SING LOUD THE HOLY OMNOS / MOTHER TURA / TO MOTHER DO WE GIVE PRAISE
BOOK [ ]: FROM HER LOINS BLESSED HONEY / MOTHER TURA / WHICH SHE SPREAD ACROSS THE LAND
VOLUME [ ]: FERTILE NECTAR GAVE US LIFE / MOTHER TURA / WHICH SHE SHAPED WITH HOLY HAND
FROM HER WOMB HER FIRSTBORN SON / MOTHER TURA / ON HEAVEN HIGH SHE DID RAISE
(OH HOLY, OH HOLY, OH HOLY)
-and stomp one last time, for good measure.
You look up, fixing the bullies not with the meanest look you can make - mom and dad never raise their hands at you, not even their voices - but instead do your best to copy that cold scowl of disappointment they both make whenever you or your brother do something stupid.
"Come on," you say, your tone fiery despite your ragged breathing. There's blood trickling into your right eye from a cut somewhere on your forehead, and your face is bruised in a dozen places - but you never break eye contact, ignoring the discomfort. "Come on! I kicked his ass and I didn't even break a sweat! Who's next?"
They stare back at you. Even now, the odds aren't in your favour - four to one is a bad matchup even for an adult, you know - but with Mansius, easily their biggest of their number, down for the count, they're afraid.
Beneath your foot, Mansius is sobbing incoherently, screaming in between his crying.
As he should. You're not even twelve years old, so the leg-sweep and arm-stomp you did your best to copy didn't entirely shatter his right elbow, but you definitely felt something pop on that last stomp.
"You're dead meat, you barefaced bitch! So what if you beat on Mansius? You only managed that 'cause you jumped him, and it's still four on one!" Viter, their snivelling, cowardly, good-for-nothing leader spits the words, pacing back and forth as he taunts you.
"S….Saren, come on," Desolas whispers from behind you, "let's just run. You can't fight'em all!"
"Yeah, listen to Dickface Des," one of Viter's lackeys sings - Larix? Larius? Latius? You can't recall his name - as he sticks his tongue out. "Run away home! Buncha barefaced snot-for-brains, only place left for you two is with your mommy and daddy!"
"You leave my parents outta this," you snarl. "Spirits, I swear, one more word-"
"-oh, Saren sticking up for his whittle momma and dada? Aww, such a good little boy," Viter snarls. "They need you to do it, you know, since nobody else cares about them. Barefaced, honourless - the only reason they get to stay in this city is 'cause my dad pities them!"
"Saren, Saren, stop, calm down, come on, come on," Desolas pleads, but already his voice is growing dim.
"You know what? You're right," you say, and - to your own surprise - your voice is calm. "I can't beat all of you in a fight. Desolas and I can't run that fast. You busted his leg and I'm tired. You'd probably catch up with us."
"So? You ready to eat dirt, you faceless sack of shit?" Viter and the others laugh, grin, do that thing where they slap arms with one another. "Just sit down and let us beat the shit outta you and then we'll let you go!"
Perfectly calm.
Breath in. Breath out.
You stomp as hard as you can.
There's a loud, sickening crunch followed by a wet, muddy squelch; your right foot is warm and hot as blood floods into your running shoe, and something sharp cuts through the sole and scrapes at your foot.
Mansius screams.
The boys take a step back.
"That was his right arm," you say matter-of-factly as you kneel down, one leg on top of Mansius' neck to stop him from thrashing about.
"Oh, Spirits," Desolas whispers, "I think I'm gonna be sick."
You hook both hands into Mansius' eye sockets, feel your talons press up against the soft, tear-filled eyes.
"Whoa, whoa, okay, hold it," Viter shouts; the bravado in his voice is sinking away. There's fear now, terror, genuine desperation. "The hells are you doing, Saren?"
"Math," you answer, shrugging. "I can't win. I can't run. You and your butthole friends keep coming back. So, here's the deal. You stop bullying me and Desolas and all the other barefaced kids."
"Or what?" Viter asks. He's shaking. His hands are shaking.
"Or I jam my talons into Manius' eyes, and he goes blind. You'll still beat me up, sure. But," you say, smiling - and it's genuine, a real smile, because something about all this is making you feel warm inside - all the while, "I'll rip his Spirits-damned eyes out first."
