Eleven: The Treaty

"Okay, something is seriously wrong with the Ur-Didact."

The Forerunners who had returned from their magical extra-galactic adventures had been quickly brought up to speed on everything they had missed. The leaders of the ecumene had decided that the time was ripe for another attempt at a peaceful meeting between humans and Forerunners (with the Infected there to mediate any disagreements, of course). Representatives from all governments directly or indirectly involved met up on the glassed world of Eridanus II, the birthplace of the Chief and his half-brother, to discuss the possibility of a formal treaty before the Galactic Council forced the matter.

"What makes you say that?"

"Because he hates humanity. He's notorious for it. The Bornstellar Didact is more ambivalent – that's why he's heading up the negotiations and not his higher-ranked mutation mentor." John eyed the Promethean suspiciously from his place in the crowd of Infected. The Flood nation was serving as a physical barrier between the "bodyguards" from both sides, to make it that much harder for them to kill one another if things went south. "Either he's plotting something," he continued, "and this is part of it, or he's a few teacups short of a full set right now. I wonder if the twins put something in his food again?"

'It wasn't us this time!'

[Don't drug the soup, then. We're having clam chowder for dinner.]

'So the crackers are fair game?'

The Chief snorted and shook his head. He sensed a few of the Spartans smile, just a little, behind their visors. The rogue had arranged for modified receivers to be integrated into their Forerunner armor, so they could "hear" the Infected speaking mind-to-mind and contact them if necessary. That didn't stop them from "hearing" the day-to-day stuff, too.

"'Again?'" asked Fred over their TEAMCOM, "They've done this before?"

'We said it wasn't us this time!'

"Once," was the response, "to test his resilience to sodium pentathol, aka 'truth serum.'"

"And?"

"He sang like a songbird."

'Did you know that the sounds of nature – birds chirping, crickets singing, and the like – are the sounds of animals desperately trying to get laid?'

John rolled his eyes this time, but let them have their fun. They weren't being truly disruptive, so there was no reason to stop them. With the exception of their time on-station for the Halo Campaign and constant guard around Earth, the Infected had spent most of their time as "runners" – ferrying supplies and people between allied worlds. Their ships had been specifically designed to be both heavily armed and fast, so that they could respond virtually instantly to Flood assaults – and form the fastest transportation network in the galaxy. They also bought and sold information; like AI, Graveminds lived and breathed on new intel, and the Chief was no different. Their instinctive desire to :know all be all: provoked some interesting theories about the Flood's origins and spawned some of the best intrusion/counterintrusion minds and software in the galaxy, the latter of which had been lovingly grafted onto all of the FoS ancilla and Cortana.

Long story short, they were used to keeping busy, much like the Spartans. And now they were bored. They were half-hoping the Insurrectionists from Eridanus Secundus would try something just to spite the UNSC or the P'Vort would make a strike to take out the leaders of both sides, despite the fact that there were seventy-five Spartans, a small army of marines, an armada of Flood, and several divisions' worth of Warrior-Servants on hand to prevent just such assaults.

Said fighting forces were running patrols all over the planet, though most of them were actually guarding the negotiation site in the former capital. John and the Infected had used the opportunity to introduce the Spartans and Warrior-Servants, as well as the Arbiter, who was there as a representative for the fledgling Sangheili government.

"So long as the Didact stays on whatever he's on, there shouldn't be any outbreaks of fighting. It's not like we're negotiating with the Jiralhanae."

"I could not imagine…" Kelly muttered as she jogged back in from her patrol. She had gone out with Ursoen, his wife Thenma, and an uninfected Warrior-Servant by the name of Elen Heru, "Star Master."

[Just thinking about it is giving me a headache – no offense, Acacius.] John broke away from the main group to start his patrol, pinging the warriors he wanted to come with him.

"None taken, Commander."

"…Was that a Brute?" Linda demanded over the channel.

[Maybe.]

Silence. Then, "What did you do?!"

[There have been a shitton of orphans on both sides of the Human-Covenant War and the Schism, so we've kind of adopted a lot of them. Mostly human and Sangheili children, but there are a handful of Unggoy, a few Kig-Yar chicks, and Acacius and his brother Ianus.]

"Pleasure to meet you."

[We were not intentionally keeping them from you. And don't give us that look. We haven't gotten to the part where we start taking them in in the history lesson. We've adopted and raised orphans from every major species that we're in contact with, including some Manipulars from after the Forerunner-Flood War. And no, it wasn't my idea.]

"…So how many kids are we talking?"

[Not that many. A few hundred?]

'Two hundred and thirty-three at the moment.'

[Thank you, Nep'Thalia.] A moment of quiet. [I said don't give us that look!]

"Yes, Commander."

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"One more thing, Hood-cáno, if you have a moment."

The Admiral paused his return to his Pelican to allow the Bornstellar Didact to step up next to him. The preliminary negotiations had closed successfully, so both sides were taking a recess before getting into the nitty gritty stuff later. "I have several," he said to the Forerunner, "What can I help you with?"

"What does the UNSC intend to do about Lady Cortana?" the Warrior-Servant asked him, shifting aside to allow a diplomat to pass, who nodded her thanks.

