; the divine structures are not guilty of the actions of the desecrators.
"Like this."
A green beam entered the wall, burning through it with a stream of plasma, and after a few seconds, the field deactivated. And then they got inside. The riches did not interest them. This place was luxurious, but such things were alien to warriors, even causing some disgust. The Sangheili are here for information, for answers. For proof of betrayal. They searched. And they found it. A recording from the time the sacred ring was located, when, it seems, the Prophet of Regret was here on the planet, and Truth was leading armies to storm the Relic. Thel 'Vadam turned on the recording.
The Prophet of Regret spoke with Truth:
"This conflict is dragging on. The Sangheili are overcomplicating everything."
Truth replied:
"There is no need to worry about that. We have found out where the relics came from. Soon the sacred ring will be found."
Regret nodded humbly.
"I remember, Truth. I have already given the fleets the order. When you begin The Great Journey, the worthy will be with us. The unworthy will be left behind. I will arrive to you on time."
Truth nodded.
"There is reason to believe the ring may be desecrated by Humans. We will be able to rid ourselves of the excess among us. And yet, I advise you not to delay, Prophet of Regret. This day is coming. And it will not wait too long."
They listened to this in silence, and rage rose in the warriors' hearts. On the ships that had abandoned them… mutinies often occurred. The Jiralhanae had clearly seized part of the control. This was learned from those who managed to fight back.
"So, not everyone is worthy. They knew," Vras growled.
A fierce guttural roar of the Mgalekgolo sounded from behind. They were also very dissatisfied. And clearly wished to vent that dissatisfaction. Rhythmic footsteps sounded from the entrance. An Unggoy Speaker (not a name), a dwarf with a massive triangular purple methane synthesizer hump, peered into the room.
"Commander. We have occupied this area."
A plan was born in Thel 'Vadam's head.
"Come here. Quickly."
The Unggoy obeyed, but carefully. After all, the leader is clearly not in a good mood. And a Sangheili can do anything.
"Yes?"
The Elite showed the dwarf the recording.
"Make sure everyone sees this. Absolutely everyone."
Vras remarked on this:
"They will slaughter the San'Shyuum. All of them."
But Thel 'Vadam no longer cared.
"They betrayed us. How many times? How many times do we not know? Humans, demons. Think about how many times they have already proven their strength, their right to be with The Covenant. How many times have we been lied to, and answer: are they worthy of salvation?"
Vras clarified:
"Do you think the Prophets lied about the demons too?"
Thel 'Vadam walked to the window, listening as the transmission of the conversation began over the general comms. The little one might be a coward, but he knows a thing or two.
"I wouldn't be surprised. If only a few can go on The Great Journey, if the Prophets took only those loyal only to them, the Humans could have been exterminated so as not to take up space. Just as it was decided to leave you and me behind. I don't know about you, but I intend to get revenge first. And then figure out how many lies the Prophets hid from us. And kill every priest who decided that lying to warriors was a good idea."
Vras growled with satisfaction.
"I am with you. They will pay."
The San'Shyuum homeworld, Janjur Qum, burst into flames. Now what the priests had said about their world for many years would become the truth. Even the Truth. And let him, wherever he may be, see it.
***
Khaela.
On the UNSC Lusankia, Tomoko, my Possessed, entered Margaret Parangosky's office. She bowed, bending the Possessed's body almost perpendicularly, and said:
"Congratulations on the recognition of your merits, Ma'am. How can this humble servant help you?"
While the guard visibly winced, the Admiral only waved her hand.
"Sit down. This Possessed is here on business, Tomoko. Black Box, transmit the information I spoke of."
The cube appeared on the corner of the desk as a hologram and said:
"Transmitted."
The woman looked at the Possessed, who, having turned the chair sideways, was portraying either a servant or a Yamato Nadeshiko. Or maybe both at once.
"Stop pretending to be something you're not and tell me what you think of what was transmitted."
This is a personal file.
Serin Osman. Female. Year of birth: 2511 (32 years old). Homeworld—Cascade, city of Saint-Malo. Height 190.8 cm. Strict character. High degree of suspiciousness. Loyalty to the government and ONI—absolute.
There is a note: Serin-019. Participant in the Spartan-II program. Failed cyber-modification. Is an ONI coordinator, code Kilo-Five. Personal merits. Result is good, although the Admiral is quite loyal to her. Usually, punishments for failures are harsher. Interesting.
Mother Pinar Celik, prostitute and drug addict. Father unknown. She was a vagrant, stole, and ate waste while living on her homeworld. At age six, she was taken without a flash clone for the Spartan program. Examination upon seizure confirmed a significant degree of malnutrition and health problems due to poor diet and living conditions. With an 80% probability—the reason for the modification failure.
Has conflicts with John-117 due to the girl's habit of stealing leftovers from other program participants. Asocial, but hides it. Successfully passed bio-modification and genetic enhancements. But rejection of implants occurred. Has no cybernetics.
Completed the ONI commander training program. Is the coordinator of Kilo-Five. Interesting.
Having studied this, as well as her service record, I addressed the Admiral, no longer playing a part:
"A valuable employee. Spartan-IIs are distinguished by high intelligence; Dr. Catherine Halsey saw to that. Considering I am here as Tomoko, are we to work together?"
The woman nodded.
