Chapter 7
Terrors in the Dark
Lieutenant Cato stood outside his tent, staring up at the night sky. It looked so peaceful, the stars floating along in the fathomless depths of space. It almost made him forget that he was in the middle of a warzone.
His reflection was interrupted by the arrival of his fellow lieutenant, Acteon, who moved up beside him. "All right, dinner time," he said. "Tonight's special: dextro-amino nutrient bars with a side of wishful thinking." He tossed a bar to Cato, who stared at it with utter revulsion. Nutrient bars were the bane of military life; the thick rectangular masses of unidentifiable foodstuffs were cheap, easy to produce and a single one provided for all the dietary needs of the average soldier. They were also the most vile-tasting excuse for food to have ever been made, and every Turian soldier came to appreciate real food because of them.
"Oh, joy. I'm so happy, I could just piss myself." If the sarcasm in Cato's voice were any heavier, it would have collapsed in on itself.
"I hear that. Whoever said that when something tastes terrible, it's good for you, had never eaten one of these things." Acteon stripped the wrapper off his own bar and took a bite, grimacing in disgust. He uncorked his canteen and took a big gulp of water. "Better get used to them, though. This world is levo-amino based and our supplies have been cut off, so these pieces of crap are what we'll be eating for the foreseeable future."
Cato sighed. "The universe would be so much simpler if every race had one kind of DNA. But noooo! Nature has to have diversity!"
They shared a brief chuckle and then went back to choking down their bars. Cato once more looked back up at the sky, letting its tranquility wash over him. Acteon noticed this, and gave him a wry grin.
"Stargazing again? Doesn't that get boring at all?"
Cato shook his head. "Never. Every planet has a different set of constellations you can see. It's like going to an art gallery, free of charge. I could stare at them for hours."
"You see one star, you've seen them all," Acteon replied dismissively. "Honestly, I'd be bored out of my skull in just ten minutes of looking at them. Give me a gun and a target to shoot any day."
The peaceful atmosphere was then shattered by a scream. The distinct flanging tones identified it as Turian, and in all his life, Cato had never heard such a wail. It was of such utter despair and terror that it made his fringe curl. When it finally died, another rose to take its place, as unnerving as its predecessor.
Acteon seemed to be experiencing the same feeling. "What the hell is that all about?" he murmured.
"Your guess is as good as mine," Cato answered. "Let's go."
The two officers jogged over to the source of the shrieks. Upon arrival, they were confronted with an enlisted Turian who was pinned down by four others. Wild-eyed and screaming bloody murder, he thrashed about in an attempt to dislodge his captors. As a testament to his frantic strength, he was giving them quite a ride. The ruckus had drawn a sizeable crowd of other Turians, no doubt coming to see what all the commotion was about.
Cato stepped forward and barked, "What in the name of Palaven's holy earth is going on here?"
One of the Turians restraining the panicked soldier, a grizzled staff sergeant, looked up and gave as good a salute as he could under the current circumstances.
"I don't know, sir," he said, making sure to keep his grip on the writhing soldier firm. "Private Orthus just came running into camp, yelling something about a 'demon.'"
At the mention of that word, Orthus screeched, "DEMON! IT'S AFTER ME! THE EYES! THOSE HORRIBLE EMPTY EYES!"
Cato stood dumbfounded at the sight of this soldier so mentally devastated. Iron discipline was the hallmark of the Turian military; whether it was firefights or weathering artillery bombardments, every soldier was trained to stay calm and focused. Yet, right before his eyes, there was this one soldier, practically frothing in hysteria. Whatever managed to render the trooper so distraught was something Cato fervently hoped he would never have to see.
Cato then received a lesson in why one shouldn't give fate ideas.
It came out of nowhere, in the most literal sense of the word. A moment ago, there was nothing; then, a billow of inky shadows began to swirl about in front of the gathered Turians and the thing materialized.
