“Please be quiet.”

Agreed. This is your time, first-form.

“Without your guidance.”

Of course.

“I’m so glad I have your permission.”

Think nothing of it. In fact, think nothing.

That proved amazingly difficult.

* * *

Somehow, hours later, I emerged from a blankness like a fish flying out of a deep pond. I could almost see myself twisting in the air, spraying glittering drops— And then I was simply a first-form of no particular distinction, sitting alone in a minimal y comfortable chamber.

But I had done it. I had thought of nothing and maintained that state for a considerable length of time. I al owed myself a smal rictus—al I could manage— and then got up to put on my armor. I felt far less defiant now than I had just hours before. Not compliant—just at peace and ready for whatever might come.

My ancil a returned and flashed in warning. I was being summoned. The door to my chamber opened and one of the embodied, armed, cyclopean ancil as known as monitors appeared, flanked by two guards from Builder security. Both were male. Neither were Warrior-Servants.

“The Council requests your presence,” one told me.

“I’m ready,” I said.

“We offer the service of checking your appearance,” the other guard said.

“Not necessary,” I replied.

“Indeed, you seem to have experience in such matters. Your armor fits in the fashion proper for Council inquiry. Your bearing is strong yet respectful.”

“Thank you. Let’s get this over with.”

They accompanied me through lift and corridor to the Council transit center, on the edge of the equatorial disk, and there into the nearest councilor shuttle. Four more monitors joined us—unnecessary force, I thought. Here in the heart of the Council’s power, it seemed unlikely I would need so much protection.

The Didact’s wisdom disagreed.

And I also noted, adjacent to our shuttle, that dozens of smal , Falco-class space pods were being lined up outside the equatorial disk’s gravity gradient, in close vicinity to a lift station devoted to Council use. I wondered about that. Falcos were general y used in the evacuation of interplanetary transports.

The journey to the central courts tier took just a few moments. Through the shuttle’s transparent cowling, we watched as hundreds of other shuttles arrived with tightly choreographed grace and dignity, carrying the required quorum of five hundred councilors from around the ecumene. I wondered how many of them were first-forms from the new assignments.

Not our concern.

I wondered why not.

There will be no trial. Soon, there may be no Council and no capital.

That was al the Didact’s wisdom thought fit to convey—alarming enough. Again, I flashed on the eleven Halos in their parking orbits: impossibly slender, perfectly circular silvery rings flashing in the sun. The tangled weave of events was far from certain. There was nothing I could do for the moment but go along.

Splendid Dust and five of his aides, al first-forms, al smiling and proud, joined our phalanx of armed ancil as and Builder security. “A great moment is coming,” the young councilor told me as we fol owed a broad hal way equipped with high, rotating sculptures of quantum-engineered crystal. Soon, the wal s themselves were decorated with regular patterns of the same sort of crystal. Splendid Dust proudly explained that these were spent slipspace flakes … many mil ions of them. Truly, the ecumene was ancient and powerful. Truly, that would never change—I hoped.

We then came upon the great Council amphitheater, a floating bowl connected to the rest of the capital’s main structure by richly decorated bridges and docked ornamental ferries (“Those are little used now,” the young councilor explained), along with arching lift tubes designed to drop the most senior councilors straight into the amphitheater without the indignity of mingling with their peers.

Ornate and decorated, indeed. Splendid Dust joined a group of his fel ow councilors and spoke with them while our escorts located our boxes and seats, where we might most comfortably and prominently await our summons.

Pomp trumps security.

I looked up at the rows and wondered at how smal the amphitheater actual y was to represent the governance of the ecumene. Three mil ion fertile worlds—yet only five hundred seats and perhaps a hundred boxes. Four speaking platforms at the four compass points of the amphitheater. Al remarkably simple compared with the capital world itself.

The covering dome sliced into quarters and peeled away. Great display spheres dropped into place, sparkling with representations of the twelve great systems of the early Forerunners, each carrying a unique sacred epistle of the Mantle’s creed and prayer.

