There was still tape stuck to Nihlusâs nose. Even then, the lines were unbalanced.
Disregarding all else, symmetry is the most important element for traditional insignia.
The light in the cockpit was too dim. It must be the light; Saren hoped it was the light, casting the shadow of a crooked smirk on Nihlusâs otherwise handsome features.
Do not apply more than two coats to the same area. Covering the designated area in a single stroke is optimal in practice.
The stripes over his cheekbones were too thin, but he dared not paint over them a third time. They would become thick and matte, like the ruined pattern over his left ear. A stifling coat that ill suited the texture of his youthful, scarless plates.Â
Saren leaned back and crossed his arms, inspecting his handiwork.Â
âItâs the best I could do,â he admitted after a pause.
Nihlus grinned. âPaint me surprised, Saren. Didnât know you had the theory, if not the practice.â
Saren flicked a mandible. âThe theory was taught. At least on Palaven.â
âNow I just have to hope you didnât really paint arches on my brows,â Nihlus chattered, blissfully ignorant of the state of his colours. âDoesnât matter if you did, though. At least itâd set me apart from the Councillor. You wouldnât believe how often I get called by that title, walking around the Presidium under broad daylight. Youâd think they wouldâve learned by now, a millennium after first contact, but I still canât wear a blue shirt without being accosted by at least three times more reporters than normal.â
âOnly an alien would make that mistake.â
âYes, but a turian could assume I --â he gestured around his face, as if to smear the pattern into an amorphous mass â-- represent any of this. But theyâd be wrong. These colours have always been my own. And today, mine with your help.â
Saren tucked his chin into his folded hands. The leftover paint was drying in the well. He should wash it. And the brush.
âI know you get different sorts of trouble,â Nihlus added pensively. âMaybe itâs worse.â
He lifted his eyes. âHm?â
âThey mention it often, how similar you look.â
He should wash the brush before they both forget, and it dries out overnight. A replacement would be several days away, and Nihlus would want touch-ups of his own in the interim. If not tonight, then certainly in the morning.
âA factual statement.â
âYou donât mind the comparison?â
He picked up the slender brush and dragged it over his fingertip, leaving an uneven trail across pale skin. It stung. It would sting less on the thick plates of his face, but he had never experimented, never worn such a disguise, never unsealed that bottle in the back of his box of keepsakes. There could be no comparison. Saren was only a Spectre.Â
âI donât mind,â he replied. âIt means he is remembered.â
Nihlusâs body flopped into the navigatorâs seat. Nihlusâs mind was still in the corridor; checking the VIâs notice board, turning down the lightstrips, salivating at the smell of lightly-burnt rations wafting from the miniature oven. Must have set it for a few minutes too many. Damn colonial models. Seemed like everyone out there ate their food raw, their kitchens all automated and sterile, like medical labs. No feral varren to fight you for your share on your way back to the hab, no need for fires to scorch away the dirt. Just as well. Heâd never fancied the taste of ash.
The screens in the cockpit flickered like the flames in his memory, but without warmth. That came courtesy of the vents on the ceiling, roaring in overtime. A yellow ribbon fluttered in the stream. The thermochromic fabric had turned white at the knot, his favourite litmus test for the temperature of home. A pleasant 310K, long attached to a bill he couldnât afford. He put his feet up on the console. And now? Whoâs got the last hearth now?
A syringe fell beneath his chair. He picked it up. It was capped in red plastic.Â
âHey,â he said, âcatch.âÂ
Saren caught it without looking, and tucked it away in a pocket.
Nihlus leaned back into the cushioning. âHowâd she treat you? Good? Put her through her paces against the Zero Regrets? Iâm gonna dock at the Citadel in a few days. If thereâs a single scratch on her, youâd best be having some regrets, then. Expensive ones.â
âShe performed admirably. As was expected of a seventh-generation Venthalus-class.â Saren took the syringe out again and rolled it between his fingers. His hands were steady, Nihlus noted. The self-correcting paths of the diverted comsats rippled across his silver fringe. âEven one whose torpedo bays havenât been inspected in--â
âCome on,â Nihlus chuckled.
Saren turned around, pinning him with an icy glare. âYou should keep yourself in better shape, at least.â
âWhat?â
Briefly, Sarenâs eyes flicked to his brow. Painted a damning line down his chin. Nihlus traced the path with his own palm, warm and damp from the shower, and unsteady from the stims. Didnât know if it was a blessing or a curse to have no tolerance for that stuff. Probably a blessing. Helped him stay sharp. And besides, nanobots inside his bloodstream sounded like an awful, awful idea, especially after the last forty hours.
âI will,â Nihlus replied. âOnce, you know.â His talons clicked against his cheekbone, providing involuntary punctuation.