Cato immediately decided that calling the creature a demon was a grave understatement. It was something that should not exist, could not exist, but there it was, more dreadful and inhospitable than mortal minds could be forced to comprehend. The thing easily topped at over twenty feet, but its height was the least terrible feature of its ghastly appearance. Pale red skin was stretched taut over its entire body, giving it an emaciated and gangly appearance. Where there should have been eyes, a layer of skin covered empty sockets. A long drooling tongue wriggled out of its gaping mouth, which was filled with more jagged teeth than it should have held. An aura of madness, terror and an endless hunger clung to it like a cloying fog.
Though Cato managed to hold onto his sanity, several of the gathered Turians did not and were reduced to gibbering wrecks. Two even seemed to die of sheer fright, clutching their chests as their hearts simply gave out from looking at something from beyond the mortal plane. The soldier who had been the first victim lay forgotten on the ground, twitching and foaming at the mandibles as his mind shattered. Beside him, Acteon muttered a potent curse, his eyes wide and unblinking. Everyone else was busy staring in stupefied horror.
As for the creature, it wasted no time capitalizing on the shock its appearance had produced. Two Turians were snatched up, wailing piteously, and promptly shoved into its maw, crunching and slurping like a varren with a juicy pyjak.
"Shoot!" Cato ordered, his voice several octaves higher than normal. "Don't just stand there gawking!"
His command broke through to the soldiers, and they unloaded with everything they had; assault rifles, submachine guns, shotguns and pistols all barked as they unleashed their storm of bullets. In spite of its apparent frailty, the monster proved to be incredibly durable; as soon as a bullet struck home, the wound it left would heal almost immediately. The thing let out a roar of annoyance, shredded bits of flesh and organs lining its teeth. The sound reverberated painfully within Cato's mind, as though someone had filled his head with sharp bits of metal and shook it as hard as they could.
The creature quickly went on the offensive. In a flurry of lanky arms and slavering jaws, the monster eviscerated or devoured any Turian within reach. Within moments, only Cato and Acteon remained, with the rest of the Turians either dead or horribly wounded. The creature paid no heed to the mewling wrecks that had formerly been soldiers and instead focused on the two lieutenants. A single stride of its long legs brought it directly in front of them, whereupon it hunched over to scrutinize them. Its eyeless gaze fell on Cato first, and he felt his body tremble so violently in fear that his muscles threatened to break bone. It let out a long, wheezing breath, carrying the reek of a thousand rotting corpses, and Cato swore he felt his skin burn as though touched by acid.
The creature shifted its baleful gaze to Acteon, who appeared to have lost the battle to keep his own sanity; his eyes remained fixed on the thing and was chanting a prayer over and over, begging any higher power to save him. None seemed to be listening, for the thing wrapped its bony fingers around him and hoisted him off the ground. Acteon's only reaction was to intensify his chanting. The creature then wrapped its other hand around him and gave a sharp jerk; a wet crack rang out as Acteon's spine broke and his chanting abruptly ceased. The cavernous maw chomped down upon his body, spraying blood. One spurt splashed Cato in his face, though he barely noticed. A few bites later, and he joined a number of his fellow Turians in the creature's gut.
Cato felt his body racked anew by violent tremors as the thing's leer was once more upon him. His mind shrieked at him to run, but he found that his legs would not obey, rooted to the ground in petrified terror. All he could do was watch as its clawed hand came ever closer.
There came a thunderous clap and, in a burst of flesh and ichor, a hole appeared in the monster's shoulder, nearly severing its arm. It screeched in agony and this time, instead of metal shards, Cato felt as if his brain was filled with white-hot razors. As he clasped his head, willing the pain to go away, he turned and saw the most beautiful sight given the present circumstances: a Tyrus, its mass accelerator cannon readying its next shot.
Another crack echoed through the air as the projectile broke the sound barrier and slammed into the creature, this time into its stomach, and a fresh howl tore from its throat. Seeing that the odds were no longer in its favor, the creature made its escape. The billow of shadows swirled around it, and then vanished into thin air to lick its wounds.
As the reinforcements began to move up, Cato suddenly felt a sensation of extreme vertigo wash over him. Colors and shapes began to blur together while voices drifted through his ears. They sounded Turian, but for some reason, he couldn't make out the words. Someone shook his shoulder, but Cato did not respond. His last thought before darkness claimed him was him wondering why the ground was rising up at an angle.