The young councilor moved closer and confided, “We’l separate now. You’l be vetted and prepared for your invocation. Three other witnesses wil be inducted into the gravity of the councilor court.”

“The Didact?”

“His duties have taken him elsewhere. You wil testify in his place.”

“Is that appropriate? I have not his presence and experience—”

“You saw what he saw, with respect to these proceedings. And you have his imprimatur.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Would anything at al be left of Bornstel ar when this was finished? Then I thought of the humans. Perhaps soon I would learn whether they were stil alive—but only if their fates mattered to these powerful Forerunners.

Unlikely.

The amphitheater quickly and quietly fil ed. No one spoke as the court arranged itself. From the center of the amphitheater rose the platform that would hold the six judges, surrounded by a circle of cyclopean monitors, and the lower rank of dark-armored Council security.

Among them, I was quick to note, were four Warrior-Servants—including Glory of a Far Dawn.

The platform ascended to a height of fifty meters, revealing heavily-armed, gleaming black sentinels circling its great lower pistons. I asked my ancil a whether such protection was traditional. “No,” she said. “Listen closely to the Didact’s wisdom.”

“Is the Librarian here?”

“She was not invited.”

“Is she with the Didact?”

“They have not seen each other for a thousand years.”

That was no answer, but I knew better than to ask what could not be known. Too many secrets, too much power, too much privilege—suddenly I felt that cold repugnance so familiar from my days as a Manipular, when I feared becoming such as these. When I feared being responsible.

The assistants and aides cleared the main amphitheater to find their places on the outer tiers. Soon enough I sat alone in my box—alone, but flanked by two monitors, their sensor eyes bright red. I wondered if al these monitors were essential to the proceedings.

“They are not,” my ancil a said resentful y. “I am ful y capable.” She then dimmed and shrank to the back of my thoughts, as if these armed artificial intel igences overwhelmed her with their presence and power.

I tried to stil al curiosity, al expectations, al concerns. Think nothing.

I failed.

The amphitheater remained quiet as a second platform shoved through a gate on the far side of the bowl. Here was the accused, presumably—the Master Builder himself, shrouded for the moment behind iridescent green curtains, preserving decorum if not al dignity. I actual y looked forward to witnessing the Master Builder’s discomfort when those curtains faded and pul ed away. Abject. Humbled.

The ceremonies of induction and oath were brief. A metarch-level monitor rose from the floor of the amphitheater, its single sensor sapphire blue. When it had ascended to a level with the platform supporting the Master Builder, stil concealed behind the curtain, it fixed in place, and a brief series of chiming notes spread outward in sweet, silvery waves.

The First Observer of the Court—the very councilor who had accompanied me from my family’s world—raised his arm. “The Council recognizes the authority of the Builder and Warrior Servant Corps of the Capital Court in the matter of multiple indictments against the Builder known as Faber, once entitled Master Builder. Al appointed makers of Law sit now in orderly and considerate judgment. Witnesses have been gathered. Be it noted that the accused has yet to formal y acknowledge the Council and these proceedings.”

A murmur of disapproval. Again, silence fel over the amphitheater. Then, from behind the green curtain, a much smal er monitor floated into its appointed place. It appeared older than any of the structures around us—older perhaps than the capital world itself, which would have made it more than twenty-five thousand years old. Its eye glowed a dul vegetal green. I had heard of this embodied ancil a, of course—al Forerunners had. Simply the thought that I was within range of that fabled sensor eye sent a ripple of cool expectation and reverence through my body.

This was the Warden, both prison-keeper and guardian of mercy, for every accused Forerunner expects that those who confine must also be those who wil in time defend and perhaps release. Such is the ancient law, which has as its foundation the Mantle itself.

The green curtain now drew aside. I was disappointed by the simple dignity of it al —no humbled, bowed figure, no chains, no chants of disapproval—but of course that last would have been unthinkable.