Saren sighed. Nihlus splayed his mandibles, and added: âWhy donât you help me?â
The syringe stopped spinning. The label was stuck warning-side up, framed by long fingers in a white glove. Not to exceed 2 doses in a 20-hour timeframe.
Saren looked at him then; really looked at him, the intensity of his gaze betraying all the admonishments heâd tossed aside: shouldnât have helped the rescue crew, didnât need you for triage, the fires will burn out on their own. Nihlus knew them like the insides of the torpedo bays, which didnât fucking need an inspection every three weeks. Really. He smirked. Three weeks! If only. What heâd give to see him every three weeks! Heâd give his ship and his stash and -- and more, to see him, to be with him, to hear him say --
âMay I?â Sarenâs hands were still steady but his subharmonics trembled like paper, like the little yellow ribbon tied to the air vent.Â
Which was fine, because he didnât need his voice to paint Nihlusâs face.Â
Nihlus shrugged with one shoulder. âThatâs what Iâm asking, yeah.â
Saren stumbled gracefully out of his seat, casting a looming shadow in the tiny room. Nihlus narrowed his eyes. Stumbled gracefully, ha. What a paradox. Heâs about the only turian Nihlus knew who could move like that, even after exceeding recommended doses several times over. Each step is a drumbeat, thunder trapped in a bottle. Saren crouched beside his armrest and laid a hand on his shoulder.Â
âIs it? You donât use stencils.â
âAnd youâve never done this before.â Nihlus smiled. âJust a lucky guess.â
Saren pressed his cheek against his own. Both their faces were burning hot.Â
Nihlus paused at the foot of the stairs and waved the plastic tube. âIâm looking for a replacement water filter. The small ones, for the tap.â
âTheyâre on the third row.â Sarenâs eyes narrowed as Nihlus padded his way across the vehicle bay. âUse a ladder.â
There were perfectly sturdy crates lined up in the bottom row. But still, the ladders were just a few steps away from the workbench, and it gave him an excuse to peer over Sarenâs shoulder. Saren was poking at something small, and the panels overhead were set to maximum brightness. Maybe heâd picked up that targeting system from Ilium after all.
Nihlus spotted the cushioned case, hidden behind a tri-tiered toolbox. Wasnât the targeting system. He whistled.Â
âSo thatâs the new pair. How do they fit?â
Saren set the pointed steel tweezers aside. He picked up a can of DFE and tossed it lightly, testing its weight. âNeed some adjustments. Get me another can, Nihlus. Second row, fifth bin from the left.â
Aside from the tweezers, there were an assortment of screwdrivers and little flat knives resting in the gullies surrounding the antistatic mat. Nihlus stopped by the far end of the bench and leaned over, studying the amps. They were unblemished. Newer than others heâd seen, including the ones Saren kept in the red box, but that was all he could tell. There were two smooth bumps, or contact nodes, at the end of each amp; the rest of the metal was matte, including the familiar latches that would adhere to the waterproof seals. The metal was faintly teal in colour. He wanted to turn them over, but Sarenâs eyes flashed a bright warning in the fluorescent light.Â
âEver since you showed me that Deccretion Disk, Iâve been reading about biotics,â he said, retracting his hand. He crossed his legs under the table, putting a bit more weight on his folded arms. Nice and casual. I mean confident. Ah, fuck it. Left mandible twitching, he studied Sarenâs expression. It was blank, but strained. Not in a bad way.Â
âHave you,â Saren muttered.
âYeah. The asari are the experts when it comes to making amps -- big surprise there -- but I read itâs specifically the Serrice Council thatâs considered the industry leader. Has been for three centuries. The Armali Council and the Zhirian Collective are the runner-ups. Theyâve got products for practically all races, but they arenât cheap, and theyâre choosy about their clients.â He skewed his brows. âBet Spectre privileges come in handy there.â
âThey might.â Saren was distracted, untangling the wires on a voltmeter. Weird. Nihlus swore heâd folded those properly when heâd put it away a couple of days ago.Â
âIâll wager the salarians must be close behind, even though they havenât gone public with any of their work. The krogan are the best evidence. Models developed for krogan shock troops back during the Rachni Wars are still in use in the hinterlands, so imagine what theyâre doing for their own operatives back home. Gotta give the asari a run for their money.
