Greg Bear - Halo Cryptum

AI Translator Note: The best tactical translations involve automatic conversion to immediately understandable terms and phrases, including colloquialisms. That tradition has been followed in this work.

Contents

Series

The peaceful one is at war without and within.

The Mantle, Fifth Permutation

T HE FORERUNNER STORY the history of my peoplehas been told many times, with greater and greater idealization, until I scarcely recognize it.

Some of the ideals are factually true. The Forerunners were sophisticated above all other empires and powerful almost beyond measure. Our ecumene spanned three million fertile worlds. We had achieved the greatest heights of technology and physical knowledge, at least since the time of the Precursors, who, some say, shaped us in their image, and rewarded that image with their breath.

The tugging threads of this part of the talethe first of threeare journey, daring, betrayal, and fate.

My fate, the fate of a foolish Forerunner, was joined one night with the fates of two humans and the long world-line of a great military leader that night on which I put in motion the circumstances that triggered the final wave of the hideous Flood.

So be this tale told, so be the telling true.

ONE

SOL EDOM TO ERDE-TYRENE

T HE BOATS CREW banked the fires, disengaged the steam engine, and raised the calliope horn from the water. The bubbling clockwork song died out with a series of clicks and sad groans; it hadnt been working well to begin with.

Twenty kilometers away, the central peak of Djamonkin Crater rose through blue-gray haze, its tip outlined in ruddy gold by the last of the setting sun. A single brilliant moon rose bright and cold behind our boat. The craters inland lake rippled around the hull in ways no tide or wind had ever moved water. Under the swells and whorls, sparkling with reflected sunset and moon, pale merse twisted and bobbed like the lilies in my mothers pond. These lilies, however, werent passive flowers, but sleeping krakens growing in the shallows on thick stalks. Ten meters wide, their thickened, muscular edges were rimmed with black teeth the length of my forearm.

We sailed over a garden of clannish, self-cloning monsters. They covered the entire flooded floor of the crater, skulking just below the surface and very defensive of their territory. Only boats that sang the lulling song the merse used to keep peace among themselves could cross these waters unmolested. And now it seemed our tunes were out of date.

The young human I knew as Chakas crossed the deck, clutching his palm-frond hat and shaking his head. We stood side by side and stared out over the rail, watching the merse writhe and churn. Chakasbronze-skinned, practically hairless, and totally unlike the bestial image of humans my tutors had impressed upon meshook his head in dismay. They swear theyre using the newest songs, he murmured. We shouldnt move until they figure it out.

I eyed the crew on the bow, engaged in whispered argument. You assured me they were the best, I reminded him.

He regarded me with eyes like polished onyx and swept his hand through a thick thatch of black hair that hung in back to his neck, cut perfectly square. My father knew their fathers.

You trust your father? I asked.

Of course, he said. Dont you?

I havent seen my real father in three years, I said.

Is that sad, for you? the young human asked.

He sent me there . I pointed to a bright russet point in the black sky. To learn discipline.

Shh- shhaa ! The Floriana smaller variety of human, half Chakass heightscampered from the stern on bare feet to join us. I had never known a species to vary so widely yet maintain such an even level of intelligence. His voice was soft and sweet, and he made delicate signs with his fingers. In his excitement, he spoke too rapidly for me to understand.

Chakas interpreted. He says you need to take off your armor. Its upsetting the merse.

At first, this was not a welcome suggestion. Forerunners of all rates wear body-assist armor through much of their lives. The armor protects us both physically and medically. In emergencies, it can suspend a Forerunner until rescue, and even provide nourishment for a time. It allows mature Forerunners to connect to the Domain, from which all Forerunner knowledge can flow. Armor is one of the main reasons that Forerunners live so long. It can also act as friend and advisor.

I consulted with my ancilla, the armors disembodied intelligence and memorya small bluish figure in the back of my thoughts.

This was anticipated, she told me. Electrical and magnetic fields, other than those generated by the planets natural dynamics, drive these organisms into splashing fury. That is why the boat is powered by a primitive steam engine.

She assured me that the armor would be of no value to humans, and that at any rate she could guard against its misuse. The rest of the crew watched with interest. I sensed this might be a sore point. The armor would power down, of course, once I removed it. For all our sakes, I would have to go naked, or nearly so. I halfway managed to convince myself this could only enhance the adventure.

The Florian set to work weaving me a pair of sandals from reeds used to plug leaks.

* * *

Of all my fathers children, I was the most incorrigible. In itself this was not an ill mark or even unusual. Manipulars of promise often show early rebellionthe stamp in raw metal from which the discipline of a full rate is honed and shaped.

But I exceeded even my fathers ample patience; I refused to learn and advance along any of the proper Forerunner curves: intensive training, bestowal to my rate, mutation to my next form, and finally, espousal to a nascent triad where I would climb to the zenith of maturity.

None of that attracted me. I was more far interested in adventure and the treasures of the past. Historic glory shined so much brighter in my eyes; the present seemed empty.

And so at the end of my sixth year, frustrated beyond endurance by my stubbornness, my father traded me to another family, in another part of the galaxy, far from the Orion complex where my peoples were born.

For the last three years, the system of eight planets around a minor yellow starand in particular, the fourth, a dry, reddish desert world called Edombecame my home. Call it exile. I called it escape. I knew my destiny lay elsewhere.

When I arrived on Edom, my swap-father, following tradition, equipped my armor with one of his own ancillas to educate me to the ways of my new family. At first I thought this new ancilla would be the most obvious face of my indoctrinationjust another shackle in my prison, harsh and unsympathetic. But she soon proved something else entirely, unlike any ancilla I had ever experienced.

During my long periods of tutoring and regimented exercise, she drew me out, traced my rough rebellion back to its rootsbut also showed me my new world and new family in the clear light of unbiased reason.

You are a Builder sent to live among Miners, she told me. Miners are rated below Builders, but they are sensible, proud and strong. Miners know the raw, inner ways of worlds. Respect them, and they will treat you well, teach you what they know, and return you to your family with all the discipline and skills a Manipular needs to advance.

After two years of generally impeccable service, guiding my reeducation while at the same time relieving my stultifying existence with a certain dry wit, she came to discern a pattern in my questions. Her response was unexpected.

The first sign of my ancillas strange favor was her opening of my swap-familys archives. Ancillas are charged with the maintenance of all records and libraries, to ease access to any information a member of the family might need, however ancient and obscure. Miners, you know, delve deep. Treasure, as you call it, is frequently in their way. They recover, record, settle the matter with the proper authorities and move on. They are not curious, but their records are sometimes very curious.