The Four Pillars were the foundation of the Hegemony, even to those demented few that opposed any form of organized religion. Mannerisms, holy days, customs dating back to the third Imperija; all of it related to the Pillars. Ignoring them, while fashionable, simply exhibited foolishness that could have otherwise remained hidden.
But such fools revealed themselves to the world more easily than a drunken hacha-hacha dancer. Such was life.
Jal'resh paced across the stone blocks comprising the upper patio of his family home, pondering the depths of theology. Like the symbol on his breast, there were Four Pillars, one for each of the cardinal directions: North, South, East and West. Like a compass from the ancient days, a myriad of degrees existed between each point, each important in their own fashion. But without the original four, they were useless. Like the rampant unbelief running through certain echelons of the Hegemony's political infrastructure, ignoring the strictures set down since time immemorial.
"Sire," a female slave, keen of eye and possessing the mandibles of her race, paused at a respectful distance. "The shuttle is near. Control estimates landing within five zapisnik."
Jal'resh paused his motions, lifting his lower set of eyes to the skies while the smaller pair watched the slave. Disorienting to some, but akin to what he'd heard about some asari capable of moving their cephalic tentacles. "We knew this day would come." The upper set rose, joining the focus of his lower, a breach of protocol in most House manners … but House Ba'Kal was unlike most. "You know what to do."
The slave sank to one knee, arm clasped to her left breast in supplication. "Sire, please, do not send me –"
He cut her off, growling in his throat. "Do not force me to make it an order."
She hesitated once, then bowed her face to the floor, rising in a fluid motion. "At once master."
Jal'resh heard her departure, but kept his gaze upward to the clouds, searching their swollen concealment for the doom he knew came. Then, he heard it, a humming sound inaudible to some of the other species in the galaxy, and even most of his own. The family bastion had been constructed for defense, in a location strategically determined to command the horizon. Part of that careful placement involved meticulous attention to the architecture in the Place of Observation, back in the times when the greatest threat were the creaking machines of war, constructs of metal and timber.
Of course, such deliberate works of architecture became positively intolerable during the Festival days, when shuttles buzzed past so frequently as to reverberate like the humming of calek flies. Deafening, was a polite term.
If he allowed himself to say what it really sounded like, he would need to purify his vicinity.
A short walk lead him to the concealed exit – barely a hiding place after generations of use by Ba'Kal descendants. Observing tradition, however, bade him to run a cursory scan for observation devices, electronic and otherwise, before pressing the faded icon three finger-widths across and two down. The staircase, disguised as an ornate bit of railing, lowered for him.
Keeping the same pace gave a sense of normality, of utter calm. Within the stronghold, certain rules applied to all, even the Hedgemon himself, should times become so unfortunate as to require such a visit. The head of the family did not run, did not raise his voice inappropriately, and protected what was his with all the vicious cunning expected. The family line of Ba'Kal did not surrender to anyone, and had not done so for millennia. Only certain asari – and practically all krogan – could claim an equally proud heritage.
"Master, your robes." An asari slave bowed, extending both arms to him. Ornate garb rested on her outstretched limbs, heavy stuff, formal wear that only the rich would persuade themselves to appear attractive.
Sighing, Jal'resh removed his sportcoat, handing it to a second servant that appeared by his side as if by magic. The larger, heavier robes he donned with the same air as a funeral dirge. They were ancient, created in a previous generation, back when synthetic material was far more difficult to come by, and quality clothing spoke in a language none could hear. More so than now, at least. The aristocracy of the modern times sometimes seemed to be dazzled only by vapid faces and wallets hemorrhaging funds in arterial torrents.
"Are the laborers at work?" he asked, doing up a long series of fastenings on one side.
The asari, old enough to have known his great-grandfather, bowed her head respectfully. "Indeed sire. Fields are ripening, and the harvest looks to be good."
He knew that. Had he not kept a close eye on affairs as should befit the Head of House? But even the eagle eye of the most farseeing man could fail to see what was under his nostrils. "See to it they are given extra rations this night. A storm is approaching."
Her smile of approval lightened the room. "At once, master. Do you require aid?"
Snapping the last layer in place, Jal'resh started applying the last fastenings underneath. It was more of a light armor than mere clothing, but more flexible than the former, with all the benefits of the latter. "No, Clarissa. See to them. Then, retire for the evening. Your husband would not forgive me if I kept you from his side another day."