âAnd the Hierarchy⊠The Hierarchy isnât the most transparent about this. Even less than the salarians, if you can imagine. But I do know that Armax has a basic line, probably a separate experimental one, too, thatâs limited to troops on active duty. Osanus Group and Lantiirix Medical partner with the Cabals. Must be a few other state-owned companies out there who want to keep a low profile. Would you happen to know them?â
Saren gave a noncommittal harrumph. âHave you seen the rubber ties for these?â
âTheyâre grey, right?â Nihlus rubbed the back of his head. Play it cool. âSame as the bench. And most of the floor. Look,â he added quickly, ducking out of the way of a metaphorical bullet, âjust tie the ends around the whole bunch. No fiddling with the tiny-ass button, saves massâŠâ
Clank.Â
The gas-duster can was set before him. He picked it up, stuffed it inside the dirty water filter, and sighed. âIâll get you another. I wanted to see what make your amp was, all right? But itâs none of the ones I know. Definitely not asari.â
âYou can tell?â Saren asked, sounding genuinely curious.
âYeah. Iâve flipped through a lot of catalogues recently. Iâm not surprised, really. Every mercenary I know swears by their personal supplier, usually some license-less fixer out in the Traverse running their business out of a freighter. I heard thereâre a lot of geniuses out there, and just as many crooks. Still, thatâs how they like it.â He glanced at Sarenâs amps again, then at his face. Their eyes did not meet. âNot that Iâm suggesting yours are illicit, butâŠâ
âSpectre privileges can extend to many areas.â
âBasically.â
âWere these mercenaries turian?â
âNo -- mostly. First biotics I remember seeing were a pair of asari maidens, waiting outside the door while my dad grabbed an omni and a drink from our prefab. I was six, I think. I never spoke with them, but my dad talked about them a lot after the job was done. It was a hit on a sand shipment; the competition wanted their own people on the squad. He complained about âthe xenosâ taking a big cut of the payout, but still praised them for ânice supportive waistsâ.â Nihus shook his head. âBack then, I didnât even know what that meant.
âBut Iâve met a turian, just the one. At a bar on Invictus, in fact. He said he used to be in the Cabals, but he quit as soon as his service was up. I didnât know mandatory service lasted six years longer for biotics. No waivers. Considering everything, it seems unfair.â
Saren was looking at him. Nihlus scrutinised the inscrutable. Not anger, definitely not anger. Exhaustion?
âThe Cabals are the only branch where soldiers are admitted by birth, not by merit,â Saren said at last. He nudged the twin leads with the back of his hand, pushing them parallel to one another.
His tone was strange. Mechanical, yet unsteady somehow. Familiar, like an echo of Nihlus himself. Nihlus stood up, arms folded, legs straight, and loudly cleared his throat. âPardon me, sir, but thatâs a load of crap.âÂ
There was another long pause. Nihlus didnât so much as shuffle his feet.
âThe reason I ran the cycle five times, Nihlus, is because that is the minimum number mandated by the revised Biodiversity Conservation Act to eliminate all contaminants. Zurael-2 is a garden world under the observation of the United Institute of Exoscience Studies, and they are very sensitive when it comes toâŠâ
Nihlus subtly dialled down the volume, stretched, and yawned. The inside of his helmet fogged up briefly, to be replaced by an overlay showing the optimal path to their destination. Damn, quite the steep climb.
He shouldered his pack, pulling the straps tight around his cowl, and checked behind him one last time. His ship was hidden beneath a giant sheet of camo-cloth. Careful observers would never be fooled; even without the ragged holes, the cloth was only a pale imitation of the surrounding alien landscape, so bright and beautiful it made him want to burst into song. He was panting from creatively tying the cloth around every fin and strut of the excessively angular vessel, but one look at the rosy skyline reinvigorated him, filled his chest with awe, and massively improved the quality of his recycled oxygen.
The grass in the valley below was orange; in the setting suns, it transformed into a sea of fire that extended to the horizon. When the wind rustled through the broad valley, streaks of cyan materialised in that sea like gentle waves; evidently, the hidden stalks were that brilliant blue. The mountains ahead started off gently, but soon rose into vertical ochre cliffs, almost three hundred metres in height, topped by ring-shaped formations that stuck out over the edge. The sculpted remnants of some undersea eruption, maybe? Or erosion around meteorite cores? He scratched the gravel with his hiking staff, wondering if heâd stumble upon any clues.
âItâs been two centuries since its discovery, with remarkably few incidents of this nature,â Saren said as he passed by. Nihlus felt the scrutinising glare, and shrugged it off like dust.
There were grasses growing here, as well, though their leaves were broader, smaller. Little clusters of stout red plants, strongly reminiscent of Northern Palavenian night-flowers, sprouted in perfect rings. A stubby, brownish-grey plant with white blooms spilled out from the cracks of boulders. Every five metres or so, there was a tuft of pearly stalks, each bearing an iridescent ball, rising from the earth. They bumped against one another in the breeze, producing a sound like that of windchimes.Â
Nihlus knelt by one such clump. Each ball was the size of an old-school gambling chip. They were covered in a mesmerising array of tiny scales, hard to the touch, and topped by a reflective, gelatin-like bead. The stalks were surprisingly tough; he had to saw through them with his combat talons. He raised his little bouquet against the light. Theyâd make a wonderful dried arrangement. Now, if he could find a ribbon...
