[Recovered from fragmentary residual data originating from Shield World Requiem, found in the remains of UNSC AI CTN 0452-9 copied during debriefing of MCPO John-117, 26 July 2557]

The GALLIFREYANS

A bipedal, oxygen-breathing, sexually dimorphic species superficially resembling hamanush, but with several major internal differences: greater tolerance for heat and cold, decreased sensitivity to radiation, and radically reconstructive regenerative capability (similar both to Flood pure forms and Forerunner mutations – detailed further later in this file), as well as a stronger skeleton and redundant cardiovascular system. Originated on the planet G 453 d "Gallifrey", in the binary star system G 453, located in the Kasterborous cluster to the north of the galactic core.

The Gallifreyan ecumene consists of a single state governed by a leader known as the Pythia, supported by a strong monastic caste. The government is essentially a monarchy with strong theocratic elements, and succession to the post of Pythia is by the choice of the previous Pythia under advisement. By custom, the Pythia claims the ability to predict the future, and the post of Pythia has always been attended by a fairly strong strand of anti-scientific, luddist political views. Despite this, apparent strong technological progress in a previous era enshrines the Gallifreyans firmly in Technological Achievement Tier 2 – possibly a low Tier 1, by a liberal interpretation; comparable to our own.

The Gallifreyan ecumene is extensive and generally ruled with unbending harshness. Historical Pythias have demonstrated both the ability and inclination to commit genocide, having done so on at least one occasion (see the Historical Species Index entry for RACNOSS). Similarly extreme tactics and fanaticism may have allowed the Gallifreyans to successfully fight the Tier 1 Old One civilisation to a stalemate, according to fragmentary records recovered from remnant subject races – due to the Gallifreyans' own anti-scientific, anti-rationalist tradition, any internal archives on the subject are unreachable (although the semi-mythological war certainly provides fodder for Pythian propaganda efforts). Throughout the Gallifreyan ecumene, slave trading and institutional corruption are among the offences alleged by refugees recovered by Forerunner missions.

At press time, the Gallifreyan ecumene is experiencing a civil war between the Pythia and a radical movement known as the Neo-Technologists or, informally, the Time Lords. The Neo-Technologists are led by a Gallifreyan Builder-analogue using the name or alias "Rassilon", and espouse a staunchly rationalistic, pro-scientific worldview; however, a central element of their mythology includes the scientifically implausible proposition that the movement's leaders have devised a theoretically workable means of travelling through time (hence the sobriquet "Time Lords").

While the Neo-Technologists' principles are less inimical to our own than those of the Pythians, the Neo-Technologists, like the Pythians, display tendencies to imperialism, colonialism and outright savagery, and cannot be considered more promising candidates for alliance. In addition, when contacted for comment, Warrior-Servant leaders opined that the Neo-Technologist insurgency will most likely fail, as the Neo-Technologists currently only control the strategically insignificant Qqaba system and the weight of numbers is against them. A return to status quo is expected within the next century.

[…]

Final assessment of the Gallifreyan civilisation: Arrogant, dangerous and borderline unhinged. Avoid at all costs.

[Fragment from Encyclopaedia Gallifreya, first edition. Voluntary contribution by Unified Intelligence Taskforce Person of Interest 1963/AA23 "The Doctor", archived at Geneva 24 June 2015. Retrieved from deep archives 27 July 2557 by order of the UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence]

The GHIBALBANS ("Forerunners")

A bipedal, oxygen-breathing, sexually dimorphic species of vaguely Gallifreyan-like appearance, but with multiple major differences: significantly larger physical stature, lack of external olfactory or auditory protrusions, a near-biologically-enshrined reliance on omnipresent support systems of a technological nature, and frequent high-speed externally-induced physical mutation, with which the Ghibalban culture appears obsessed both as a pragmatic tool and as a masochistic rite of passage. Originated on the planet Ghibalb, located in the constellation of Orion, at coordinates 51-27-60-11:39 from galactic zero centre.

Ghibalban civilisation, such as it can be said to be, consists of a single state governed from Maethrillian, the habitat megastructure the Ghibalbans were forced to construct as a result of inadequate custodianship of their home system. The governing body of the Ghibalbans is known as the Ecumene Council, and consists of five hundred representatives from "mutation" groups representing the various standardised self-inflicted deformities which are the hallmark of Ghibalban society. The Council's responsibility extends to the whole of the "ecumene" – "ecumene" being a rather arrogantly-chosen word meaning "world", in the all-encompassing sense. The Council enforces its dominance through a technological war machine founded partly on what some commentators have described as scientific "prying", and partly through theft of artifacts from the disappeared extragalactic species which the Ghibalbans call the "Precursors". Thankfully, the Ghibalbans have not yet demonstrated any evidence of being time-aware in the fashion that we are.

