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  Endurance regards me with even stronger suspicion. “What would you leave?”

  “If Lifeworkers succeed in repopulating the galaxy, after the Flood is gone … If you have visitors who seek to challenge the Didact, you can convey to them a message. And a safeguard.”

  “And what will that message be?”

  “That is for the visitors. If any. It won’t take long to deliver an imprint to your ancillary systems.”

  “Why should Requiem accept your imprint?”

  “You know what the Didact has become,” I tell her. “He could emerge a danger both to himself and to others, even those who mean no harm.”

  Her gaze is level, clear—all too discerning.

  “What I leave of myself will serve as much to protect Requiem, as to protect any visitors.”

  She thinks this through. Her own uncertainty about the present situation weighs heavily. “Your loyalty to your husband has never been questioned.”

  “Never. All shall benefit,” I say. “The Didact must not control the Prometheans.”

  This causes Endurance more difficulty. “Very complicated, Lifeshaper. Would you have me go against his commands?”

  We have come this far!

  “What was his last command?”

  “That I guard Requiem with my life,” Endurance says.

  “Then there is no contradiction,” I say. “You must guard Requiem—you must guard him. I have watched my husband for over ten thousand years. And now my imprint will help you watch him long after I’m gone.” I hope I know enough of Warrior psychology and tactical planning, as well as command structure and responsibility, to make this case plausible.

  “If you agree,” I conclude.

  The moment is long and dangerous. Endurance in one way will resign herself to a continuing rivalry. Her opposite will be here, right alongside her. And yet, having finally got the Didact all to herself, it is clear he has presented her with a great many quandaries. “You believe he could endanger Forerunners,” she says quietly.

  “He will violate the Mantle, in order to seize it. Unless he is held back. Allowed to find himself again.”

  I see it first in the way her gloved hands relax. Resigned, she says, “With your help, we will guard Requiem, Lifeshaper.”

  She does indeed have the best interests of her commander at heart. But her resolve is not without flaw.

  “A great warrior requires great enemies, Lifeshaper,” she says. “Will the future present us with worthy opponents?”

  “Living Time is fraught with peril,” I say.

  This seems to give her the answer she seeks. “Then so it shall be.”

  “The transfer from my armor to yours, and from yours to the Requiem ancillas, won’t take more than a few seconds.”

  “Give it to me, then,” she says.

  We touch gloves.

  The transfer is made.

  Will she follow through? Has she played her own cards better than I have, just to get me off Requiem?

  I have no way of knowing.

  I may never know.

  * * *

  At last, I command the combat Cryptum to assemble. Rising on a stalk of light, the container begins to grow beneath the Didact, lifts him upright, forcibly expels the pallet. The Cryptum’s many sections expand and shape themselves into a great, fragmented sphere, into which the Didact is centered. The fragments then join. The last gaps flash with hard light, close in, seal off.

  Finally, I can no longer see his face.

  How I ache through mind and body! How I grieve for the husbands I have lost!

  The Cryptum rises on the stalk of light and is concealed in the upper chamber, amid other similar shapes, to confuse whomever might disturb this place, however unlikely such visitors will be. The chamber fills with a deep booming and then a painful hiss.

  “It is done,” I say. “Soon this world will sleep.”

  Sentinels encourage me out of the chamber, back through the tortuous maze of corridors and ramps, across voids clouded by steam rising from roiling magma, vapors sucking and whirling into reclamation vents.

  On a narrow span crossing the final shaft before I reach the lock, I sense something behind me, and turn to see a lone, quick machine unlike any I have seen before—moving behind us on delicate, stalking legs. The machine carries another machine on its back that briefly whickers like an insect spreading its wings … and then others suddenly appear, many others—all of them collecting along a long side corridor that reshapes and closes as I watch. I reach for the one closest to me.

  If it is Endurance, I do not know—the machine is silent, cold. A dark fate, but one that will serve the purpose well.