âBy the way,â Saren called from a distance, âa salarian research team published a paper about those just last week. They called them lakas. Theyâre sentient.â
Nihlus stabbed his staff into the dirt as he came to a stumbling halt, the bleeding stalks still clutched in his fist. "What?"
âThey are the reproductive organs of ground-dwelling fauna.â
He scanned Sarenâs impassive mask. Saren tilted his head towards the peak.
After a minute, Nihlus chuckled, bounced the balls around his palm, and then chucked the lot into that smiling, smug face.
As the door slid open, Desolas wished fervently that the voices belonged to the plumbers.
They did not.
The man wore white and blue and black. The symbol on his cowl matched the one on the skycar downstairs. He was kneeling, and he had his back to Desolas. He had a tiny vial between his talons. A complex-looking machine sat on the ground nearby.
The woman wore the same colours, but her face was bare. In one hand she held what appeared to be a thermometer, and in the other, Sarenâs wrist.
âYouâre a precocious thing, but you should listen to her,â the man said. âPatience is key, remember.â
âThe recommended exercises are all on the handbook,â the woman said gently, pocketing her instrument so she could clasp Sarenâs hand in both her own. The scales on her right thumb were a different colour from the rest. âIâve updated the community caretakers and systems with your new access level. Be a good soldier. Donât make me revoke it.â She winked.
âI wonât.â Saren hesitated, and slowly winked back.
The door started to close. Desolas kicked it, forcing it to retract properly. All three people in the room turned to him.
âWho are you?â He asked, though he knew the answer.Â
The man tapped a shiny card on his chest. âIâm Dr. Triden from C5 Arcology General Hospital, and this is--â
âI know, but youâre early.â His mandibles clacked.
The man and woman looked at each other. âYes, traffic was light today,â the doctor said.
âWeâll be out of your fringe in just a moment.â The officer activated her omni-tool and began to type. She must have had implants that let her use the haptic interface without gloves. Saren was staring at her fingers, as if trying to see where the incisions had been made. For a moment, Desolas also tried to find them, tilting his head to see past the broad-shouldered doctor. He pulled back quickly. It was a standard procedure. He could look it up on the extranet, later.
The doctor hummed as he packed up his machine, secreting the vial somewhere deep in its innards. He folded up a stool he had been ignoring, and gestured for the officerâs seat. She passed it to him by the handle, sliding to a crouch in a single fluid motion, still engrossed in her screen. Saren tried to sneak a peek. The officer raised an exaggerated brow, and he shrank back.
When the doctor stood to clip the stools to an aluminum frame, he paused. The single beam of sunlight seemed to ignite the sterile white plastic in his hands. He turned to Desolas, squinting, and asked: âWhy donât you come in, then?â
Desolas kicked the door again, smiling apologetically -- or so he hoped. âIâm fine holding the door. Donât rush on my behalf.â
It took both people to lift the machine in its cradle. He could almost see the nylon rope emerging from the padded handles stretch and fray, melting in the afternoon heat of late spring. As the doctor passed by, he transferred the weight to one hand and tapped the sigil on Desolasâs shoulder. âFive bars already? The futureâs looking bright.â
âYes,â he answered stiffly, caught unawares. âSeems that way.â
âThe legions will be glad to have you, especially out there near the Traverse. See if you can sign on to one. Standards are high, but they wonât say no. Youâll both make great contributions to the Hierarchy.â The doctor patted the machine. âI have it on good authority.â
âWhat he means,â the officer said as she followed him out, âis to not worry. The Cabals can be generous with opportunities.â
âThank you,â he said, and locked the door behind them. He dropped his shopping bag on the ground.Â
Saren spun on his toes, staring at the shrink-wrapped sausages rolling across the floor, his tiny mandibles pinched to his jaw. âI canât come over. Iâm not supposed to move too much for the next eight minutes.â
âYeah,â Desolas sighed, shoving his jacket into the locker. This time last year, Saren hadnât even been able to reach the kitchen counter. âOk.â
Athusia, the neurologist, looked at him from across the table. The light of the folding lamp appeared as two tiny pinpricks in dark, violet-framed eyes as he stared, for ten seconds if not more, at Sarenâs face.
âAt ease,â Saren said at last. Athusia let the datapad fall between his hands. It clacked against the rest.