She curtsied, blushing as if a century younger. "Yes sire, thank you sire."
He finished the last of the vestments, and straightened the edges. A pair of blue-streaked blades appeared within his line of sight, handle first. Silently, he accepted their weight; element zero infused steel, granting far more versatility than drawbacks. They were heirlooms, weapons gifted to the first biotic specialist of his family line, given in turn to each successor that displayed the same gifts – an event that proved remarkably frequent after that. The matched bits of darkened steel glided into the obviously hidden regions, causing the cloth folded over his pectorals to bulge. His more hidden weapons, the true protection, lay in both the unseen, and the things too obvious to be seen.
"Thank you," Jal'resh intoned to the armorer. The turian slave returned a silent bow, retreating as he paid homage.
"My lord, the honor guard is here." Another voice broke into the sanctum. His secondary head of security, an asari approached, ignoring the normal honorifics most slaves were compelled to follow. The true head of security doubtless remained at his post, watching. "As you specified, the gjigantët will remain in the guest dining hall. However, the Lady insists that half of the vanguard be of the Fifth Tier."
Jal'resh smiled. The old women meant well, but even he was not quite so paranoid. "And volunteers just happened to be available?"
She smiled. "As a remarkable coincidence, you are correct."
"Very good." The soldiers lock-stepping into position made for a good image, no matter what power they wielded. Taking them would humor people whom needed it, and harmed nothing.
Moving onward, he flicked his head to the right, acknowledging the first guard. The guard responded with a mirrored movement to his own left, verifying the vast gulf separating them socially, if not physically. Indicating social status through body language felt archaic, but a member of the Ancient Houses could hardly complain about that, could he? One could not simply 'cherry pick' what was acceptable in everything, and keep only the good. The meaning, subtle nuances that originated the flaws, required more information than that.
At an unspoken signal, the group formed around him. The two heaviest individuals stayed at the back, placed to pull him out of harm's way, should it be needed. The two lightest became his flanking protection, preceded by the medium-grade forward guard. Fifth Tier biotics were a valuable commodity, making it a display of both wealth and power.
The two guardians at the doorway, purely decorative as a matter of course, stepped aside. The massive meter-thick slab of metal slid into the doorframe on perfectly balanced rollers. This was old technology, older than the weapons his visitor bore or the computers they would be carrying. Far more reliable, too.
"Remember," the secondary security chief whispered. "The mercenaries stand ready down the hall."
He gave her a single quelling look, driving her back to her place. Facing forward again, he nodded to the two door wards, whom allowed the door to finish its cycle.
Swiftly, he stepped out into the harsh sunlight, blinking in sequence, as his father had taught him. Never close your eyes all at once, save when you rest, the words came back to him. The day you stop seeing is the day you will pass on the family to your successor. Blink, and die.
Ahead, the shuttle still lowered itself to the landing pad. What had taken the pilot so long to descend was … confusing, but acceptable. The delay made him appear to be the superior – which would possibly render the pilot a punitive reward by its master. Not his problem.
The guards fanned to either side, the middle two raising their pikes in a welcoming gesture, the two larger men in back wielding rapid-fire light machine guns. The juxtaposition of weaponry, like everything else, bore careful calculation, as finely honed as the supposedly unarmed abilities of the two soldiers that anchored the edges of his position. Every situation is a gift. Take advantage of it, or lose the game.
The shuttle finally landed, its weight making the ground shudder.
Flicking his outer pair of eyes to one side, Jal'resh verified the protective shielding status. If an explosion was the intended gift, none would suffer for negligence.
Fortunately, the door hissed open, permitting a brace of imposing soldiers to emerge, blinking in the daylight. They, like he, seemed aware of the dangers of blindness, blinking in pairs. Their armor shimmered a deep vermillion, the same shade as the lifeblood of a rested warrior. Weapons appeared ostentatious, and decorative, Batarian State Arms issue hardware with filigree curling around parts that did not serve any functional purpose. Except, perhaps, to intimidate.
A darker figure, dressed all in black showed itself within the depths of the shuttle. He emerged, showing a stocky figure, rapidly bypassing the sedentary appearance and beginning the initial stages of sheer corpulence. Suppressing unflattering thoughts, Jal'resh made the smallest of gestures, deactivating the force field.
At the motion of trust, the dark figure continued, a second pair of protectors joining his first duo, in identically crimson armor.
