"How would you like to be a Templar?"
I remember that exact instant in time. Though it was hundreds of years ago now, the stark normalcy of the moment has crystalized in my memory, not to be displaced even by the years of psionic warfare which I have since fought.
I remember that I answered mostly by instinct. "Well, such a protoss would be lucky, would he not?"
The young Judicator smiled in the way only a Kahlai can, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head to the side. It has occurred to me, in hindsight, that this was not exactly the response he was looking for.
"How would you like to be a Templar?" The shift in emphasis broke through one layer of my paralysis, activating my unresponsive mind, providing me a modicum of sense.
But what sense! The words were like a thunderstorm in my ears, so unexpected, and I was rocked to my core. To alter one's caste... at the time I thought this impossible. Even the great Fenix had been born a Templar. And noble Adun – Taro Arashad – surely even for him, no protoss ever considered, for all his greatness, all his prestige, that he should be allowed to enter the Conclave. And the question was posed so casually... I assumed it was a hypothetical fantasy, to be noticed briefly, as one notices an exotic bird when it pauses briefly in one's gardens, then forgotten as it flies out of sight. But his clarification, given with such serious demeanor, it eliminated such an interpretation. My disbelief knew no bounds.
"Is that pos– Can that be done?" In my incredulous stupor, I nearly dropped into the informal tone, and to a Judicator, no less! But surely one can imagine: to never have dreamed for an instant that such a thing was possible, and suddenly not only to learn of Advancement, but have the honor bestowed upon you, yourself.
"It is not unheard of," he said simply.
There was a long silence here. How long he stood, intently peering into my soul, I do not know. I can say only that were we in opposite positions, it would have tried even my patience. The way I had seen the world, a view which I felt correct if incomplete, was breaking, and all my faculties were consumed in trying to pick up the pieces enough to even understand the question. Both of us knew that I would agree to the implicit proposition – had I even looked at him, he might have taken that as a response. But as it was, I simply let my eyes wander in the distance, visibly shaking as an external response of the turmoil inside.
I would like to think that as I stared out the forward pane I imagined all the trials that had passed to construct the great machine which we stood in and was, to that point, my life's labor. On a vacation almost two hundred years earlier, I deeply indebted myself to purchase a Antioch-D Class Vessel and have it shipped to my home on Helioc III. It was about to be destroyed because of a failing axion accelerator, usually the end of the line for a ship so small. However, I knew my way around starship equipment before I knew my way around the neighborhood, so I asked for a peek into the mechanics. While the accelerator was definitely worn down a little, it was pretty obvious to me that the problem was being greatly amplified by some bad piping which would I could fix with no effort.
The operators of the yard were happy to be rid of the heap of trash, and their initial offer, 12.7 million ku'ai, reflected that gratitude. Such a price was more than reasonable, considering that even the scrap price for such a brilliant hull would be well over 5 million. Of course, I did not even have 100,000 ku'ai to my name, much less than the 9.2 million I ended up paying for it. However, not every day can one find a Templar-grade ship for sale by owner, so I borrowed large amounts at as low an interest as I could scrape up, and managed to deliver the sum only hours before it was scheduled for destruction.
Today, the ship is entirely obsolete, of course. The few repairs I have made in the last 65 years have all used handmade materials because everything from the CPU to the heat pipe fittings has been phased out of modern engineering. However, my initial fixes to her accelerator have held up wonderfully, she flies gracefully, and that is really all that matters in life.
In fact, it is much more likely that I did not think of this. I cannot be certain I even thought of anything more coherent than to feel pure excitement which eventually tamed into a great peace. It was this peace that freed me enough to continue.
At length, I remembered that I had yet to answer a question. The Judicator's eyes still burned into mine. "Is there a question?" I asked, turning to meet his gaze. He was playfully amused by my initial reaction; the incongruity between our mental states was quite memorable.
"Perhaps not. However, the Enclave requires direct and personal approval for this delicate affair." [1]
"I understand."
I was still in shock; I do not think I actually understood.
"Good," he said simply. It was clear to me, even then, that he knew I was still in my disheveled state, but he acted as though my words were wholly truth. "We will need to get you to Aiur–"
Aiur. At the mere mention of the name, my discipline wavered, and I accidentally loosed a psionic pulse. He cringed, and my gaze darted away as I nearly caved in on myself in embarrassment. It must have been quite loud. After a couple moments, he looked away uncomfortably. "We will need to get you to Auir so that you can make the approval official."
Then he turned his head back and narrowed his eyes, this time not in humor but in cold and detached anger. "But you must understand this is a matter of great pride for me. So I need your irrefutable word, on the honor of your birthright, that when I ask you 'Will you take the oath of the Templar?' that you will say 'Yes.' Do I make myself clear?"
I gulped. To give a Judicator your birthright is to throw your life into the winds. It was surely impossible to think I would say 'No,' but even so, it was a grave threat.
"It is clear," I said. "And accepted," I added, noting the impatience in his eyes.
"You may take your vessel if you prefer, but I assure you the accommodations on mine are much more..." he looked around at my ship, grasping for a diplomatic comparison.
"...luxurious," he decided.
[1] I smile every time I think about this statement. When I told this tale to the Terran warrior Dokov, he thought this most beautiful. In fact, it is legalistic to the point of being jargon. Approval is "personal" only if it is recorded to precise quality regulations by a Judicator who has attained a certain status. For it to be "direct" requires an even more stringent set of guidelines, where intent must be presented in this very specific format, and some certain officials must be in my presence as the approval is given. An "affair" is an event in which one can completely distinguish the event itself from the record of that event - so one's signature is not an affair, since it is not possible to prove I signed a particular document without citing the document itself. Furthermore, "delicate" is a label not unlike the Terran's "top secret": the records of it's occurrence may only be seen by a very select group of Judicators and elite Templar.
Author's Note: I was inspired to publish this as part of a competition with some of my friends, so it would mean a lot to me if you would review this story, and particularly *this chapter*. I definitely am clueless about the direction I want it to go in, but hopefully I can hack myself to keep working on it :)