âYou said it yourself: it wasnât a dream. I shouldnât keep you,â Athusia replied after another long pause. The chair swivelled to the left as he stood. âI should return to my work.â
Saren picked up the datapad. It displayed a casual email exchange between Athusia and one of the physicists, Dr. Fono, concerning precautions the away team should take in order to shield themselves from the ill-understood radiation issuing from the dormant spaceship. A far cry from the horrors the neurologist had detailed not a half-hour earlier: the desolate battlefields; the wild beasts with a thousand snouts that stalked the crew through empty warehouses; the vacuum of space, the sheen of ice forming over swelling eyeballs; and the turian crewmembersâ own ancestral fears. But the EEGs showed only half the story, heâd said. If the spirits knew the other half, they werenât telling.
âExplain it as if it were a dream.â
Athusia stopped, his back turned. Frozen as if one of the beasts heâd described from memory had caught his scent. âPsychoanalysis is an obsolete discipline, and Iâm unfamiliar with its tenets. I canât explain it any more than you can.â
âExplain it as a turian, then.â
âThe dead stir.â Athusiaâs left mandible lifted in a humourless grin. âIll fortune shall soon befall this land. I think thatâs right, thatâs what they said. From that Fantasy promo two years ago.â
Saren leaned back in his chair. âPerhaps not too far off the mark.â
Athusia turned halfway around. âIs it?â He began to pace the measured steps of a man often confined to small offices, setting one foot only slightly ahead of the other. âSo not all of it is coincidence? Youâre right, itâs too unlikely. But Iâm even less versed in mythology; spent my history classes dozing, Iâm afraid. In my opinion, they dawdled on the ramifications of fiat currency for far too long.
âIâve had many nightmares, just like the others. Used to get them every so often after studying troubled cases, but not every night.â He glanced at the ancient atomic clock Saren kept on a shelf. âThatâs why Iâm starting to believe thereâs a cause, I guess, like a feedback loop. Like the unavenged have come to lay their claim on the living. Thatâs how the game adapted the story.â
âA video game is the source of all you know about our mythology?â
âWell, yes. But I didnât think pre-spaceflight era tales would be relevant.â He caught Sarenâs expression. âAre they?â
Saren offered him the datapad back. He took it hesitantly, and did not retract his arm when Saren let go of his end.
âAre they?â Athusia asked, more urgently.
Saren took his measure. His suppressed undertones, the movement of his throat, the tightness with which he pressed his mandibles to his jaw. How his nose twitched, how the reflections in his eyes shone brighter.Â
âNo,â Saren replied. âBut the themes therein might be. In those days, our unwieldy, terrestrial armies warred against one another, committing countless atrocities. Cities were levelled, people were massacred, and entire cultures were wiped from the face of Palaven. The Unification War was simply our ancient conflicts writ large, across a dozen worlds. Yet the war did end; far more quickly, too, with far less bloodshed. The tales are a lesson. Even on the darkest of nights, our ancestors would light a spark to guide us.â
âWhen you fight for the Hierarchy, the Hierarchy fights with you,â Athusia recited. âIsnât it all propaganda? Unless youâre implying--â
Saren shook his head. âDr. ZolâRafa and the other quarians would never obtain the clearance for a Hierarchy operation of such a sensitive nature.âÂ
âI donât see how this constitutes a spark, but taking the long view on how far weâve come does help, I suppose.â
After the neurologist had left, Saren remained at his desk and tried to concentrate on the quariansâ voluminous report. None of it boded well. The Hierarchy, with its rigid bureaucracy and comforting familiarity all wrapped into a flamboyant collection of medals tucked away in a crevice on his ship, had never felt so distant. Perhaps when Trebia itself grew cold, there would be another to light a spark. Billions of years hence, an echo of their fabled hope.Â
The crew would not live to see the dawn. They might be among the first, however, to plunge into the night.
The next morning, Nihlus gets up early to prepare breakfast. The weather outside is still terrible. The storm had lessened during the night, but by the time he got back in bed, it had picked up again, accompanied by a fresh chorus of ferocious howls. Now, hard clumps of snow are smacking against the window like the windâs percussive accompaniment. He swirls the leftover tequila and drains it in one gulp, setting the flask on the table with a loud thunk. There.