"As subtle as a boot to the face." Jal'resh noted quietly enough to avoid eavesdropping devices. His guards didn't react, they were too well-trained. "Blood red, to cover the sight of blood. Black contrasts with red, the Hegemony colors. Perhaps an attempt to stir my civic pride?"
The distance from the shuttle to the landing pad entrance stretched over fifty meters, the optimal distance for small arms fire. In more ancient times, a primitive series of traps would have been more appropriate, but set in the opposite direction. Flight had yet to be invented then.
"Lord Ba'Kal," the dark-clad figure stopped the prescribed distance, inclining both head and shoulders the minimal amount demanded by society. "I thank you for your hospitality."
Jal'resh raised his hand in the ancient blessing. "Mirë se vini në zemrën time. Festës mirë dhe të pushoni lehtë." He paused, then repeated himself: "Welcome to my hearth. Feast well and rest easy."
His opposite twitched, obviously hiding a grimace. Using the ancient phrases grated on newer blood; it reminded them of bore reminders of how recent their ascension to a hsigher caste. "Again, my thanks. I trust you and yours fare well?"
"Indeed," he responded gravely. A half-turn invited examination of the diamond motif decorating his right sleeve. "May I offer you the hospitality of my table, Pronar Alain?"
The dark-clad batarian glanced at the decorations, then back at him without reacting. "It would be a pleasure."
The bodyguards closed ranks once more, this time enveloping the newly arrived man and his own protectors. If one knew how to observe, he would see the military personnel begin their own little dance, pretending to ignore each other yet ensuring a clear line of fire for every step. Another small joy in the Great Game.
"The front hall," words echoed through the entrance, reverberating through the vast expanse like the voice of an ancient being, "shows the Four Pillars, the foundation of our society. They have stood here in my halls for many generations, reminding us."
Alain gave him a polite nod. "Indeed?"
"Indeed," Jal'resh responded. He pointed at a towering stone pillar, intricately carved out of black obsidian. "Here, near the entrance is the Fourth Pillar. Strength of Self: for only through the power within may the other three draw breath."
The other man nodded firmly. "The foundation of the Finisk, the strength of the Hegemony."
Jal'resh gave a courteous nod, as the next decorated plinth loomed over them. "The Third Pillar, Strength of Kin: through the aid of blood, you will gain strength. Blood to blood, kin to kin, honor those and you shall be honored."
Alain hesitated. "The Robst caste began there, to work in the strength of their bondage."
"Even so," he agreed again. Silently they passed onwards, reaching the next marker. "The Second Pillar. Strength of Heart: Honor those within your walls, lest your heart become as black as those of the Dwellers of the Pit."
Alain made the habitual sign to repel evil, as did Jal'resh. Even the most strenuously atheistic of people felt the need to demonstrate their contempt for the Oath-Breakers. Their steps did not hasten, but the Second Pillar somehow receded behind them with more rapidity than the previous two.
"And the First Pillar: Strength of One." He stopped, tracing a diamond pattern from forehead to sternum and back. "Have no other gods, for He is One. Be lifted up by the Four, and they shall give thee strength beyond kings."
This time his companion stopped to examine the pillar. Unlike the dark appearance of the previous three, this one rose from the ground with the reflective shimmer of polished granite. "You hold these close to your heart, do you not? It is … unique … to see such faith in this day and age."
Jal'resh maintained a passive face. "Mere technology or the mastery of the stars does not alter what has been. I would that more paid heed to the Pillars, but that is not my place. We shall dine, and you shall tell me what purpose brings a Minister of the Third Reach to my halls."
The other man had the gall to grimace. "A guest would be given more courtesy, my Lord. Surely you recall Koan thirty-seven: Let not the stranger in your gates be compelled to ruin?"
That made him laugh. Inwardly; the Head of House Ba'Kal was renowned for never showing signs of mirth. But still, it figured such a man would remember the rules on hospitality. "And so you are correct." He waited a beat, just as a smug look began to spread over the man's face. "However, I suspect you are no guest, but a client. And there are no less than fifty verses in the koan of the Second Pillar giving instruction on the very matter."
After that, the walk became even quieter than before, which suited him perfectly well.
-000-
Dining halls for guests held two purposes: first, to impress. Second, to insure there were enough angles to end a hostile threat's life before the second course had been served.