And then there was nothing.
#
Colonel Silvanus stared at the report in his hands, completely at a loss for words. Fifty soldiers dead and twice that wounded or mentally incapacitated. That part wasn't what concerned him; this was a war, after all, and losses were unavoidable. No, what grabbed his attention and put it in a headlock was the fact that, apparently, these losses had been inflicted by, in the words of eyewitnesses, "a demon." It was beyond ludicrous, but the evidence spoke for itself.
His legion was not the only one to suffer such a blow. Throughout the night, several other attacks from unnatural creatures occurred. The 53rd Marine Division was ravaged by something that resembled an oversized, mutated varren, with eyes all over its body and sporting a mass of barbed tentacles on its back which flayed any Turian who got too close. This one too retreated when faced with stiffer opposition, but by that point the division had lost almost an entire company. In another, a four-armed mountain of muscle and unbridled fury singlehandedly took out four armored vehicles; too carried away with bloodlust, it was eventually brought down, though it took several shots from three Tyrus tanks. The rest were no less brutal, each one taking a bloody toll on the Turian forces.
Silvanus tossed the datapad away and let out a deep sigh, running a hand across his fringe. Everything had started out so good, but now, the entire operation had become one giant mess. His brooding was interrupted by the arrival of Tarkin, looking as grim as himself. "Some night, wasn't it?" he said.
Silvanus snorted bitterly. "Understatement of the century. The bodies of the deceased, those that still have one anyway, are beyond recognition. We're going to need DNA records to find out who's who. That's going to go over well with their families; 'Dear bereaved, I regret to inform you that your child was eaten by a rampaging hell-beast. All we could find were a few inches of lower intestine. You have my deepest condolences.'"
He slammed a fist onto the desk in a fit of frustration. "This was supposed to be a simple mission! We go in, show these aliens they're not the big shots in the galaxy and go back to Council space for some R&R. Look at us now! We're cut off from the fleet, the aliens have been hammering us left and right and now we've got fucking demons attacking us! This whole thing has become one massive shit-storm!"
He rested his elbows on his desk, cradling his head in depression. "But you know the worst thing about this situation? We can't blame anyone but ourselves; we charged in like a horde of battle-hungry Krogan and now we've started a war with a race that will not pull any punches."
Tarkin grimaced at those words. Silvanus was right; when they had found the aliens tinkering with the mass relay, they could have just opened up a channel and told them that activating it was a bad idea. Instead, the admiral in charge had opted to blow their ships to smithereens without so much as a warning and ordered the invasion of their world. Of course the aliens were going to fight back. Why wouldn't they? They had no idea that activating relays was illegal. To them, this wasn't a police action, but an act of war, and they were responding in kind. These aliens were determined to wipe out the Turians occupying their territory and were prepared to go so far as to unleash a very literal hell to do so. The soldier in him admired their brutality and resourcefulness, but the Turian in him knew that he was on the receiving end of it.
The truth was a bitter pill to swallow.
Silvanus sighed again and leaned back in his chair. "Spirits above, it's only been a day and a half since we got here. We'll be lucky to last a week at the current rate of things." He craned his head to look at Tarkin. "In your opinion, do you think that the Council will intervene?"
"Oh, they'll intervene all right," Tarkin said. "Nothing gets their asses moving like a threat to galactic peace. If you're asking whether they'll do it in time to save our hides, don't bet on it. Even assuming the fleet gets back to Citadel space, a response team won't get here for at least a few weeks and by your estimate, we won't last that long."
Silvanus nodded sourly. "I was afraid you'd say that. I can only hope the navy is doing better than we are."
#
They were coming.
Captain Jorus stared at a screen displaying visuals from one of the Resolute Spirit's security cameras. On it, he saw a plethora of hideous creatures making their way to the bridge. One of them, a towering red-skinned and winged monstrosity, paused and turned its gaze to the camera. It then raised a tapered hand and gave a mocking wave. Jorus felt his blood run cold; though he knew it was impossible, he still could not help but feel as though the thing was looking right at him, peering into his very soul with its sickly white eyes. Then its hand lashed out and the video feed was reduced to static.