  From deep within Requiem, I hear hollow, echoing grinds and thumps that vibrate my boots, followed by, from all directions, a confusion of smoothly rushing sounds. I quickly depart, crossing the dock toward my ship, refusing to look at what I leave behind.

  Audacity seals its hatch. Catalog and I take our positions in the command center. My ship ascends the long cylinder, levels closing off behind as we pass.

  Sentinels escort us through the exterior gateway, and that also closes. Requiem is ready for its long wait. I have done all I can—short of destroying my husband, which I could never bring myself to do. I hope.

  Audacity expresses relief that we were even allowed to leave. “This is a troubling construct,” it confides. “Are we on schedule for our next jump? Slipspace budget appears to be generous out here. Curious, how much capacity is available now.”

  “Not at all curious,” Catalog says. “Slipspace reconciles across a number of years, forward and back. So say legal judgments on commercial usage. The greater Ark no longer exists, and nearly all the Forerunner transits and communications have stopped. As well, there are no star roads locally to complicate matters.”

  Space-time is quiet, for Forerunners. But that openness may also mean that the lesser Ark has yet to position its new Halos. We may yet lose this race with the Flood. The IsoDidact may or may not have survived; there may or may not be a command presence on the last Ark.

  I do not yet know the situation on Erde-Tyrene. Has Chant-to-Green recovered enough humans to fulfill Lifeworker plans? If Audacity diverts to the lesser Ark, humanity may come to an end. An affront to all my millennia of planning.

  I am sunk in miserable indecision. My brain races with excuses. And then my course is very clear. It’s as if, without benefit of Cryptum or Haruspis or any other intermediary, I feel the touch of the Domain … calling me, directing me.

  The Didact is not the only one to have a vision of the future.

  “I’d like to send a message,” I tell Audacity.

  “To the lesser Ark, to prepare for your arrival?”

  “No. To all Forerunner vessels.”

  “All—even those infected by the Flood?”

  “Especially those,” I say. “Tell them I am on my way to Erde-Tyrene. Tell all our ships that we have at long last found a cure for the Flood, but must assemble one last component on Erde-Tyrene.”

  “I do not understand your purpose, Lifeshaper.”

  One desperate maneuver stacked upon another. For centuries, the false notion of a cure for the Flood cure had driven Forerunners—myself included—to depraved behavior. Perhaps now it can be used against the very evil that conceived it.

  “We need to give the lesser Ark time,” I say. “A few extra days might be enough. A diversion, a distraction … draw the Flood in.”

  How unified are Flood components? How unified and singular is a Gravemind? An intriguing question, one that moves to the heart of some of the major problems in biology. A question to distract me during our jump. And perhaps to have answered when we arrive.

  “After that,” I say, “we need to contact the lesser Ark.”

  “Attempting now, Lifeshaper. For what purpose?”

  “If Bornstellar has survived, we will need his help to procure a very important ship.”

  “Very well. I will send this
message at once. Do you believe he has survived?”

  I cannot answer.

  Without him, hope for all sentient beings has at last been extinguished.

  STRING 35

  MONITOR CHAKAS

  I WATCH OVER the IsoDidact. His armor is severely scarred, and he has not yet recovered from the blunt-force injuries he incurred during destruction of the greater Ark and the Omega Halo.

  The Gargantua-class transport with which I rescued the Bornstellar Didact now drifts lifeless after the firing of the Omega Halo.

  I had hoped to find other survivors in the debris field, and load them onto the ship, but there are none to be sensed. And little time to search further. We will have to settle with whatever specimens the Lifeshaper and I managed to save before the Ur-Didact assaulted Halo. Several hundred different species, mostly indexed genetic composites, have been saved.

  With gentle nudges, I maneuver this balky, healing, but very powerful vessel from the debris field, knowing that at any moment our energy signatures could attract our enemies.

  Finally, a path out of the wreckage, the fleets, and the loosening tangle of broken and damaged star roads, presents itself, and I devise a course solution for our first jump.

  Have I proven my value yet?