They run after that. Oh, they scream - something about the Mayor kicking you out of town - but you're not listening.
"Now," you mutter, looking down at Mansius, "what do I do with you?"
"Saren."
Mansius sobs.
"Maybe I should just do it anyway. Send a message. You want that, Mansius?" You get close. Lean in. Stare deep into your classmate's sobbing face. "You want me to rip your eyes out?"
"SAREN!"
"Make you a deal, Mansius," you whisper into his ears, taking your hands off his eyes and cradling his shaking head. "When you get out of the hospital, you tell your buddies to lay off. Or I'll find you. And then you're gonna wish I'd stopped with your ey-"
"-SAREN! WHAT THE HELLS IS WRONG WITH YOU?" You're wrenched off the half-unconscious bully, dragged a few feet, and something slaps you across the face.
Hard.
You blink.
"Spirits, Saren, sweet Spirits! What is WRONG with you?" Desolas slaps you again, tears falling from his eyes. "You - you nearly killed him!"
You look over at Mansius - his breathing is slowing, his body twitching weakly. "He'll be fine," you spit, getting to your feet and shoving your brother away. "Here. Help me stop the bleeding and we'll splint his arm."
You come to your senses.
Nothing hurts. The wounds you've sustained, the exhaustion from the battle-
-what battle? Where are you?
Who are you?
You get to your feet.
Get your bearings.
You are standing on - a boat?
Yes, it's the deck of a boat - an ancient, antiquated fumunavis, with its gargantuan water-wheels and the giant smokestack sticking right out the back. The boat is chugging along, down an endless crimson river-
-and you nearly scream when you realise, behind the boat, something is coming.
It's chasing you.
It - what is it?
It has no shape. No colour. No form.
But it is chasing you. You can feel its teeth, its snarling maw, the fury coming from the nothingness.
You curse beneath your breath.
If you don't figure out a way to make the boat go faster - if you don't find some more fuel for the flames that power this vessel - you will die.
Because the thing chasing you is [ ].
And it cannot be stopped.
"I don't think - look, Saren, my boy, this isn't going to work if you don't answer the questions honestly," Doctor Fadila says.
She's a nice lady. Her office smells good. Her counselling sessions are really nice. She gives out really nice candies - the spicy ones dad never lets you get - and also, as much as it embarrasses you to admit, she is very, very pretty.
And, to be fair, ever since Mansius got out of the hospital, the bullying stopped. They don't even try to prank you and the other barefaced kids.
Breath in. Breath out.
"I'm sorry, Doctor."
She folds one leg across the other, sets aside her dataslate, and looks at you funny. "What are you sorry about, Saren?"
"About lying to you," you say quietly, staring at the ceiling.
"That's fair. Lying isn't a very good thing to do. Is that all you're sorry for?"
You look her in the eyes. "Yeah."
"So, you admit you're not sorry for putting Mansius in the hospital," Fadila offers. "Is that true?"
"I…I mean…"
"It's okay, Saren. Everything you say here is confidential - you know what that means, right?" She smiles. "You can tell me anything, Saren, and it doesn't leave this room."
"Felt good," you whisper.
"Sorry, I didn't catch that," Fadila says, still smiling.
"IT FELT GOOD!" You're shouting - why are you shouting? - and you can't stop trembling. "It felt really, really good when I beat the shit out of all those bullies and especially when I pounded the life outta Mansius, okay? I admit it! I - I didn't even want that asshole Viter to go away! I wanted to hurt Mansius! I WANTED to sink my talons into his eyeballs and if Desolas hadn't yanked me off I probably would've done it! I'm psycho, nuts, bonkers! It felt really good to hurt that pyjak-faced bullying shithead and I'd do it again if you gave me the chance!"
There's silence, for a long time, save for your breathing.
"It's okay, Saren. I'm not here to judge you. I'm here to help, alright?" The lady - somehow, even after hearing about how screwed up you are - doesn't lose her warm, soothing voice. "Let's talk about that. Why did it feel good?"
"How should I know?" You glare at her. "I'm just messed up, right?"