Persistent Ghibalban expansionism has led to their acquisition of some three million planets, defined loosely as all those which are to some extent indoctrinated by Ghibalban culture. Such drive has not, however, come without a price – credible sources allege the Ghibalbans to have committed genocide against the Precursors, possibly in an overextended, twisted imitation of our own peacekeeping actions to corral lesser races. Throughout its several-million-year existence, the ecumene has also been shaken by dozens of civil wars, as well as taking further actions of brutal suppression against its enslaved species, such as the markedly Time Lord-like natives of the Ravolox system (no doubt as a political release valve for deviant culture-wide aggression).

The Ghibalbans have seen fit to use, for many years, the name "Forerunner" to refer to their civilisation. "Forerunner" is a reference to the fatalist central axiom of the Ghibalban culture – Ghibalbans believe that they are the caretakers of the galaxy for the present time, and that future, superior races will nonetheless build upon the legacy they create. Whether those superior races will proceed in the fashion the Ghibalbans believe is clearly highly debatable, but the Ghibalbans persist in using the name nonetheless.

As Time Lord civilisation grows and develops following the planned completion of the Intuitive Revelation, it is foreseeable that the Ecumene Council will offer misguided resistance to the evangelism of rightful Time Lord cultural hegemony. Considering the Ghibalbans' formidable (if unoriginal) technological base and their great numbers, sensible ministers should therefore in no wise invest in the Ghibalban ecumene, but rather maintain a policy of distance and justified militarisation to deal with their inevitable insurgency.

Final assessment of the Ghibalban civilisation: Arrogant, dangerous and borderline unhinged. Avoid at all costs.

I leaned back. "Run me through it again."

My ancilla flickered disdainfully. "Obsession is counterproductive."

"Run me through it again," I said coolly. "I have no interest in being blindsided by these primitives. That would not be productive."

"For the twenty-seventh time?" my ancilla queried. I offered no response.

After a hesitation, she began to speak once more. "Detail: the Neo-Technologists. Founded some years ago by the academic Rassilon, the Neo-Technologists are a radical popular movement of the planet Gallifrey. The Neo-Technologists seek to foment an event or state of mind known as the Intuitive Revelation …"

I let the words flow over me as I gazed out of the forward viewport. First Flower had come down out of slipspace barely minutes before, but the Neo-Technologist escort group was already within visual range, tiny dots effortlessly magnified as I looked at them. Bowships, they were called – vessels built around a single, immense cannon which fired great bolts of steel through the use of magnetic force. The name was by analogy to a primitive hand weapon. The simplistic, unornamented design seemed out of line with what I'd been told were the burgeoning cultural predispositions of the self-proclaimed Lords of Time – but if what I'd heard about the bowships was true, they hadn't had much choice.

Similarly, I presumsed, they did not have much choice now. Despite their primitive nature, I had been given a healthy appreciation for Gallifreyan firepower at the War College – even after our respective millennia of technological development, territorial barbarism and simmering anger could still be forces as significant as any other in levelling the playing field. Here, however, the playing field was not level. Despite their impressive-looking armament, our one ship could have gone toe to toe with their whole group and still have had a fair chance of winning.

Despite the Neo-Technologists' more pragmatic doctrine, there was no way to sugarcoat it: They were losing. Gone were the sophisticated war machines, the capital ships armed with impulse lasers and Parallel Cannons and military-grade N-forms. Their angrier brothers and sisters had hammered them back, back to here, Qqaba, a Population III star, in the Ao zone of the Veil Nebula, insignificant and devoid of tactical advantage.

We had been unsurprised to receive their heavily encrypted communique, a few months ago. Any port in a storm, after all. What had surprised us was the content. The Neo-Technologists had taken a departure from their usual triumphalist, isolationist line, and the message had been one of conciliation, promising a reformed Gallifrey, at peace with the Forerunners and offering terms of trade that seemed greatly to our advantage. Moreover, the message had precisely identified the few resources the ecumene still needed in quantity that Gallifrey was capable of supplying. Even for the Neo-Technologists, who we had known to be the more perceptive faction, it was surprisingly aware. More out of curiosity than anything else, we had sent a ship, and a small delegation: Builders, plus a group of Warrior-Servants as insurance.

I watched the dot in the distance with an unfamiliar feeling: excitement. I hadn't felt that in years. What the Neo-Technologists and their enigmatic leader promised, more than resources, was something new. In this galaxy, fledgling empires were a dime a dozen – but a Gallifrey lifted from a dark age of mysticism, reformed as a paradise of science and progress, could be … well, perhaps it would be too generous to call them a true partner to our ecumene, but they could, at the very least, be something pretty to look at – to be admired as one might admire a painting.