Right on schedule, Saren peeks out from the bedroom, his unblinking eyes pointing from the empty flask, to the plate of gnawed ribs in front of Nihlus, to the six small dishes (and one soup, all proper and shit) laid out for him. Nihlus doesnât wait for him to begin an interrogation. He spears a cube of the hitherto untouched blue pudding on his talon and slurps it down, raising a browplate at Sarenâs frown. âWhy donât you come sit and eat so my hard work doesnât go to waste? I had to take all this from the deliverybot and put it in bowls all by myself, you know.â
Saren drops into his seat with a grunt. âYou turned up the heating.â
âYeah, because I was freezing my ass off last night. Donât make that face, I know you can afford it. Heck, you can probably afford to burn this building down and build a new one, legal fees and all.â He looks out at the storm. âYouâd be doing this place a favour. I canât believe there are people who want to live on Noveria.â
âThe volus, as a species, are well-suited for these conditions. Krogan, of course, thrive here as they would almost anywhere else. What remains of their culture drives them to extremes.â
Nihlus flicks a mandible. âI mean you, specifically.â
âOnly here for business,â Saren says, carefully peeling off a single layer of the hundred-layer loaf and dipping it in an elaborate concoction of ground spices. Nihlus follows suit, except he grabs a good quarter of the thing and rolls it around in the spice, making sure to give the ends a thick coat. Saren begins to sift out conglomerated chunks from the powder, setting them with the bones. Nihlus shrugs. Hey, at least heâd used a fork this time.Â
âBusiness requires you to live in a refrigerator?â
âThe cold keeps me awake when the paperwork grows dull.â Saren offers him the soup; Nihlus refuses. âI should have changed the settings after you arrived.â
âDoes it help you sleep, too?â
Saren looks at him over the rim of the bowl. A whiff of steam obscures his eye. âAt times, yes.â
âHow does that work, exactly?â
âItâs a habit. After I finally resolved the Virialâs heat dissipation issues, her HVAC system began to act up. Competent mechanics have eluded me.â Saren takes another long sip. âI know you donât like satusan leaves, but this was a good choice. Thank you.â
It came as a set meal, but Nihlus had picked that particular set from a menu of dozens, so he feels justified to beam with pride before setting his mandibles at a more serious angle. âI think you might need medication more than a mechanic. Spirits know there are enough doctors on Noveria, crooked or not.â
ââCrookedâ is euphemistic, extremely so, in ways Iâd rather not discuss over breakfast.â
Or ever, really. But Nihlus shrugs and reaches for the loaf again. Itâs mechanically prepared, has to be; theyâd never turn a profit otherwise. Itâs also the reason heâd picked this set over the others. Saren had cooked it for him once, cutting a small chunk of meat into dozens of paper-thin slices with a wicked silver knife. Not long after, Nihlus had bought the same trio of knives for himself, though it had ended up collecting dust at the bottom of a drawer, only opened on one memorable occasion for some impromptu surgery.
This restaurantâs offering pales in comparison to those heâd sampled on Tenebrae, and is not even in the same star system as what Saren had made. Still, he shortens the stack, five slices at a time.
Saren watches him eat, his expression blank. The soup bowl is empty, but the other dishes are practically untouched. The blue pudding wobbles as Nihlus takes a second cube. Saren seems fascinated by it, though he soon shakes his head and makes to stand. Nihlus pulls him down by the sleeve.
âI have messages at the console,â Saren snaps. âAnd need to find a matching shirt,â he adds more gently.
Nihlus raises his hands in mock surrender. âNothing that canât wait, right? Besides, all your shirts are grey.â Saren pointedly lays his wrist on his thigh to illustrate the difference, and Nihlus sighs. âItâs an expression. All cats are⊠Oh, never mind. I just want to talk for a bit longer.â
Saren scowls and the little voice inside his head, who can really be a fucking coward sometimes, mutters: this is how the hotshot Spectreâs life ends, with his mouth full of pudding. Nihlus swallows the food, stuffs the voice down the same pipe, and meets Sarenâs eyes. The look is venomous, but it bears no fangs.Â
âHave you heard about Avitus?â
âAvitus Rix?âÂ
Nihlus nods.Â
âNo. What about him?â
âHeâs planning to retire. Gonna get out before he hits his limits, or so he says.â
Saren snorts. âHe wonât.âÂ
Listen to those undertones, Kryik, and understand precisely why you should shut up and count your blessings. Wonât even consider it for someone else, never mind himself. In fact, when you wrangled him into civvies -- Nihlus frowns, his stomach fluttering. The voice is drowned, though itâs trying to claw its way back up. âDonât be so sure. Look at you. Youâre more of a businessman these days.â
âI have found my limits.â
âYou have? And whatâre you going to tell me next, that your plan is to become a broker? A venture capitalist, even?â He chuckles. âOr that you really like Noveriaâs weather, and that the alpine regions arenât so bad during the summer. That you want to settle down here, adopt a couple of baby krogan. Donât lie to me.â
âThatâs a vast misinterpretation.â
âEnlighten me, then. Whatâs the retirement plan?â