"Let me be clear - speaking generally," Fadila answers "yes, enjoying the pain and suffering of other people is regarded as 'messed up,' to use your words. Her tone is cautious, but not unkind. "But was that precisely why you felt good? Did it feel good, specifically, to hurt Mansius?"
"I said it did," you grumble, indignant.
"Yes, you did," Fadila notes, nodding sagely. "But I've seen your records. You've never, ever, done anything remotely violent - not even pranks, or name-calling, or bullying - to anyone besides the people who've bullied you, the other markless kids or anyone else for that matter. If you do enjoy hurting people, Saren, how come you don't just hurt people indiscriminately?"
It takes you about a half-second to remember what the word 'indiscriminate' means. You think, for a minute.
You shrug. "I dunno, Doctor, it just isn't right."
She adjusts her spectacles, leans forward in her armchair. "To hurt people unless they've done something wrong?"
"Well, obviously. You can't just go around hitting people because they annoy you or whatever," you explain. "That's dumb."
"Have you ever tried it? Or have you done it? Even by accident, I mean," Fadila replies. "Hurting someone who you think didn't deserve it."
"Well, uh, there was that one time in fifth grade that I thought someone stole Apcana's lunch, so I, uh, you know, got a bit, uh, punchy with'em," you admit sheepishly. "I felt real gross about it afterwards. Sick. For days."
Fadila snatches her dataslate off the side table and starts typing away. "Any other examples?"
"I dunno. Not really," you say, rubbing at your fringe.
"Well, that's not very many examples to work from, and it was a few years ago. But still, I think we can say at minimum you're not like Viter and his friends. You don't get anything out of the idea of hurting, let's say, 'innocent' people, hmm?"
"Of course not! That'd be…that's just wrong." You shake your head vigorously. "That'd make me no better than the bullies."
There's a very, very long pause.
"Saren," Doctor Fadila says at last, "have you ever considered signing up for the Young Spears program?"
"Hells no," you reply, "never."
"Why not?" Fadila cocks her head, the little smile never leaving her face. "It sounds to me like - well, you don't enjoy hurting people at random. You want to…would you say that you enjoy protecting people? That it makes you feel good to make sure bad people don't prey on good people? I'm sure they'd love to have you, you know. You've clearly got a strong protective instinct, and they can take that anger, that fire you have, and help you put it to good use."
You think about that for a moment. "Sure? I never thought about it much," you admit. "But I hear all those Spear kids end up going straight into the military once they start their service."
"And that doesn't sit well with you?"
"Yeah - I mean, no - you get what I mean, Doctor. I'm gonna be a trader, like my parents," you explain. "I don't wanna march around in circles, make sure my bedsheets are folded just-so and have some Sarge guy yelling orders at me all day."
"Nobody says you have to join the military when you graduate," Fadila points out.
"Yeah, but it's what everyone does, right?" You throw your hands up in the air. "It'd be weird to not enlist right away."
Fadila flashes that big, bright smile again. "And?"
"Huh?"
"So what if it's weird?"
"Well, like, you know…" You scratch at your fringe, scowling. "It'd…I'd stick out. Make trouble for Desolas and mom and dad."
Fadila raises an eye. "I think, Saren, that if 'not sticking out' was a top priority for you, we wouldn't be here right now."
You rush down the stairs-
-and there are people, so many people, crammed into the confines of the ship's passenger deck. As far as the eye can see, a million million million poor souls, huddled together in silence. Their eyes are downcast, their bodies trembling.
It isn't just you.
No, they, too, are running from the [ ].
But they are weak. Frail. Things to be protected, not the ones who protect.
They are counting on you to save them.
And you will.
You MUST.
Because nobody else will.
They will survive on their own, so long as you keep the engines roaring with fuel.
So you run, again, down the stairs-
-and find the engine compartment devoid of life.
There is only the furnace, and the anrax compartment-
-which is empty.
There is no fuel left.
None.
The furnace burns, but for how long?
How long until [ ] catches up to you and the people who are counting you to deliver them to salvation?
"Private Arterius! Who taught you how to shoot?"
You flick the safety on your rifle and stand at attention. "Sir! This Private was trained primarily by Captain Seclus Retivana, Turian Armed Forces, Retired, during this private's time in the Young Spears, sir!"