We swept down toward Apeiron Station's docking ring, the bowships in elegant formation around us. Despite the technological disparity, the Time Lord pilots were good, matching our every move – a little part of me wanted to know what they could have done with war sphinxes. Our pilot seemed to think the same – I sensed a fluctuation in the port reaction drive, and the ship rolled gracefully onto its back as it soared down through the dangerously tight gap between the docking ring and the station's spherical core. The disregard of safety protocol, by extension. meant a disregard for our hosts, a calculated assertion of dominance over lesser species – or the regulation universal disregard of other pilots, a friendly invitation to competition. The kind of thing we were supposed to be Above. I didn't mind it, and was impressed at how well the bowships continued to match us, their formation adjusting with precision to avoid the titanic connective struts.

We half-circuited the station's core, arcing under the south pole, before we came up and slowed, matching relative velocities with the station as we angled into an initiation pattern with the docking ring, on the far side from where we'd begun. It wasn't the dark side – from this angle, Qqaba blazed in the distance, its rays no doubt pointing up our clean, burnished hull. The light seemed, however, to barely touch the station – the core's armour was dark, nearly jet black, and reflected the light as only a faint smear that moved and danced, not quite there in the exotic material. From the wrong angle, Apeiron Station would have been visually invisible – not that that had meant much for either culture for at least a hundred thousand years, but a small, primal part of me could appreciate the impressive effect.

The ring was a silver band, easily twice as tall as First Flower – which, after all, was only a relatively small ship. The ring's edges were smoothed down, and its surface apparently solid – even as I watched, however, it acquired an aperture, perfectly glossed doors sliding back into chambers so artfully concealed that even as I watched the doors in operation, I was unable to detect the join. Behind them yawned a docking bay, a little cramped by Forerunner standards but quite capable of admitting our craft.

After a brief hesitation, the pilot brought us perfectly alongside, and began tentatively to fire our starboard reaction thrusters to slot us into the bay. The bowships dispersed, painting the skies with drive plasma as they pulled away at high-g acceleration. It wasn't hard to see why they felt safe doing so: from the ring, and from the flank of the core, exotic energy cannon peered out in their dozens. Only about twenty or so were focused on us – more than enough to atomise us. My professors' words echoed in my head once again. The Neo-Technologists might have been desperate, but they weren't foolish.

As the dark maw loomed ever closer, I roused myself. Perhaps it was claustrophobia, a recessive quirk of evolution expressed by chance in me, but I had never liked sitting idle during these last moments – and besides, I had business to which to attend.

The expedition met in the bay.

We had been hand-picked with care – that was to say, not too little care, but not too much care, either. Only as much care as the nameless high-level logistical ancillas which had planned the operation had considered necessary. Nonetheless, I thought we were a well-qualified group – although only well-qualified enough.

The actual crew of the ship was rather small, and almost all of my own Builder rate. Ambitious-in-Conception was the commander. He had served with Defence Operations for many years and I sensed that he considered this missionary diversion to a minor civilisation to be rather below him. Well – as I had thought for the majority of the mission – he would doubtless see a return to glory in the future. For the moment he would have to wait.

A complement of twenty Warrior-Servants had been assigned to the ship. They were led by a Promethean I knew by no name other than Observer. I had not spoken to him – indeed I had not had the opportunity even to see him with his face uncovered. It was my understanding that few aboard had. He could well have slept in his combat skin, omnipresent as it was. Despite this oddity, he cut an imposing and professional, if silent, figure. I had had occasion to hear that he was an efficient and uncompromising commander. Regardless of the objections I had filed with the metarchy prior to the occasion of our departure, concerning a Warrior-Servant presence on this mission, I could not deny that I felt a little safer.

Apart from the crew and the Warrior-Servants, there remained only my own group – seven Builders, all young and a little overly concerned with advancement, myself included. All nonetheless brilliant – my own inclusion in that category being, of course, subjective. We had been considered the Right People for this somewhat risky jaunt – not old and seasoned enough to be a flattering or subservient offering to the "Time Lords," yet knowledgeable enough to analyse, to understand, to steal anything of promise, and, perhaps, to innovate.

As our pilot carefully set us down, we were gathered in First Flower's ventral forum. My Builders were laughing and talking, and I regarded them with a fond eye, but remained silent. At a respectful distance, the Warrior-Servants stood in two columns, headed by the Observer, still, quiet and unobtrusive – that was to say, as unobtrusive as a pack of hulking, heavily armed, four-metre-tall Forerunners could be. At a further remove stood the crew who could be spared, gathered loosely around Ambitious, restless like us, but their conversation hushed and a little more sullen and even ornery in tone.