Jal'resh gave the table an appreciative once-over. The single best aspect of having a guest like Alain lay in the feast set out before him. Roast avian with glazed sweet-sauce lay at periodic intervals throughout the length of the table. Mountains of exotic fruits piled up to his shoulder when sitting, some grown from his own gardens, others purveyed from colonial holdings on other planets. And, best of all, the various wines he'd taken a personal interest in refining. Yet that all ignored the various breadstuffs concocted by his staff, and the salads positioned at tempting intervals. All at his beckon should he so desire – but best when savored at infrequent times. It made the event at least slightly more palatable, in more than one sense of the word.
That meant a table fifteen feet long appeared very small in such a large banquet hall, but underscored the importance of the room. Adding to the pleasure was a group of slaves, from lower levels of Hegemony society, filling the room with the quiet sound of professional-grade music.
"Now then," he lifted his glass for the slave to fill. The dark red liquid swirled in the blown glass container, a miniature storm of flavor contained by the unperceptive silicate. "You came here for a purpose. Whom is causing you distress?"
Alain, sated by a sumptuous dinner and holding a beverage that likely cost more than his skycar, gave an amiable grunt. "Grelan."
Nodding, Jal'resh raised his hand. Within seconds, a data-reader pressed its edges into his palm. For several minutes, he pressed its haptic interface, studying the contents as the search parameters shifted. "Operative Grelan, of the Exploration Division. Fifty-seven years old, unmarried, good prospects for advancement. And …" he deliberately lifted the upper-most pair of eyes to his guest, "attempting to woo the second youngest daughter of one Pronar Alain."
The man's hand clenched around the wineglass stem. "Yes. He has recently come blinking around my daughter, since he is certainly worthy to lick the ground upon which she walks. Such a devoted man; I have seen the care and tenderness he has displayed to his concubines."
Mentally, Jal'resh calculated values. Honor demanded he keep the information confidential, but an equally important duty rendered him responsible for his holdings. Some slave masters were animals, better to be brought down in their own blood … but to do so would invite scrutiny of the highest order. Something he could not easily afford. The happy issue at hand however, kept him a disinterested outsider by all parties. Even those wishing him to not stay disinterested. "An uncouth man by all accounts," was all he said aloud. "Rest assured, your words shall never escape my house. Tell me: what do you wish?"
All four eyes focused on him, bottomless anger in their depths. "While I want many things, I am … concerned … for his life. His efforts are escalating, and Lita's twenty-first birthday is in two weeks."
"Ah." Discretion was of paramount importance. Assassins were a credit a dozen, particularly in the Terminus Systems where you could hire any pilfa-dumb Void breather to pull a trigger. Keeping it within the family as it were, meant fewer repercussions, and an enhanced reputation should word actually escape confinement. "It would be … unfortunate … should an accident befall our mutual friend."
The other man froze, glass halfway up. It slowly descended. "Very unfortunate. Would insurance help ease your mind of his safety?"
Jal'resh let his teeth show. Insurance was a code word for payment for safety, its originating conceptual phrase something universal to every sentient race. Well, perhaps the krogan were too primitive for insurance policies in the traditional sense – or too smart. He'd have to think on that later. "Greatly."
The glass finished its journey to the table, where it rested on a hand carved bas relief. Alain used two fingers to reach in his pocket, withdrawing a credit chit. "Name your price."
This time it was Jal'resh's turn to fall silent. Mentally, he continued the calculations, potential for failure, social standings, and above all, if it would negatively affect his own plans. Whose cooperation was worth more, the would-be client, or the target?
A few moments of thought were all he needed. "I can assure you of the policy being taken out within the week. How soon you wish for the insurance to be achieved will not affect the cost. But … I would assume the repercussions should be … minimal?"
The credit chit hit the table with a soft click. A hand, bearing a fresh glass of wine swept close, taking the old glass away, leaving a bare table top in its wake. Even Jal'resh hadn't seen the chip taken. That was good.
"Much as I love him," the quivering twitch over Alain's leftmost eye betrayed his true emotions, "He is of age. Should it take time to make certain everything goes well, it is well. I dislike paperwork for its own sake."
Jal'resh tasted his wine once more. It grew better every year, aged to perfection in the cellars under his home. "You should try my other vintage, something my father experimented with in his spare time. He called it, Rinia Vrullshëm." He set down the glass. "Verë mjeshtër!"
The wine master appeared at his elbow. "Master."
Jal'resh raised a hand, gesturing towards the doorway. "Bring a bottle of Rinia Vrullshëm, stasis container for my guest's departure."
