< Why, so, important? > Dadab signed with leaden hands. Closing the hatch had automatically triggered the pod's stasis- field—a thickening of the air that would keep its occupants safely immobilized as the pod blew away from the Kig-Yar ship at high speed.

< Didn't I tell you? > the Huragok exclaimed, releasing the trio of boxes into the field. They remained frozen together in midair. < I've taught them to talk! To each other! > For the first time, Dadab noticed the sides of the boxes' casings had been removed to expose their circuits. Some of these were joined together in a web of communicative pathways.

Prophets be merciful! he wailed to himself. Then he fingered a flashing holo-switch in the center of the console, and the pod shot free of its cradle.

Viewed from a distance, the compact cylinder was barely visible as it rocketed away from Minor Transgression. The pod was one of many pieces of debris cast off by the dying ship, and an observer would scarcely have registered it against the surrounding darkness until it activated its jump drive and vanished in a rippling flash of light.

Jenkins sighted downrange, sweat beading on his brow. Lying prone, left arm tight against his MA5's sling, the three-hundred-meter target was easy pickings. Five rounds, five hits.

Jenkins grinned. Yesterday he'd never held a weapon. Today he couldn't put it down.

When he and the other recruits had woken this morning, neither Staff Sergeant had returned from Utgard. Captain Ponder offered no explanation—simply busied the two platoons with policing trash around the garrison and other make-work tasks. In Byrne's absence he sent Jenkins, Forsell, Wick, and Andersen to the range to start their training, trusting their safety to the range computer.

The computer was wirelessly linked to the recruits' weapons and could lock their triggers anytime. But mostly the machine gruffly called out hits and misses in a comical approximation of a drill instructor's voice. Wick and Andersen had racked up perfunctory scores and then returned to barracks. Neither had joined the militia to learn how to shoot.

Wick's father owned Harvest's biggest import-export concern; Andersen's was the commissioner of the colony's commodities exchange. Both lived in Utgard, and were equally disdainful of the farms that enabled their families' prosperity. They wanted to leave Harvest for a core-world career in the CA or DCS—had thought militia service would be nice padding for their resumes.

Jenkins also saw the militia as his ticket off of Harvest—a way to escape the thousands of acres of grain that he (as the eldest of three children) was destined to inherit. Farming wasn't a bad future, but it wasn't a very exciting one either. And that's why, even though the Staff Sergeants scared the hell out of him, Jenkins very much wanted to be them—a real soldier. Not because of any deep-seeded patriotism, but because of the imagined adventure of life as a UNSC Marine.

His parents would never forgive him if he skipped college to enlist. But with a record of militia service, he'd be a shoe-in for Officer Candidate School after graduation. His record wouldn't look very good at all if he didn't know how to shoot. So after Wick and Andersen's departure, he had remained at the range with Forsell.

Jenkins' first impression of the tall, quiet recruit—that Forsell had significantly more brawn than brains—quickly changed. When Jenkins had trouble zeroing his rifle (ensuring its accuracy by adjusting its sights for elevation and windage), Forsell had offered help. When Jenkins' shots went astray, Forsell gave him good advice on how to bring them back in line.

And when Jenkins asked Forsell how he knew so much about shooting, the thick-necked, blond-haired recruit looked out at the rustling wheat beyond the farthest targets and said: "I just watch the wind."

So Jenkins started to watch as well, and soon the two recruits were matching bull's-eye for bull's-eye. They spent the rest of the day ribbing each other for misses, congratulating hits— impersonating the gruff range computer that was too simple minded to object.

The fun continued until Captain Ponder appeared late afternoon, packing an M6 pistol and multiple boxes of cartridges.

Jenkins tried not to stare as the Captain began his target practice. But he couldn't help but notice that the Captain seemed rusty—that his prosthetic arm had a hard time keeping his weapon steady. At one point, Ponder dropped a magazine and fumbled to catch it before it clattered onto the range's slat-wood floor.

But soon enough, he was shooting nice tight groups into fifty-meter targets and swapping magazines with absolute precision. Jenkins and Forsell ran out of ammo long before the Captain. But they waited patiently for him to finish, safe his weapon, and check their scores on the range's computer's display.