Jorus stepped back and drew in a sharp breath. He turned to look at the bridge crew, huddling behind improvised barricades with their weapons aimed at the entrance. Fear hung so thick in the air, he could almost smell it. He considered offering up a speech to rouse his men, but he saw no point. They were all done for, no two ways about it. As near as he could see, they had only two options left to them: they could either fight and die to the last, or surrender and be subjected to inevitable interrogation; and the captain very much doubted that the aliens would be gentle when asking their questions.
Gallus, you stupid, barefaced, misbegotten bastard, he thought. Damn you for getting us into this.
There was a third option for him, though. Jorus glanced down at his sidearm. All it would take was one bullet, one minute bit of metal, and this nightmare would be over for good. So simple. Considering the other options, the pistol was starting to look quite friendly indeed. His hand began to inch towards the holster—
Jorus shook his head, clearing it of those poisonous thoughts. He had a duty to his crew, so taking the easy way out was unacceptable. However this debacle went, he would share in the same fate as them.
The seconds ticked on by, and the Turians' apprehension continued to grow. Each one was painfully aware that it would not be much longer until those monsters reached them. Finally, there came a loud banging sound from the bridge's door. Jorus drew his sidearm and crouched down behind one of the barricades. The banging stopped, and for several moments, there was only silence. Glances were exchanged between crewmates, some of which carried the tiniest sliver of hope that perhaps the creatures couldn't get through. Jorus would have scoffed at that if he weren't so frightened.
Then, there came a tinny crackling sound from the door. In its center, a dark blemish appeared, which the captain recognized as a clear sign of corrosion. Jorus watched in disbelief as the spot spread until it encompassed the locking mechanism of the door. A short time later, and the area of rusted metal simply crumbled away. Before Jorus could begin to wonder what had just happened, several organic-looking balls were tossed inside. They landed, and everything suddenly turned white.
Dammit! Jorus thought. There came the squeal of tortured metal; Jorus guessed that the monsters were prying the door open and fought down the urge to fire his gun. Blinded, he risked hitting one of his crew. Unfortunately, they didn't seem to be able to restrain themselves, for he heard the telltale sounds of sporadic gunfire and shrieks of panic.
His vision returned after a few moments, but what he saw was disheartening. Three Turians had been struck by friendly fire. One was very obviously dead, given that he had a hole blown right through his forehead. As for the other two, he couldn't tell with all the blood pooling around them, but neither looked like they'd be getting up anytime soon. Meanwhile, the monsters had moved in and surrounded the crew, observing the remaining Turians with the cold confidence of predators successfully cornering their prey. The bridge crew hastily scrambled back away from them, huddling together in a tight mass, clutching their weapons in trembling talons.
It was one thing to see the monsters on a video footage; it was something else entirely to see them in person. They were massive, towering things, their bodies clearly built for violence. Each one gave off an aura of primal savagery and bloodlust that a Vorcha would pause to admire, but these were not mindless beasts; there was true intelligence in them to focus those traits, and that made them all the more dangerous. In spite of his drawn pistol, Jorus felt extremely helpless in the face of such beings.
One of the fiends stepped forward, apparently the leader judging by how the others seemed to defer to him. It was the red-skinned one that had waved at the camera, so tall that it had to stoop to walk in the room. The barrel of every gun was immediately aimed at it, though it barely spared them a glance. The creature's malevolent gaze roamed over the terrified Turians before stopping on Jorus. They locked eyes, sharp blue meeting maggot-white, and the captain suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to prostrate himself before it. The compulsion was more than just a product of intimidation—it felt right. Submitting to this demon was the proper course of action, the natural one.
The creature moved back and pointed a long, clawed finger at Jorus's pistol. It then made a downward motion, upon which it let out a deep growl. The message was clear: drop your weapons and give up. It was evident that if the creatures only wanted them dead, then they would have slaughtered them when they were blind. Instead, they were giving the Turians a chance to surrender and end this whole ordeal. Their postures shifted into an aggressive stance, indicating their readiness to attack in the blink of an eye if the Turians chose to fight.