The moment the Didact finished speaking, Hood became acutely aware of the attention the loaded question had drawn. The nearby Infected were watching them both closely, waiting for an answer. He was going to have to speak veeeeery carefully, lest he inadvertently anger them. "Personally," he said slowly, feeling out every sentence in his head before he voiced it, "I am entirely willing to turn her completely over to the Fleet of Shadows. She came from the – er, 'Origin' – and to the Origin she should return. In addition, the presence of the Supreme Commander seems to be a stabilizing influence on her. However, I worry that the rest of the High Command might not be so open."

Isrillis, one of the FoS squad leaders, tilted his head, eyes sliding out of focus as he listened to something they could not hear. Then he stepped forward. "Would the UNSC HIGHCOM be willing to trade for her?"

"'Trade?'"

"An AI for an AI," the infected Warrior-Servant clarified, "Lady Cortana for one of our ancilla."

"I'll discuss the possibility with them."

Isrillis nodded and stepped back amongst the other Flood. Hood mentally sighed in relief.

'Now if only we could con everyone like that…'

[Don't even think about it.]

'Commander, the hooligan children want their bedtime story.'

[I'll be there in a minute.] He watched the FireRain grow larger outside the window of the Forerunner dropship.

"Commander!"

Whunk.

There was nothing quite like getting tackled by children to forever strip someone of masculinity and superiority. The moment the Spartan stepped off his transport and back onto the deck of the FireRain, a wave of children swarmed him and pulled him off his feet in a very Flood-like manner.

"(Commander!)" snapped young Ruka 'Saros in her native tongue, "(You promised you'd be the one to tell us a bedtime story!)"

"Yeah!" Ruka's best friend popped up next to her. John could only see Carlos in his peripheral vision because Ruka was all up in his face.

[Oh, woe is me. Gone are the days when the mere mention of me was enough to strike fear into the hearts of men and aliens alike.]

'Poor Commander's ego,' sneered his sarcastic 2IC, 'Want me to kiss it, make it better?'

[Do NOT make me come over there.]

'Bornstellar would like to speak with you when you've got a moment.'

[…way to change the subject.] John pushed himself to his feet. The gaggle of children flowed off of him, though Ruka and Carlos still hung on to his shoulders. [What does he want?]

'The ecumene has a gift for us, apparently. Payment for helping them bust that smuggling ring that was causing the Galactic Council so much trouble a thousand years ago.'

[I remember those pricks. So what are we getting?]

'We don't know yet. It's a closed system; we can't get access to it. But whatever it is, it's big.'

[Huh. Well, thanks for the inspiration in any case. I don't think the younglings have heard that story.] John opened the lock to one of the oxygen gardens and led the children to an open patch of grass across a short bridge. A few of the Mav'Alt had "planted" themselves nearby to "eat" – that is, turn water and excess carbon dioxide into oxygen for the rest of the Fleet and sugar for themselves. [Shusha, you look like the Sudowoodo sprite animation from the Pokémon games.]

The Mav'Alt rustled its leaves, their people's equivalent of a snicker, and continued wiggling back and forth.

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"Cortana."

The AI looked up from her console. John stood before her with another Forerunner, keen eyes assessing her emotional state. She felt a surge of anger – 'I'm not a child that needs constant supervision!' – superiority – 'They are right to fear me! I could seize control of their ships and kill them with but a thought! – and sorrow – 'They're right to tread carefully around me; I'm not safe.'

The Spartan's spiderweb of emotional restraint coding strangled the feelings before they could be acted on, instilling a feeling of calm in her systems. "Yes?" she asked.

"Do you want to become organic?" he questioned, straight to the point.

For a beat, she didn't know what to say. Become organic? Flesh and blood? How would they go about that? She had thought about clones before, but then she wouldn't be able to interface with electronic systems as she had before. She would be a liability until she adjusted to a biological form, helpless until she learned to defend herself.

But on the other hand, the technological frame she had now was still limited in its senses. She could see and hear and move of her own will, interact with her environment, but she couldn't truly smell or taste or even touch. Her systems automatically pinged the Infected for sensor ghosts and fed them into her processors. No matter how real, they weren't her own sensations – they had been filtered through someone else's perception first and frayed by time.

John was patiently waiting for her answer.

"How," she asked hesitantly, "how would it be done, if I said yes?"

"We – that is, the Flood – can interface directly with various forms of machinery, as you discovered during your tenure with the Gravemind." Both of them flinched subtly at the reminder, then moved on. "Even the Forerunners still aren't entirely sure how we do this – they think it's a variation on telepathy, but it's like the brain: we don't know exactly how it works, just that it does.

"But you are a resident of the systems we interact with, so it's possible for us to :pull: you into our flesh and give you your own 'combat form-'" He made air quotes. "-to animate. We've been doing some experimenting with Fenix. Since it's been working, we've decided to put the offer to the other smart AI of the Fleet."

She caught on quickly. "And because you can pull me in, it makes sense that I could jump back out if I had to."