  * * *

  The wreckage of the greater Ark is a few tens of light-years behind us. But the distance to any reachable haven is still tremendous, even for a vessel of this magnitude. And to my disgust, the drive cores are nearly depleted. Halo’s firing apparently wore this ship down to its last reserves.

  To reach the safety of an uninfested system, we will need to find a portal. There are few portals we can trust—very few outside of star road influence. My choices are chancy to none at all.

  Throughout, caught up in all I’ve seen, I feel the weight of machine. I am not what I once was—but still, there is initiative, and oddly enough, loyalty. The IsoDidact was once a friend—in the peculiar sense that Chakas liked people he was able to trick. Chakas tricked Bornstellar, and because he tricked the young Forerunner so well, we are now here, so I feel responsibility. Or perhaps it is just the machine conditioning, that monitors will serve Forerunners. No matter.

  When there is time to pay attention, I discover that Catalog has suffered some damage. It is recovering.

  The IsoDidact’s skin suddenly takes on a hopeful color. His ancilla connects with me, and we conduct a diagnosis, which is positive enough that the suit allows its occupant to rise to awareness.

  His eyes search the large command center and find first me, then the unmoving carapace of Catalog.

  “Where are we?” he asks.

  “Away,” I say. “Our next jump will begin shortly.”

  “Jump to where?”

  “A random location. Far from here. Somewhere safe.”

  He looks around the command center. “Are we on a carrier ship?”

  “We are. Gargantua-class.”

  “How did you arrange that?”

  “I am resourceful, as you have observed. But this was provided by your wife and the Lifeworkers.”

  “Remarkable. Change that destination,” he says. “I have another coordinate.”

  His armor feeds me the new coordinate. This must be the location of the lesser Ark, just as the Librarian had promised.

  “Did my wife escape?” he asks.

  “I believe so.”

  “To Requiem,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “With my original.”

  “They traveled separately,” I say.

  His expression softens. “Old friend,” he says. “I owe you my life.”

  “Again,” I say. “Chakas could have murdered you in your sleep back on Erde-Tyrene, and he didn’t.”

  Somehow, he finds this amusing. But he quickly sobers. “How many humans in the compound survived?”

  “Only a handful.”

  “Not enough to rebuild what was lost?”

  “No, I do not believe so.”

  The IsoDidact’s face turns grim. His dismay and anger is heartening. Chakas believes that Forerunners should feel guilt, especially for such heinous actions.

  “I know where the Lifeshaper will go,” he says, “once she’s finished her duty to my original.”

  “She will return to my home world,” I posit. “Where a few humans might yet remain.”

  “Almost certainly. I wish I could follow her … but we must reach the lesser Ark, and soon.”

  He gives the order. The jump is not as rugged as some, but it’s no walk in the short grass. We arrive with few core reserves to spare at a small, permanent portal about a thousand light-years from where we began.

  Despite myself, I am impressed by the IsoDidact. He is better than his original and better than Bornstellar, who was a bit of a goof. I am more cheerful now, if a machine can feel cheer. I am also hopeful that the Bornstellar Didact will assign me to return to Erde-Tyrene, if it has not been captured by the Flood, and search for the Lifeshaper, protect her.

  Home. A place I would like to visit one more time.

  The portal station is deserted. The platform and cylindrical buffers are empty, the ancilla seems old and eccentric—but functional.

  It refuses my query for information. I am not authorized. “It asks for our identity,” I tell the IsoDidact. “Why is this portal out here, with so much capacity, yet unused?”

  “In case something goes wrong,” he says. “The Master Builder created it ten thousand years ago, in secret. He was very wealthy and thought I might win—the Didact might win—and he would need to leave quickly, to a place where he could not be tracked. He gave me the coordinates to this secret Ark, where there is a final array of Halos. Apparently he no longer wished to escape.

  “And now, it belongs to us, doesn’t it?”

  Through me, the IsoDidact supplies the Master Builder’s coordinates. The old portal ancilla expresses its relief and asks whether more Builders will arrive soon. “We do enjoy serving,” it says.