The slave bowed. "Impetuous Youth? Of course, it shall be ready." He bowed again, leaving as quickly as he'd arrived.
Turning back, Jal'resh pondered the cost once more. "Such a policy should cost approximately 750,000 credits, a third refunded upon successful completion. Agreed?"
Alain swallowed, but nodded. "Indeed. You are widely known as the best insurance provider in the Hegemony. Well worth any price."
A smile played around his lips. "The drell are rumored to have better … salesmen. But I doubt even their people could perform even an audit of Grelan's holdings in the time frame you request. As to their superiority … hmmm … they do well for lacking two eyes."
Relief colored the other man's voice. "True. How they can maintain their balance with only two eyes," he shook his head, "I do not know."
A slave presented himself to Jal'resh bowing low. "Master, forgive me, but this was dropped by your guest." A credit chit appeared before Jal'resh's place, as if placed by magic.
"Excellent, thank you for finding it." He gave an exaggerated grin, simulating the attitude of an overly concerned host. "Well done my servant. Spend your evening where you wish, on my authority."
"Kind master," the slave bowed once, then vanished immediately.
Jal'resh pushed the credit across the table. "This is yours, I believe?"
"Hah, indeed." Alain did not insult by checking the device's balance in front of him. "You reward your slaves for returning guest's property?"
Rising to his feet, Jal'resh gave a nonchalant shrug. "It is my experience that rewards do a great deal to incentivize property to do what is in their best interest. Koan thirty-three, First Pillar: Bind not the muzzle of the lope that treads your grain." He motioned, "Your shuttle should be waiting in a few minutes. Would you have a moment to peruse my art collection?"
[break]
He watched the shuttle lift off soaring into the sullen-red sky. A similarly large weight lifted from his shoulders at the same time. That was close. Far too close.
"You did well," he spoke to midair. "Pass the word along. We're safe, no investigation."
A growl of assent echoed his words. "At your command. But you worry much, good master. Your life is worth far more than our own. We would die for you, and you know this. Why worry?"
Jal'resh turned to the turian that willingly knelt at his side. "Rise, my friend." The path back inside felt shorter somehow, less difficult. "You know the risks as well as I do. There are very few places in Hegemony space that permit such freedoms as you and the others enjoy. If an official were to find out, there would be no shortage of accusations, followed by search and seizure commands. Then, how would we be able to return your kind to the stars?"
The turian held a fist near his chest, bowing his head. "We would die first. You could claim it was a renegade, one that pretended to obey."
All four eye ridges rose. "House Ba'Kal, the premier assassin group in Hegemony space, duped by a mere two-eyed alien?" Chuckling, he patted the turian's shoulder. "Nay, it is better to not be caught, than to worry ceaselessly about might-have-been's. Plan for the worst, but hope for the best."
"Indeed master."
Jal'resh sighed, letting his wandering feet take him to the window. His properties, stretched far across the horizon, were dotted with laborers, each performing their task individually, as a team. A euphemism perhaps, for how he operated? A flash of light flickered from one of the workers' necks, sunlight dancing off the false implants that kept prying eyes at bay. Or was it more apt to say he himself bore the collar, ending the lives of people that had done no wrong to his own household, simply to better his circumstances?
Nearer the foundations, two children ran, playing some form of game. The one in lead suddenly blurred away, exhibiting biotic control that would have made officials of the SIU green with envy – and result in strange noises at night and a missing child by dawn. But under his satellite-bafflers, feeding the watchful overhead observers falsified data that had been collected and manipulated over the centuries, they were safe. Secure. Happy.
That made it all worthwhile. As his father before him, and grandfather before that, however many generations the custom had developed, he would do what was best for his people.
Resolve hardened, Jal'resh pressed forwards, renewed strength in his stride. Some things were worth killing for.
A/N: *settles back in his chair* Good evening. This, is an idea I have had for some time, inspired by a few kind reviewers that have acknowledged my fairly lackluster attempts at portraying the Batarians in Early Discovery. So, here is my response. Would you like to see more? Review, and let me know. Also, please let me know how you think the Pillars of Strength would be written; if I like your idea well enough, I'll include it and incorporate it, if possible.
Note: most of the terminology comes from my own codex entry found in 'An Abridged Examination of Inter-Galactic Civilizations"
Thanks as always, to Nightstride, whom's editing assistance makes this possible.
Cya down the lane!