Faber stood within a confinement field, stil as a statue, only his eyes moving as he surveyed the amphitheater, the members of the Council—and his judges. The sleek gray and blue head with its fringe of white hair seemed little changed.

Adversity—such adversity as he had faced—had left him unbowed.

The Council in turn silently examined the subject of their proceedings.

Faber’s eyes continued their slow sweep, as if seeking someone in particular.

The steady gaze final y fixed on me. His recognition was obvious, though he did not move a muscle. He observed me for a moment from across the amphitheater, then turned aside to await the oath-taking of the panel of six judges.

Of the judges, two were Builders, one a Miner, one a Lifeworker—a male, the first Lifeworker I had seen since I was a child—and two were Warrior-Servants. These were arrayed in the armor of security.

Thus were al the rates represented, except for the Engineers, of course.

The Warden dissolved the field around the Master Builder—Faber, I corrected myself.

No need. He has lost none of his power.

The Council remained standing. The First Observer now lowered his arm and began to speak. “It has been the policy of some high Builders, including the previous Council, to carry out their plans without ful y informing al Forerunners. It is the policy of the new Council that no Forerunner shal remain ignorant of the peril we face, and have faced for three hundred years … of an assault from outside the boundaries of our galaxy, intruding through the outer reaches of the spiral arm which contains our glorious Orion cluster. Of the remedies that have been designed and deployed, and now are recal ed. Of the current strategic situation, and how that must change as we adapt to new threats. For the heart of any indictment against Faber must be that he sought power through deception, and manipulated the emotions of key Forerunners to push through a scheme in direct contravention to the Mantle itself.”

The Master Builder—for so my other memory insisted on stil thinking of him— returned his gaze to meet mine, and gave the merest nod, as if in invitation.

Soon, young Forerunner. He cannot carry out his plans without you.

The proceedings continued with a bone-dul ing litany of ritual observances and purifications. The various monitors were rotated around the court and formal y sworn in by the First Observer—absolutely unnecessary, I knew, since no ancil a had ever betrayed instructions or loyalty to Forerunners.

Hours seemed to pass.

At what I hoped was the end of this endless procedure, a smal murmur again rose from the Council seats. The armed monitors that had returned to their places beside me rotated as if seeking something.

Their sensors seemed to darken. Their motions slowed.

Then, as one, they al brightened and returned to normal. For a moment, nothing seemed amiss; al was as before. But final y I saw the anomaly attracting attention and comment from the councilors and judges.

A smal green point of light maneuvered until it hovered like some improbable firefly just beneath the display spheres. At first, I thought it must be part of the ritual, but no one else seemed to share that opinion.

Now the green point brightened, crossed the center of the amphitheater, and hovered before the Master Builder, who looked puzzled. Almost immediately, his eyes grew large in alarm and he raised his hands as if in defense, before he brought his body and expression back under control. Yet his eyes continued to fol ow the moving point. I wondered what could possibly cause the Master Builder such concern.

Our bastard child, his and mine.

The point intensified and expanded. I tried to access my ancil a to determine what it might be. She appeared, but locked in an awkward position, arms raised—frozen in an attitude of warning. Then she winked out completely, and my armor seized up.

It would not release me no matter how hard I struggled.

For the moment, there was nothing to do but stand like a statue.

The amphitheater was fil ed with councilors, judges, prosecutors—also frozen.

One by one, the monitors and al the sentinels and other security units began to waver, their sensors winking out. As one, they fel , striking the wal s and boxes, ricocheting, landing and rol ing on the floor, inert—helpless—dead.

In the center of the chamber, the bril iant green dot glowed steadily.

I could not turn away.

With a convulsive shiver, my armor began to move against my wil , turning me around. The door to the corridor behind the box opened. My armor took me through. Everything beyond was dark. It seemed as if al Council chambers were without power. For the next few minutes, I felt my limbs being marched through the black corridors. I sensed forward and sideways motion but saw nothing. On occasion I could determine the size of a space I was in by the echo of my feet.