Stories from the Sigmaverse/Graveyard

Author's Note: This story takes place as a result of the events of Imperium RP and as such contains spoilers for it. Users are heavily advised to read Imperium first before reading through this story.
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"What do you have to say for yourself, Rak Ultin?"
Sat atop an ancient stone chair, Tubek Mej scowled as he looked upon the cringing figure below him. The Yonhet had made no attempt to conceal his arrival, landing far too close to this hidden sanctuary with a cadre of Kig-Yar guardsmen in tow. That was only one offense of many.
"Noble Prelate," the obese Yonhet's voice shook as he spoke, bowing his head with such reverence that it almost touched the mosaic floor. "I did only what was within my power to accomplish. Had the Sangheili-"
"We know what the Sangheili did!" Tubek snapped. "Your failure to rein in the likes of 'Makhan is one thing, but to return to us with none of your promised treasures is a display of incompetence that we cannot ignore. Where is the Oracle? Where are the star maps from the Imperium's vaults?!"
Ultin swallowed heavily, his chins jiggling. Despite his tremendous size for a Yonhet, even he looked very small in the cavernous hall of sand and stone. 
"Taken," Ultin whimpered. "By humans."
This was an insult too far. Tubek leapt from his chair and snatched up his weapon - an old and powerful Wukrshuz-pattern particle rifle - and took aim. A single shot at this range would cut through the miserable creature below as though he were paper, but a soft coughing from behind the Prelate kept his finger off the trigger. 
"Calm, Tubek." A wheezy voice called from the shadows behind him. "Do not waste the moment."
Tubek lowered his weapon immediately as an ornate gravity throne emerged from the darkness, whirring softly as it joined the half-circle of chairs above the judgement chamber. Its occupant was an elderly San'Shyuum, white-haired, rheumy-eyed and smelling strongly of medicinal herbs. A golden crown, small but well-kept, sat atop his head. This was Tros Mej, once a High Lord and Minister of Recuperation.
"Father," Tubek spoke softly, edging towards the throne. "What more can we learn from this one? His bumbling has already cost us dearly."
"More than you might think," Tros whispered back. He then turned his attention towards Rak. "Can you hear me, Rak Ultin?"
"Yes, Minister!" Rak called up, lifting his gaze. 
"Do you know where we are?" Despite its croakiness, Tubek's words echoed easily across the empty chamber.
Rak nodded. "A Sangheili ruin, Minister. A temple, perhaps?"
"We stand within the House of the Fallen, where Sangheili warriors too sick or wounded came to die. This one dates back to the War of Beginnings, which started on this very world. Millions perished here, and though our ancestors purged this world with cleansing fire, this temple still remains. Do you know why?"
Rak's eyes had grown wide and wary as Tros continued to raise his voice. "No, minister."
Tros held up two fingers. "Respect! Secrecy! Even the Covenant's Hierarchs did not learn of this place until centuries passed, and that is because those who knew of this place took their secrets to the grave. Are our secrets safe, Ultin?" 
"Of course!" Rak began to push himself to his feet, his girth wobbling atop a pair of spindly legs. "None knew of my contacts, not even Toru 'Makhan! He assumed that I was merely his puppet after years of service, and that he would always be given the greatest share of treasures from my expeditions. I-"
The Yonhet paused, turning round as the sound of heavy footfalls reached him. A group of heavily-armed figures had entered the temple, taking slow, lumbering steps. 
"Ignore them," said Tubek, annoyed that Rak had dared to turn his attention away from his father. "The Lekgolo have their orders."
"Lekgolo?" Rak muttered, clearly confused, before continuing. "My apologies, Minister, but as I was saying, none were aware of our connection. Only the loyal Yonhet among my crew knew that I was trading Forerunner artefacts outside of the Imperium of Clarity, but not once have I compromised the safety of the Flotilla."
"Is that why you landed here with a group of Kig-Yar mercenaries?" Tubek jabbed a slender figure towards the temple's distant exit. "A race well-known for their duplicitousness!"
Having detected Rak's shuttlecraft on approach, Tubek had led his father's cadre of power-armoured Lekgolo out into the temple grounds to intercept them. His allies were a strange gestalt even by their race's standards, seen in the field about as often as Tubek and his fellow Prelates, but they had made short work of Rak's guards, sniping them from afar while he moved in to seize the Yonhet personally. The former smuggler had been one of his father's pawns since the Covenant's tumultuous final years, even while serving the Sangheili warlord Toru 'Makhan, and that fact alone had saved him from an immediate execution.
"I was desperate!" Rak looked from Turek to Tros in turn, wringing his hands as he pleaded with the San'Shyuum. "A bounty was placed on my head once I fled the Imperium, and every hunter from here to Sanghelios was after my head! Even the Kig-Yar I hired were only kept at bay by promises of rare artefacts."
Tros leaned foward in his chair, craning his long neck to peer down at Rak. "If that is true, then what do you bring to us, Ultin? I see no relics at hand, unless you have stuffed some into those robes of yours."
Rak bared his sharp teeth in a wide smile. "The information I possess is just as valuable."
"Go on." Tros growled. 
"While the Imperium's enemies seized most of 'Makhan's treasures during their sack of Iradu, including his Oracle, it was not the only one who could have lead 'Makhan to his greatest prize: a shield world."
Turek's eyes narrowed. "You did not mention this before." 
"I only have the mapping data," Rak explained. "Safe and secure aboard my ship. Once my safety is guaranteed, I will unlock it and we can continue our business as before."
Rak spread his arms wide, having made his offer. Tros leaned back in his chair, exhaled slowly, and after a moment's consideration glanced to Turek and tapped the arm of his chair twice. The Prelate brought his weapon to bear in a heartbeat and fired twice, ripping two holes through Rak Ultin's wide chest before the Yonhet could react. His mouth gaped open, letting out a long wheeze before his body fell foward onto the floor.
"Fool," Tros sneered. "Did he truly believe that he could hold Forerunner technology from us? We, who mastered the gifts they left behind?"
"Something he said concerned me," said Turek, taking his eyes off the bloated corpse. "If the humans seized the star maps and 'Makhan's Oracle, they may have already taken the shield world."
"They would have been fools not to." Tros raised a hand to his mouth to suppress another cough. "It may even work to our advantage."
Turek nodded. "And what of the Flotilla? Of Cloister? Should we establish contact with-?"
"No!" Tros raised a shaky hand to silence him. "They have made their choice, and I would not have you sacrificed to carry out their whims like your brothers were on High Charity. Gather the Lekgolo and have anything useful aboard Ultin's ship stripped and loaded onto our Shadows."
"We're leaving?" Turek asked, suddenly hesitant.
The elderly San'Shyuum bowed his head. "This graveyard world's usefulness has run its course, and we have no telling who Ultin may have lead here, be they bounty seekers or the Created. We will seek this shield world in time, and with it, an alliance."
Category:Sigmaverse Stories
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