"Well I don't know who this Captain Retivana is or where he served," Sergeant Falmus barks as he leans forward, "but the rest of you shitheads could learn a thing or two from Private Arterius here!" He pulls up your target data on the holoboard in the centre of the firing range and points a thick talon at it. "One hundred shots! One hundred hits, ninety within the centre ring! None of you fat-taloned fuckups have come even within spitting distance of that! You're almost finished basic training - there's no Spirits-damned way any of you are graduating if you can't shoot half as good as him!"
Marksmanship training, you think, as another round of targets appears, is boring. Shooting targets that aren't shooting back at you is almost mind-numbing, you think to yourself as you shoulder your rifle and begin firing.
Acquire the target. Pull the trigger. Adjust for recoil, steady, stabilise, find the next target.
The ancientsclopetum Captain Retivana let you and your cohort of Young Spears try last year at the graduation party - now that was something else. The smooth wooden stock, however beautiful, did nothing to dampen the kick of the weapon. The flash of smoke, the smell of gunpowder, the jerking recoil, hot casings flying out of the rifle - that had been, at least, exciting in its obsolescence.
The Phaeston, in contrast, is dreadfully mundane. Smooth, sleek design. Recoil dampening materials distributed evenly throughout the weapon. Thirty thousand rounds, instead of thirty. Recoil impulse directed straight back into the shoulder - barely any muzzle climb to contend with. Even the report of the gun as it fires is boring - like a ball bearing rattling against the side of an empty fuel canister.
By the time marksmanship practice is done for the day, you almost feel rested. Marching, hand-to-hand combat drills, doctrinal lectures - those are all exhausting in one way or another - and yet you're looking forward to actually engaging your muscles and brain.
It is not to be. You're about to stow your rifle into its case and go meet up with Caeruns and Maxiva when someone - not Sergeant Falmus - appears out of nowhere, gazing down upon you. The woman, barefaced, perhaps roughly thirty-five to forty years old and clad in dress uniform, has an air of calm, collected coolness, a jaunty smile upon her face - but everything else screams threat.
No rank insignia on her shoulders. No nameplate on her breast pocket. No medals. No unit patch.
In the distance, you see Caeruns and Maxiva, puzzled, whispering to each other as the mystery woman smiles at you. She's tall, easily standing a full head above you, and one of her eyes is clearly prosthetic. "Private Arterius, I presume?" Her voice, the barest hint of a Northern Salavos accent leaking through, is raw and rasps in the same way Sergeant Falmus' does when he decides, on rare occasions, to not scream at the top of his lungs.
Not knowing the woman's rank - well, you think, no rank displayed means she must be pretty important somehow - you salute anyhow. "Apologies, ma'am. I'm not sure how to address you."
"That's okay," the woman replies, smirking. "At ease. You're with me for now, Private. Come along."
You blink a few times. "I'm scheduled to attend hand-to-hand traini-"
"You," the woman repeats, "are with me."
Her eyes are kind, her smile never fades, her tone is light.
But you can sense it.
Threat.
"I…ah…understood, ma'am."
"Good boy. Follow along! I have a schedule to keep too, you know."
The woman leads you out of the firing range, past the fighting pits, takes a right and marches away from the barracks. Moments later, she opens the door to the parking lot, leads you over to an unmarked aircar - a bog-standard Turian Armed Forces dropship - and opens the rear passenger door for you.
You look at her.
She rolls her eyes. "Would you like an invitation, Private?"
You get in the car, set your rifle case down by your feet and wait as the woman hops into the passenger compartment from the other side.
You were wrong. This is not a standard dropship; the pilot's compartment is blocked off from the passenger side with what appears to be thick armour plating, and as soon as she shuts her door the viewports on the doors all shut down, leaving you trapped inside the sealed metal box with the mystery woman.
"Ma'am, where are you taking me," you ask, "if you'll permit me the question?"
"Permission granted," she replies, nodding. "Mmm, right. Tertius, are we clear?"
The ship lifts off, and the pilot - presumably - speaks over the intercom. "We're clear, ma'am."
"You, Private Arterius," the woman says happily, "have caught the eye of some very special people."
"I, ah…thank you, ma'am," you say slowly.