Saren looks at him like heâs a modern sculpture, the one in that Thessian gallery thatâs just a solid block of granite. Very dense granite. âThe Council and related authorities decide when--â
âThe Council,â Nihlus interrupts, âspent three days on an agricultural tax bill for some asari colony, added hundreds of amendments, and just left it on the table for next month. Pardon me when I say that they shouldnât be the arbiters of our lives.â
âI see youâve acquired an interest in Citadel governance. Recent?â
âReluctant. Has its own charms, but best appreciated when Iâm no longer slogging through Omega on their behalf, Iâm sure.â
âPolitics wonât suit you. Perhaps you should revisit the works of those elcor poets you praised not long ago. Your voice brings them to life.â
âAre you saying that I should do poetry readings at local dives for a living? Do they even have those on Noveria? I didnât think so. Itâs all so⊠modern. Clean and corporate. It stinks here, Saren.â Saren hums his assent. âIf youâre trying to correct things, if you think theyâre better than the slavers in the Traverse -- well, that may be, but the roots of all evil are the same, arenât they? It seems futile. And besides, every adoption agencyâs going to take one look at your face and hide their babies, krogan or no.â
âIâm only here for business,â Saren repeats irritably. âIf you want to announce your own retirement, stop avoiding the topic.â
âLike how youâre avoiding yours?â
Saren glares at him then, and heâs pretty sure the delicate display case behind his skull now sports a couple of cracks. The little voice trapped in his gizzard lets out a squeak, which he quashes by helping himself to a generous serving of the bevelled cake. Itâs cold now, but meaty enough. As he drops it into his mouth, he glares right back into those cybernetic eyes. Nihlus wonât be the first to look away. âYeah, I mean it. Call me cocky, but donât call me wrong. I worry, you know.â
Saren flexes the fingers of his prosthetic, and clenches them into a fist. Shards of ice are beating relentlessly against the windowpanes. âWe can put those worries to rest.â
âGladly, after you finish,â Nihlus makes a sweeping gesture over the remaining food. âNot sparring when youâre hungry.â
Saren impales some cake with vehemence. âYour remarks on the Council can be interpreted as treasonous.â Nihlus opens his mouth to speak, but Saren holds up his hand, the ugly mechanical hand heâd earned in their service. âItâs important to maintain our reputation of loyalty, especially in these times. We must keep other powers in check.âÂ
Nihlus works his jaw. Need to divert that combustible train of thought to safer tracks. âI get it, Noveria is a bad fit. You could settle in the Traverse instead; thatâs a better idea. Iâm sure theyâd be grateful if you just shot down some pirates from time to time, retired or not. And then you can tinker with the Virial all day long, no distractions, no dockworkers. Plenty of unclaimed planets out there. Howâs that for personal space?â
âNihlus,â Saren whispers, and Nihlus suddenly gets the impression that he is speaking from a great distance, from the future, perhaps, where Nihlusâs earnest pleas can find no echo. From the distant past, back when Nihlus had believed himself beneath the notice of that famous Spectre, the youngest turian ever inducted, and now the longest to hold that post. Those ageless eyes are still mesmerising, though they no longer reflect his face.Â
But then, then -- he realises that heâs tired. He slinks out from that gaze and gently shakes his head.Â
âIâve heard it all before,â he says. You believe you were forged, not born. Saren blinks, and Nihlus smiles. Feels like he spent hours getting Saren into that shirt last night. Under the sterile lights of the dining room, its narrow stripes clash horribly with his differently-striped pants. âI know, itâs okay. But it only means youâll have time to find the perfect LZ with your Spectre privileges. Iâm counting on you, because Iâm not making hundreds of decision charts to find a place to call home. Tropical climates only, please. And preferably not like Invictus.â
The shared memory is enough to lift Sarenâs mandibles by a precious few degrees. âAnd if the search is fruitless?â
Nihlus looks outside. What were once icy flakes had turned into dice-sized hailstones, and the windowâs noise-cancellation function had automatically engaged itself. So much for the Noverian summer. The gravy around the meat, too, had cooled to an unappetising jelly. He shoves it around with his fork, making a little pile atop the last remaining slice.Â
âYou became aware of us when we discovered the mass relays,â Saren ventured.Â
There was no response.
âWhen Aluxil Kasran harnessed the power of nuclear fusion?â
âWhen aircraft were invented?â
âSurely, it could not have been when ⊠when ancient turians carved the Tablets of Measure?â He said in disbelief, choking on a nervous, stillborn laugh.
In the gloom, a reddish glow began to spread.
He saw the shores of a placid lake, shimmering with residual heat as the sun descended beyond the hills. The first birds were emerging from their hidden nests, iridescent wings dancing in the breeze, biolights rippling on their flanks, trailed by scores of offspring. Short, hardy grasses grew in dense tufts; dark-veined orbs lay half-open, enough to glimpse the yellow flowers cosseted within their protective shells. Some distance away, in the brilliant water, a greater steeplefish displayed its fins. He had only seen their distinctive shapes in museums.