"Recruit, that's a Sharpshooter performance."

Jenkins felt his lean cheeks flush. "Thank you, sir." Then, he worked up the courage to speak freely. "When I get out of school, I'd like to join the Marines—get a chance to shoot for real …" Jenkins trailed off, his eager smile fading before the Captain's stony stare. "I'm sorry, sir."

"No. That's good spirit," Ponder said, resisting the urge to glance skyward—toward the new threat he knew had come. "You want to shoot, you'll get your chance." He didn't have the heart to add: a whole lot sooner than you think.

PART II

CHAPTER NINE

COVENANT HOLY CITY, HIGH CHARITY, 23RD AGE

OF DOUBT

The Minister of Fortitude had smoked too much. He rarely partook in stimulants—the powerful hookah tobaccos favored by his senior staff. But the previous night's conclave had dragged on and on, and he'd needed something to keep himself awake during the statistic-heavy discussion.

Now the Minister's head was seized with a terrible, retributive ache. Never again, he vowed, narrowing his heavy-lidded eyes and massaging his long, lateral neck. If only the cleric would hurry up and finish his remedy….

Like most Covenant technology, the San'Shyuum cleric's herbal synthesizer was hidden behind a natural facade, in this case the polished onyx walls of his cell. The mottled stonework shone in the light of a single hologram high above: a canopy of diamond-shaped leaves that rustled in a simulated breeze. A zinc counter stretched across the cell, and was built high enough to accommodate the fact that both San'Shyuum—like every other mature member of their species—sat in anti-gravity chairs high above the floor.

"It is done," the cleric said, removing an agate-colored sphere from the synthesizer's delivery tube. Cupping the sphere in his long, thin fingers, he turned his stone chair back toward the counter, placed the sphere in a black marble mortar, and tapped it with a matching pestle. The sphere shattered, giving off a whiff of peppermint and exposing a collection of leaves and small berries. As the cleric started grinding, Fortitude sat a little straighter in his silver chair's plump crimson cushions and breathed in the medicinal smell.

The older San'Shyuum's withered arms twisted inside his woolen shift as he worked the ingredients into a rough powder—an effort that shook the sparse white hairs that hung from his pale neck like the mane of an old, bedraggled horse. The Minister's light brown skin was, by comparison, completely denuded; the only hair on his body curled from a darker wattle beneath his salamandrine lips. But even those hairs were closely trimmed.

This careful grooming, combined with bright red robes that flowed over the Minister's knees to his gnarled feet, was evidence he did not share the cleric's asceticism: a style of worship that advocated extreme humility in the presence of Forerunner technology, such as the synthesizer.

And yet, the Minister mused, already starting to feel some relief just from the remedy's scent, when the Great Journey begins, we will all walk The Path together.

This direct quote from Covenant scripture summarized the faith's core promise: those who showed appropriate reverence for the Forerunners and their sacred creations would inevitably share a moment of transcendence—would journey beyond the boundaries of the known universe just as the Forerunners had, many ages ago.

Promised godhood was a message with broad appeal, and all were welcome to join the Covenant so long as they accepted the San'Shyuum's sole authority to investigate and distribute holy relics.

Although the Covenant was focused on the hereafter, its member species still had mortal desires for wealth, power, and prestige—all of which the right Forerunner technology could provide. It was the Ministry of Fortitude's responsibility to balance all these competing wants— to decide, simply put, who got what. And it was the latest round in this ongoing effort that had left its leader with such a terrific headache.

Just as the noise of the pestle started to grate on the tympanic slits in the back of Fortitude's skull, the cleric emptied his mortar onto a square of white cloth spread on the counter. "Let it steep as long as you like. The longer the better, of course." The cleric tied the prescription into a sachet and pushed it gently across the counter. "Blessings on your day, Minister," he said with a sympathetic smile.

"I shall step forward." Fortitude grimaced. Though today a bit more delicately than usual.

As the Minister swept the prescription into his lap, he made a mental note to scan it before brewing. Given the controversial nature of his work, assassination was always a possibility and unremitting caution a requirement of office.