"No problem!" She positively beams. "You really are outstanding, you know. Top of the class in marksmanship, hand to hand, doctrine, strategy, tactics, fitness. Your buddy Sergeant Falmus wrote in your records that you might just be the best squad leader he's ever had the pleasure of training, you know. No colonial markings and head of the group - and yet, somehow, you manage to command everyone around you without getting your head bashed in every night by your fellow recruits!" She pouts. "You know, I was in a similar position to you, and lemme tell you, I got beat on a whole lot. I'm sure you know how it is - a bunch of stuck-up Palaven recruits, can't believe some barefaced yokel is doing better than them."
You open your mouth, ready to mention that the woman hasn't answered your question, then decide that keeping your mouth shut regarding the matter might be the best course of action.
You just nod, instead. "Ah, yes, ma'am. I've had similar experiences - but I find a firm, professional relationship with my fellow Privates has helped smooth over any issues regarding my background."
The woman let out a little whistle. "Oh, that's very classy of you, kid. Me, I just beat my would-be assailants into paste. Enough trips to the medbay, they gave up." She sighs, and pulls out a slim, expensive-looking dark-blue chemstick from her breast pocket. "Smoke?"
You shake your head. "I, ah, don't partake, ma'am. Thank you for offering, though."
"You sure? It's good stuff. Premium minagen- none of that lethal, mind-blasting stuff. Not too much either, so, you know, gives you a little kick without messing you up."
Minagen? That's…that's a biotic enhancer, isn't it? Cabal? She has to be. You blink a few times, careful to keep your expression neutral. "Ah, I'm sure, ma'am."
"Your loss!" She flicks the power switch on its side, jams the mouthpiece between her teeth and sucks in a deep lungful; when she exhales, there's no vapour, no sickly-sweet smell. "Ahh, better. Much better. Hey, tip for you, don't ever start. Quitting's a real bitch."
For a long while, there's silence as the woman alternates hits from her chemstick and drinks long pulls from a canteen she pulls out of a drawer underneath her seat.
At least thirty, maybe forty minutes pass this way by your estimate before the drug cartridge in the woman's stick runs dry; she scowls at it, and tucks the device back in her breast pocket. "Y'know, you're not very fun," she grumbles, raising her eyes at you. "Most people get in this car, they can't stop asking questions. Don't tell me you don't have any questions?"
"I do, ma'am," you answer slowly.
She nods slowly. "Okay, so why aren't you asking them?"
"It doesn't seem like the right thing to do, ma'am."
She narrows her eyes; the expression on her face shifts into an absolutely unreadable blankness. "Really. And why's that? This question, I'd like you to answer for real," she continues, her tone suddenly dropping into blood-chilling ice.
Breath in. Breath out.
"I feel as though I'm taking an exam at the moment," you reply. "That I'm being judged at this very moment. By you, ma'am."
For a minute, there's just the hum of the ship's engines.
The woman's grin returns. "You're a smart little biscuit, you know?" She leans back in her chair, stretches her legs, and regards you with an odd look. "You're an interesting kid, Private Arterius. Fifteen years old, fresh out of the Young Spears program. Excellent at, hells, everything. Perfect grades. Perfect performance in training both before and during military intake. Well, almost perfect." She pulls up her omnitool around her right arm, and activates a text file; you can't read it from the opposite side. "Let's see here. Ah, 'strong sense of morals,' 'concern about self-worth in relation to tendencies'-"
Your blood freezes.
"-and, wow, 'deep capacity for violence and aggression which needs guidance to ensure healthy development.' Hoo, boy! That's pretty troubling for an otherwise spotless, squeaky-clean record like yours!" The woman stows her omnitool and looks at you with a knowing smile. "Man, let me tell you, just about killing a bully at the age of twelve? Threatening to rip his eyes out? That's badass, kid. Have you ever considered being an actor?"
No response.
You can't reply.
"So, uh, let's just get to the point. Turns out," the woman says, "you got screened for biotic potential during your intake procedure. Cabal was about to snap you up, but then me and my friends got ahold of your records and I'd be fucked if those idiots got ahold of you." She shakes her head. "They're good people - good soldiers - who get a bad rap thanks to all the idiots in the other branches, but at the end of the day, they're just, you know, good soldiers." She marches her fingers along her pant legs, miming two people walking. "Good little turians, marching in their good little lines."