There was the sensation and transferred vibration of the landing legs tapping ever-so-gently against the floor as we settled, and a sudden quiet fell over the room. A moment later, an interface screen nearby blushed with the rose light signifying an incoming hail. Ambitious gave me a dark look and stepped forward, into the teardrop-shaped reception zone in the middle of the room. The makeshift system had been constructed to communicate with the Neo-Technologists' entirely alien architecture – another bone of contention.

The hail was blunt to the point of being rude. The voice was heavily modified and bass boosted. "Who comes?" They didn't have to be polite – we knew the hail was coming from within the station, and they knew we knew that, and they also knew we knew they had us pinned. Two could play at the game of dominance.

Ambitious cleared his throat. "A delegation from the ecumene," he said, rather imperiously. "As we discussed during our exchange of communiques–"

"'We' discussed nothing," the Time Lord operator said icily. "How many are you?"

Ambitious bridled. "Forty-two," he snapped. "Twenty-one Warrior-Servants, seven Builders and my crew. What else do you wish to know?" There was a slight shifting in the Warrior-Servant ranks, but nothing further. The Observer remained impassive.

There was a pause. "The Forerunners promised us engineers. Which are they? I shall speak with them."

"Naturally," Ambitious said curtly. He stepped out of the reception zone, and gestured me forward with elaborate politeness.

I felt the weight of the occasion. Something tightened in my abdomen as I stepped into the reception zone, staring into the blush, knowing that the anonymous Gallifreyan could see me even if I could not see them. I took solace in my personal armour, enmeshed as it was with a Class Two combat skin – not enough to grant me real protection against any attack stronger than a child throwing rocks, but enough to preserve my anonymity and privacy.

"Well?" the voice came after a moment. "Identify yourself."

"I am Cornerstone-of-Endeavour, and a Builder," I said. It came out rather too bleating. With an effort, I steadied myself and continued. "I speak for the Builders of this vessel." There was a cold silence. Going out on a limb, I ventured, "We are in satisfaction of the obligations of our rate to your faction, as discussed. The brightest engineers of the Capital–"

"Understood," the Gallifreyan cut me off. "So, I suppose, a group of untried youths of entirely academic extraction. Hardly a satisfying –" Suddenly, however, his monologue ceased. Something occurred in the background which I could not decipher, grated and ground into indecipherability by the filter, but when the operator returned it was with a tone of considerable restraint.

"It is ordained that you be granted entry to the Intimate. Your delegation will come unarmed. Assemble outside your ship and await the signal." Without waiting for a reply, the hail cut off.

"Well," I said, attempting to lighten the tone, "he was certainly a ray of sunshine."

Oddly enough, Ambitious' mood seemed to have lightened without my assistance. Perhaps it had been the satisfaction of the phrase 'untried youths of entirely academic extraction'. "The sooner we begin, the sooner we can end," he grunted. "Come. Ensure your armour is sealed. The bay is as yet mostly unpressurised. Your group would be a dear loss," he added with the faintest touch of irony.

"Thank you," I replied, with perhaps more asperity than I had intended.

The walk was a short one. We passed down onto the bay floor. The bay would have been too dark for sight unaided, but it was featureless even to our enhanced vision. It was simplistic and spartan – there were no armatures, support structures or cranes within the bay. It was essentially just a hole that could be filled with air. More worryingly, however, it appeared to be possessed of no further holes; admittedly, we were at some range from the inner wall, but I could ascertain no hatches that might lead into the station's core. Perhaps they were concealed in the same way as the main doors.

The Observer and his Warrior-Servants trooped out after us, overshadowing us. They were carrying their Z-250 rifles, but after a moment, they put them on their backs. They had, after all, been ordered to disarm. Not that it mattered – from what I'd seen of Gallifreyans, I suspected that, as impressive as they might be on the inside, a Promethean could still rip one limb from limb with his bare hands. Admittedly, he might have to do it twelve times, but that was really the chance you took.

The wall remained resolutely without a hole. There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Well," Ambitious said over the communications band, for he had not joined us, "should you find this unstimulating, the ecumene will welcome you back at your pleasure."

He was interrupted, however, by a titanic thud that shook the bay. There was a strange kind of wheezing, groaning sound, like a spent Slipspace flake being scraped along a steel thread. If I had had hackles, they would have risen. Even the silent Warrior-Servants appeared a tad ruffled, some having put out their hands to steady themselves.

We were all looking around for the source of the disturbance, when suddenly a rich and deep voice boomed "Hail!" and the bay flooded with light –