"Exactly." John gestured for the Forerunner with him to step forward. Cortana realized with a burst of shock that it was Fenix, the Fleet's gruff primary battle ancilla. Her sensors had registered a biological rather than technological form, so she hadn't recognized him right away.

False tears stung her eyes, the prickling fed to her from Venera's memory. 'So close… So close!' "Y-you…" She paused, swallowed the lump in her throat (Harena). "You haven't had any problems?" she asked the other AI.

"None yet," he rumbled, "though it is a little overwhelming at first."

She nodded in understanding. "Okay. I'll do it."

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Being inside the Chief's armor and interfacing with his mind was one thing. Being inside his mind and interfacing with his armor was another thing entirely. There was so much more information available to her, along with the background murmurs of his Infected. Most of her processors were focused on the data she was receiving from his senses.

It was so different and yet entirely the same as being in the synth body the Fleet had constructed for her. Everything was so much more vivid and immediate and :real:, though at the expense of precision. The AI could feel the vibrations of the ship's engines through the Spartan's feet, but she couldn't calculate how fast they were moving in orbit (though she could easily ping the ship itself to find out). She could feel the faint increase in pressure from the Spartan's armor as he inhaled, taste and smell the Fleet. For all that they were undead parasites, the Infected actually had a somewhat pleasant smell.

'Can I be a little taller this time?' she asked, ravenously devouring the information he was feeding her. He was shaping her organic form before their eyes. Though crude and hideous to watch, the formation of a personalized combat form was fascinating. The Spartan had gathered all manner of other Flood forms and masses and was tearing them apart and piecing them together to achieve the desired shape.

[If that's what you want,] John replied, pausing to shake bloody muscle tissue off his hand before reaching for a still somewhat muscled spinal cord, [How much taller?]

'I would like to be 5'10", 1.78 meters. That is the average height for a woman now.'

[Certainly.] He waved one of the combat forms away and grabbed another, yanking a leg out of its socket. [Any other requests?]

'Bigger cup size?' The Commander stopped what he was doing. The AI got the impression that he had turned to stare at her. 'What?'

[… nothing larger than an 80E on the international standard, okay? Any bigger, and they'll interfere with your ability to adequately defend yourself when we come under attack. And lord knows with what we've got planned and what's coming our way anyway, everyone's going to be seeing action.]

'That's fine. I was just messing with you.' She giggled when he let out an exasperated "fff" noise. 'But thank you for worrying about me.'

[I always worry for you, melda.]

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"I do believe that is everything we came to negotiate on." Bornstellar slid up out of his seat. "We can declare this the formal end of negotiations, unless someone else has something to add…?"

"I do," said one of the representatives of the mostly-defunct UEG, "What of the Insurrectionists? What is their status with regards to the treaty?"

The Forerunner thought for a moment. "Perhaps we should simply attribute the actions to the black sheep themselves, rather than their parent species." Bornstellar shot a glance at the Ur-Didact, who was still staring off into space. "It certainly seems to have worked well enough for us."

John leaned on his palm, eyes narrowed but lips twitching up into a half smirk. "So you're the one who drugged him."

The Forerunner drew himself into a stately pose. "Perhaps," he said simply.

'We TOLD you it wasn't us!'

[And now I believe you.]

Hood and Bornstellar bowed to one another, signaling the formal close of the treaty. The finalized contracts would be written up and signed at a later date. John pushed off of the table and jogged after the Forerunner and his entourage, one of whom was leading the stoned Ur-Didact by the hand. "What about the Galactic Council?"

The Iso-Didact shot him a raised optic ridge as he fell in next to him. "What about it?"

"All member species are required to declare treaties to the Board," he said, "Lucky for you, two of us are already here, but the others will want to know. And with that comes a whole slew of paperwork." He scowled darkly.

"Why haven't you declared one, then?"

"Don't have one yet." John smirked cheekily, and dodged a cuff from the Forerunner. "We simply have an unwritten ceasefire." Then he frowned again. "Humanity isn't ready to be introduced to the rest of the galaxy yet. The Sangheili, either. They both have only just begun to recover from the war, so any foreign markets intruding could cause their already-fragile governments to crash when home production does. There's still a lot of bad blood between them, too." Their gazes met. "How long do you think we can afford to give the other Board members the runaround before they issue an official sanction?"

The Forerunners put their heads together. "Not long enough," was the final consensus, "We were forced to declare our return to our holdings. The history between our peoples isn't exactly a secret, so someone's eventually going to push for full reconciliation. When they discover that a treaty's already in place and we didn't tell anyone…"

Another imperious frown. "Can we get it sealed?"

"Even together, the two of us don't have that kind of power. We'd need at least three other members."

"The Gultanr would help, and maybe the Adonte, but the others…" He clenched a fist. Then the Spartan blinked, eyebrows sliding up, before his expression morphed into one of amusement and secretiveness. "But we don't have to do it legally… What's the point of having the best intrusion software in the galaxy if you don't use it?"

'At last, a challenge!' Venera crowed.

'Inserting treaty records and concealing them until it's safe to reveal them and open trade – sounds like fun,' followed her twin, 'Lady Cortana, would you like to do the honors?'

'It would be my pleasure.'