Cabal - I was - I'm biotic? And she's not? Which means - oh, Spirits, you think, as the thought you've refused to accept as real suddenly barges into your conscious mind.
The woman's mouth spreads into a teeth-filled shape that almost, almost, looks like a smile. "Oh, you get it. You already get it. Spirits, you're gonna be great. You're gonna be a little demon out there, swear on me mum."
Blackwatch.
Spirits fuck me with a spiky stick, I'm speaking to a fucking Blackwatch Operator.
Oh, sweet fucking hells.
"I - uh - thank you, ma'am?" You pause, mind racing, a thousand words bursting to rush from your lips; it takes every ounce of willpower to not start - visibly - losing your cool. "Do, uh…am I allowed to learn the details of…uh…my new assignment? Do I have a choice?"
"Yup! Of course you do! We're not a bunch of slave-trading fuckholes," the woman says, spitting the words with a deep, simmering rage. "We do, however, kill them all the time. Sorry. Sore point. Anywho! You know what I do - well, roughly, anyway - and who I represent. I'll level with you, kid. The training is brutal. You're gonna get the shit kicked out of you every day for the next…while, and in more than a few cases I mean that literally. We'll make you bleed. We'll make you suffer. You're gonna forget what not being in screaming, agonizing pain is like. That perfect record of yours? Means fuck all once you're in. We take only the best of the best of the best. But, in return, you get to serve Palaven in a way everyone else can only dream of doing."
Your heart beats fast, fast, faster. Blood rushes through your veins. Your head aches.
"I - but - I'm only sixteen," you manage, stumbling over your words. "I'm not even finished basic training?"
"Just means you have to work harder, kid." The woman shrugs. "You in?"
You think.
But only for a second.
Who - anyone like you - anyone as messed up as you - anyone with the potential you know you have - would turn down a chance like this?
You marshal the anger.
You draw on that inner fire.
Your tone is steel.
"I'm in."
No.
No, no, no, no.
This can't be it.
No fuel.
No fuel means no escape means no hope for survival.
NO.
You refuse.
You REFUSE to die. You REFUSE to be devoured by [ ].
You've come so far.
This boat has sailed ten million miles and it will sail ten million more.
But there is no fuel.
Even if you throw yourself into that burning blaze, it will not be enough.
What, then?
This is not a navis of the ancient days, made of carved logs and furnished with wood. There is only metal around you.
Think.
Think.
THINK.
Fuel.
Burn.
Footsteps.
You whirl around.
Nobody should be here.
But there is.
Descending the steps into the engine room is-
-it is the boy, his arm shattered, his eyes pulled down by talons unseen. He limps towards you, without words, then-
-prostrates himself before you.
There is a warm, heavy thing in your hand:
A pistol.
Yes.
Yes.
You smile.
There IS fuel.
One gunshot rings out.
The engine devours his corpse, but it is not enough. It hungers.
You hunger.
Another set of footsteps. This time: a batarian slave-trader. Your very first kill. The bullet hole in his head is still fresh, the flesh sucked inwards where the round tore through his skull and painted the bulkhead behind him with a splatter of gore.
He, too, prostrates himself before you.
Fuel.
The engine flares, but only a little.
It is not enough.
You need more.
MORE.
FUEL.
FIRE.
IT HUNGERS.
YOU HUNGER.
ANOTHER SET OF FOOTSTEPS THIS TIME TWELVE SLAVE-TRADERS YOUR FINAL ACT ON YOUR FIRST MISSION WHEN YOU SCUTTLED THE SHIP THEIR BODIES WARPED BY VACCUM FUEL FUEL FIRE IT HUNGERS YOU HUNGER ANOTHER SET OF FOOTSTEPS THIS TIME A KROGAN MERCENARY YOUR FIRST KILL ON YOUR SECOND MISSION WHEN YOU SAVED THE SCIENCE TEAM ON ISTHALI STATION HIS BODY RUINED BY IMPROVISED EXPLOSIVES FUEL FUEL FIRE IT HUNGERS YOU HUNGER ANOTHER SET OF FOOTSTEPS-