  I do not wish to disappoint. I reply with a mechanical ambiguity. I appreciate its patience and loyalty. Someday, I may experience similar disappointment.

  The portal journey is much longer and much smoother. The benefits of wealth and power. What the displays show when we arrive is at once astonishing and terrifying.

  Halos everywhere. Six of them!

  And another Ark, also outside the margins of the galaxy, smaller than the one just destroyed, but big enough. For many thousands of light-years around, there are no signs of converted fleets, star roads—or the Flood.

  We may have arrived in time!

  Our vessel is not recognized, but upon confirmation of the IsoDidact’s presence, our status is updated and we are allowed into the Ark’s protected perimeter.

  Here we have refuge, for now.

  All communications are refreshed. The IsoDidact has a message from the Lifeshaper—and a request. As we move from the vessel to the Ark’s Cartographer to review Halo preparations, he tells me, “She’s on Erde-Tyrene. But not just to save humans. She’s requested a ship! This one, actually—if you are willing to part with it.”

  “It has carried us well. But we will need to replenish the slipspace core before we send it to her.”

  “May I travel to Erde-Tyrene and assist the Lifeshaper?” I wonder what remains on Erde-Tyrene. Every human I knew is probably dead. It might be very painful to go there.

  “No,” the IsoDidact says. “She says she’s trying to draw off the Flood,” he says, crestfallen. “I believe her, but I think she has other motives. Besides, there would be no hope of your return. And I need you. We have to disperse the Halos as soon as possible. I need you there to ensure success. Will you do this for me, friend?”

  I say that I will. The IsoDidact and I part ways. But before the vessel is refreshed, and sent on an automated course to Erde-Tyrene— I contact a nearby Lifeworker.

  “Quickly,” I say. “There are specimens in the hold. They must be transferred to
the Ark.”

  Riser, Vinnevra, as well as others I do not know.

  Possibly the last humans in the galaxy.

  Catalog goes with them, still disoriented. Again, my machine nature weighs on me—but I am certain I already feel lonely. Six hoops are spread out across the blue sky.

  This weapon array is different than the others; designed to purge everything. The true destructive potential that the Didact had always feared, finally unleashed. If the Forerunners fire their Halos, only machine intelligence will survive within the galaxy.

  Just beings like me, or nothing at all.

  Lonely indeed.

  STRING 36

  ISODIDACT

  THE PEACEFUL LULL could not last long.

  Portal sensors near the lesser Ark tell us that space-time near our position is changing. That was inevitable. Time will soon tangle horribly, and there will be no counting the hours we have left.

  I fear the worst for my wife.

  This Ark has the most extensive command facility of any I have seen. Builders have, I must admit (and perhaps with a little deep pride) outdone themselves with this installation, both in the record time they took to complete it and the changes and improvements they have made over the previous Ark. Nevertheless, the newer Ark is unproven. Controlling the smaller Halos, designed to be more swiftly and flexibly dispatched, will require tremendous coordination, and communications across those distances could soon be compromised.

  The newer Halos have been designed to fire simultaneously and in every direction; they are much more powerful than older Halos. Once distributed, their energies will cover the entire galaxy, overlapping and triggering each other until there is no space that has not been cleansed of the Flood.

  There is uncertainty whether star roads in transit through slipspace will be eliminated as well. Some say they will, others, not. And so, we are attempting to gauge, through very suspect data, when the maximum number of star roads and other Precursor constructs will emerge and occupy status space.

  The Halos must be dispersed as soon as possible. I cannot trust that my wife’s feint will have any effect on the Gravemind or on Mendicant Bias. She has told the Lifeworkers that they must give me all assistance, must follow my orders—orders that were approved by the Council, whatever remained of it, before she left the greater Ark. She has told them, explicitly, with all the authority of her rank, that triumph of the Flood would be a violation of the Rule of the Mantle. She has traveled a long, hard course to reach this decision, obviously, and I suspect it was the example of my original that finally tipped the scales.