A woman walked by, her toes tracing the edge of the waves. She was both old and young. She barely came up to his shoulder, yet her overlarge facial plates were pitted and scratched, and her mandibles were very short. A discoloured patch of diseased skin ran from her armpit to her waist, around which she wore a braided -- he used the term loosely -- leather cord as her only garment. Bits of chitin were still stuck to it. They were the same species, yes, but only just. He had seen her, or someone of her stature, with her gait, in a museum as well, though the colouration had been all wrong. That holo had been fitted with amber eyes, but the womanâs small eyes were black, and they were fixed on the darkening sky. She dragged the tip of her slate-tipped spear in the gravel as she pondered the night. Her eyes glinted like the stars.
It took your species untold eons to reach this stage of your existence, to acknowledge a cosmos greater than yourselves. Liken it to the time required to construct your vessel from raw materials, and the rest of your so-called âcivilisationâ becomes no more than the flick of a switch, engaging an engine.
He followed the faint smell of smoke to a stall near the edge of the market, sandwiched between an asari confectionery and a hanar diner. The place looked clean, freshly renovated, with spotless white tiles and clear glass tanks, not a speck of mold in sight. A neon orange sign hung over the storefront, some of the letters flickering once in a while. It was supposed to be artistic, he figured. The glass seemed to be hand-blown, and a permit on the Presidium was much too expensive for such oversights.
The woman behind the counter stood up when he approached. âWhatâll it be?â
Saren pointed towards the rightmost tank. Nodding, she took up the net hanging over the glass edge and scooped out one of the fish, pure silver with a jade-green patch running along its belly. She slapped it onto a wooden block, slew it with a handheld shock prod, and began to clean it with a long, curved knife.
âIs it wild-caught?â He asked.
âNope, farmed right here in the Widow,â she said, dropping the bloody entrails on a metal spatula. She rinsed her knife, and then started on the bones. âWe get it from the same liveship that supplies Teucallixâs Market.â She flicked a mandible, indicating a location deeper in the complex.Â
Good enough. âIf I recall correctly, this used to be a liqueur store.â
She lifted up the backbone of the fish as well as all three sets of fin rays, tutted, and carved a bit more meat from the bone before discarding the lot somewhere behind the counter. âYeah, we only opened four months ago. Iâd say business has been booming, but thatâd be a lie. My moneyâs on four more months before we close.â
âNot too much, thank you,â he told her when she started to rub seasoning into the pearly flesh. Eikul seeds were an acquired taste, and the mixture she used contained plenty, along with salt and boltweed. âWhy do you say that?â
She splayed out the fish on an iron slab. As its edges curled and sizzled from the heat, she slid its organs onto the slab and stirred them with the sharp-edged spatula, cutting in a spoonful of sugar and dried berries. âThereâs just not enough customers. Half the investors knew it beforehand, but three-quarters of them liked the novelty too much to give it up.â She flipped over the fillet. Its skull was singed a pale amber, promising a pleasant crunch. Even the smoke was heavy with the scent of spices. âCondiments?â
There were plenty to choose from, all neatly arranged in canteen-style tubs; chopped whitestrings, shaved meat, a dozen types of pickled fruits and herbs. He pointed out a few. âAdd double the amount of pysal, please.â
She tipped heaping spoonfuls over the fish, smiled at him, and sprinkled an extra pinch of the wrinkled yellow cubes on top before folding it inside a paper sleeve. âHere.â
He tapped his credit chit with one hand and took the fish in the other. It was piping hot, though the temperature had not bothered the cook one bit.Â
Saren held it over his shoulder, an acknowledgement of the reflection in the tiles. Slinking to his side, Nihlus sniffed it, nibbled on it, before backing away, chuckling. âIâd rather not sustain another tongue injury today.â
âHow was the meeting?â Saren turned around.
Nihlus groaned. âI donât understand. It was all in the report, but they insisted on making me clarify the casualty numbers no fewer than three times. Were they too low? And then Valern kept asking me for the detailed specs of the disguised transport before it got blown up. Probably suspects an illegal dock, but I donât know those specs. Because the ship got blown up. And then Sparatus got worked up because I shouldnât have double-counted the smugglers as casualties, apparently. You think Tevos likes me? Youâre wrong, because she didnât say a word until the end, when she told me to pack my ass to Illium next week. Iâd almost made it to the elevator, too, but that reporter from Pulseline Daily got me.â He draped an arm around Saren. âAll in all, I shouldâve had breakfast before I left.â
Wordlessly, Saren offered the fish again. Nihlus looked to him, and the fish, and back to him; smiled, and bit down. A tantalising crunch.