Fortitude drummed his fingers against panels of orange-on-blue holographic switches built into his throne's rounded arms, giving the device a new destination. The throne pivoted smartly away from the counter, and accelerated through the cell's triangular entry hall. Running lights winking in the darkly mirrored stone, the chair turned a quick series of corners and exited into High Charity's majestic interior.

Viewed from a distance, the Covenant capital city was reminiscent of a jellyfish adrift in a midnight sea. Its single large dome topped a massive chunk of rock honeycombed with hangar bays and carefully shielded weapons platforms. Long, semirigid umbilicals trailed behind the rocky base, where countless ships were docked like so many stunned fish; commercial vessels mainly, but also the enormous cruisers and carriers of High Charity's defensive fleet. Despite their size, dozens of the warships could have fit inside the dome, which was so spacious it was difficult to see from one side to the other—especially in the early hours of a cycle when the air was thick with cyan banks of fog.

In addition to serving as the Covenant's space-faring capital, High Charity was also home to large populations of each of its species. All rubbed shoulders here, and this concentration of physiologies created a cosmopolitan atmosphere unique among the Covenant's other habitats.

The airspace inside the dome was thick with creatures coming and going from their employment; a twice daily commute triggered by the brightening and dimming of a luminous disk set into the apex of the dome—the city's artificial star.

Fortitude squinted as the disk slowly maximized its intensity, revealing a ring of towers stretching around the dome. Each of the twisting spires was held aloft by anti-grav units that were many orders of magnitude more powerful than the one in the Minister of Fortitude's chair.

Although some towers were more subdued (such as the one that held the cleric's cell), all of them shared the same basic structure: spikes of volcanic rock from the city's base shot through with metal supports and covered with plates of decorative alloy.

Now that morning had come, it was easier to pick out individuals in the commuting swarm: Unggoy packed together on hulking barges; San'Shyuum in chairs similar to Fortitude's; and here and there, strapped into sleek anti-grav backpacks, tall and muscular Sangheili. These blue-skinned, shark-eyed warriors were the San'Shyuum's protectors—though this had not always been so.

Both the San'Shyuum and Sangheili had evolved on planets rich in Forerunner relics. Both species believed these highly advanced pieces of technology were deserving of their worship— clear evidence of the Forerunner's divine powers. But only the San'Shyuum had been bold enough to dismantle some of their relics and use them to make practical objects of their own design.

To the Sangheili, this was blasphemy. But the San'Shyuum believed there was no sin in searching for greater wisdom and, moreover, were convinced that such investigations were critical to discovering how to follow in their Gods' footsteps. This fundamental difference in the practical application of religious ethics sparked a long and bloody war that began soon after the two species made contact on a disputed reliquary world inside a Sangheili-occupied system.

In terms of ships and soldiers, the Sangheili started the fight with a distinct numerical advantage. They were also better warriors—stronger, faster and more disciplined. In a straight- up infantry clash, one Sangheili was worth at least ten San'Shyuum. With most of the fighting taking place in space and ship-to-ship, however, the San'Shyuum had their own advantage: a single, semi-operable Forerunner Dreadnought that decimated the Sangheili fleets with hit-and- run attacks.

For a very long time, the Sangheili took their knocks, ignoring the obvious fact that victory would require committing the sins of their enemy—desecrating their own relics and using them to improve their warships, arms, and armor. Not surprisingly, millions of Sangheili had died before the proud and hidebound species decided abnegation was preferable to obliteration. With heavy hearts, their warrior priests began their work, eventually assembling a fleet capable of fighting the San'Shyuum and their Dreadnought to a standstill.

As devastating as this decision was to most Sangheili, the wisest of their leaders knew they hadn't sinned so much as finally come to terms with their own desire for deeper understanding of the literal articles of their faith. And for their part, the San'Shyuum had to make their own painful admission: if there were other creatures as dangerous and dogged as the Sangheili in the galaxy, their chances of survival would be greatly increased if they allied with their enemy— had the Sangheili watch their backs while they went about their holy work.

Thus was the Covenant born. A union fraught with mutual suspicion, but given a good chance of success by a clear division of labor codified in the Writ of Union, the treaty that officially ended the conflict. Now the Covenant's most important piece of scripture, the Writ began: So full of hate were our eyes That none of us could see Our war would yield countless dead But never victory.