"Kilo-Five will become the supervisor of the AI Tomoko. It's too early to talk about it, but perhaps in the future, this woman will become an Admiral and the new head of ONI," and seeing how the Possessed looked at Margaret Parangosky, she drew the correct conclusions, "don't hold your breath. But such things should be thought of in advance. I want you to establish contact with this woman. Currently, her tasks include fighting the rebels. Since The Covenant is temporarily occupied with itself, we can do some cleaning. Especially since a few days ago on Venice, rebels, using Citadel weapons, detonated a neutron bomb at the entrance to a UNSC base. There are casualties and a crashed ship. We should deal with the pest control. And that will be your task for the coming years. That, and establishing contacts with the future leader. Evaluate, find common ground. Help. Questions?"
No questions. The fact that Kilo-Five reports to the Admiral, as do I, resolves many subordination issues. Through the Possessed, she will be able to watch over her subordinate, evaluate, help or not. And for me, this is indeed an opportunity to establish contacts with the future management.
The fact that the Citadel, or rather their protégés, have become somewhat insolent is also a fact. Admiral Harper spoke quite specifically on this topic. And staged a retaliatory shock-content, promising on live air that if some don't stop, we know where their Mass Relays are. What's good is that the Citadel officially promised to look into it, though they added that "we do not control terrorists." We'll see. I don't think local intelligence skirmishes will bother the Admiral much; she prefers to keep her subordinates on their toes.
A common enemy is useful. When it's not Human, lives who knows where, can be hated with impunity, and occasionally shits in your porridge, as Humans say. Therefore, the situation itself is not so bad. There is no problem even trading with the Citadel while simultaneously arranging intelligence wars. Ordinary working relations between states. And the Admiral understands this. The main thing is not to cross the line. And for that, they will strike back with all their might. And that is also a fact.
Well, with terrorists, regardless of race, the conversation is short. ONI does not negotiate with terrorists; it exterminates them. For the most part. Sometimes, for the sake of the mission, they might make a deal to catch more of them.
"I will do everything, Admiral."
She nodded.
"Excellent. She's coming here; you can start whatever you've come up with."
The Possessed immediately got up from the desk and moved to the corner. Feet together, hands locked in front, eyes to the floor, humility and silence. The Admiral only waved her hand at this, opening the door for the new guest with a key.
In an ONI officer's uniform and a short regulation haircut, a tall woman entered the room, recognizable as a Spartan. A slightly dark-skinned brunette with defined musculature.
"Serin Osman reporting as ordered, Admiral."
The woman nodded, pointing to a chair.
"Sit down. There will be a new assignment for you, Lieutenant. Allow me to introduce: Tomoko. She is an AI who will be assisting you."
Bowing, the Possessed said in a maximally quiet but audible, calm voice:
"This servant is ready to serve you, Ma'am," eyes to the floor, and by no means show aggression. An ideal servant should be polite and inconspicuous until needed.
It seems the guard is shaking. I suspect he is trying not to laugh. Or he is laughing, but the helmet has good sound insulation, which is also a fact. The woman looked at my platform, which she had clearly noticed earlier.
"Hello, Tomoko," and looked questioningly at the Admiral.
She looked at me, then at her subordinate, and answered the unspoken question:
"She is suitable. But, like all AIs, she has a somewhat eccentric character. Questions? Since there are no questions, your task: a few days ago, a terrorist attack occurred in the Venice colony…"
While my new boss was being briefed, I managed to study the data dropped by Black Box and was weighing the possibilities and likely problems. Yes, a significant portion of the Outer Colonies is lost, that's true. But separatist sentiments have never left Human space.
That same Venice, after the start of the war with The Covenant, quietly removed the UNSC government since the military had no time for them, and set up their own independence. When the threat of The Covenant diminished, the fleet arrived and took the colony back under military control. And since then, everything there has been complicated and tense. People have grown accustomed to freedom and perceive the fleet as an occupying force. And changing their position will be difficult.
It will be a long road. A road that will be traveled. While the "Jupiter-class" ships are being built on the slips, new modifications, already with plasma shields. While The Ark begins work with the towed Boundless Will, and cities and infrastructure are being built on the petals of the colossal station. Scientists are preparing to build the first prototype of the new Infinity-class ship. Based on the technologies of both the Forerunners and ancient Humans.
Now, when the pressure on Humanity has eased, it is the perfect time to consolidate. Resolve internal problems, update the vehicle fleet. Prepare. So that when the next phase of the confrontation begins—and it will begin for sure—we are ready.
A new era has begun. Humanity, for the first time in thousands of years, can look to the future with cautious optimism. For in its hands is all the power of the legacy of two empires.
And as for how Humans will manage it, we will watch over that. Synthetics. Because Humans are like that; they absolutely cannot be left unsupervised. They'll hurt themselves, do something stupid. I focused my attention back on the Admiral's office.
The management had just finished speaking, and Serin stood up. The Possessed waved her hand.
"This servant will show you, Ma'am, if you wish."
Serin Osman put her hand to her forehead. It seems she is whispering: "couldn't they find a more sane AI?".
"This servant will help you in satisfying your desires, Ma'am. This one is trained to behave as befits one before a mistress."
Margaret Parangosky remained silent, following us with her gaze and pinning the guard-agent with it. He immediately froze, stopping his laughing. I, for my part, noted the good performance of the social module.
No. Sanity is a social norm imposed by society, and the societies of Humans interest me little. You will get used to the work of the social module, Serin Osman. You have no choice. We will win.
***
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