Jorus growled under his breath. Turians were a steadfast race, willing to stand against astronomical odds. But there was such a thing as a hopeless battle, which was what the captain found himself facing. He knew that, if he gave the command, his people would open fire, but he was under no illusion that it would do any good. One way or another, the creatures were going to take them alive; whether or not they had to cripple them was up to Jorus.
With a resigned sigh, Jorus said, "Everyone put their weapons down."
The bridge crew looked at him incredulously. "Do it," he repeated. "Shooting these things is just going to piss them off. Either we surrender and walk out with them, or they break a few things and drag us out."
With that, Jorus let his pistol fall to the floor. One by one, the other Turians set their own weapons down and raised their hands in gestures of capitulation. Looking at the creatures, Jorus swallowed hard and said, "As the commanding officer of the Dreadnought Resolute Spirit, I hereby surrender to you."
#
Turians were a species that placed immense importance on honesty, and it was considered the most grievous of sins to lie, even to oneself; Admiral Gallus was no exception. He currently stood facing the mirror in his quarters, looking at his visage with undisguised self-loathing. Having recovered from his mental breakdown, he was now coming to grips with the fact that his hasty decision had created dire repercussions, not just for his fleet, but for the Hierarchy and possibly all of Citadel space.
"Over-zealous fool," he muttered venomously to himself. "You're a disgrace to your family and all Turians."
He knew what had to be done. Gallus had shamed himself and everything the Hierarchy stood for. There was only one way to erase this stain of dishonor. Without taking his gaze from his reflection, the admiral drew his pistol and pressed its barrel against his temple.
"My people, all races of the Citadel, forgive me," he whispered, tears ringing his eyes.
#
A loud bang suddenly echoed across the bridge. Immediately, the gathered monsters looked over at where the sound had come from. Their leader barked something and an insect-like creature skittered over to its origination. Jorus discerned that the sound had come from the admiral's quarters, and hung his head as he realized what had happened.
The captain was quickly brought back to the present situation. While he doubted that the fiends had understood him when he informed them of his surrender, the shifts in their postures said that they got the gist. The giant red one turned to a purplish-skinned and particularly hulking specimen with no discernible facial features, or even a proper head, and rumbled out something in its own tongue. Its counterpart made noise of what Jorus guessed was acknowledgment and then grunted at another, smaller creature, though it was still tall enough that Jorus would have barely come up to its chest. It presented a rather unwelcoming appearance, with skin a sickly gray and reeking of death. The massive beast gestured at the discarded weapons, upon which the slighter one briskly moved forward and began gathering them up; obviously, they wanted to make sure the Turians didn't get second thoughts about surrendering. As it picked up Jorus's own gun, he suddenly felt a blast of cold hit him, as though he was standing in front of an open freezer. The chill wormed its way right into his bones and he shivered; he then noticed that the guns in its arms were all tinged with frost. Jorus made a mental note to stay as far away from this thing as possible.
Once all the Turians' weapons were collected, the rest of the creatures encircled the Turians. While they made no attempt to harm them, it was quite apparent that any hint of resistance would be dealt with harshly. Jorus laced his talons behind his head and instructed his crew to do the same; no sense in giving these things a reason to get nasty. Apparently satisfied that the Turians were no longer going to be a problem, the towering crimson fiend jerked a thumb in the direction of the now ruined bridge door, a clear command for the captured Turians to get moving.
As he began to march towards the door, Jorus's foot brushed up against one of the fallen crewmembers and the crumpled form let out a low moan. His eyes widened; one of them was still alive! Ignoring his captors, Jorus knelt down beside his subordinate and checked his vitals. Now able to get a closer look, he could see that there was a hole on the left side of his chest. His pulse was weak and his breathing appallingly shallow. Jorus was no doctor, but he knew that unless this Turian got medical attention, he would die.
The sound of heavy footsteps reached Jorus as the red demon stomped over to him, growling its annoyance. It grunted, motioned for him to stand back up. The captain immediately held up his hands in a placating manner and cried out, "Wait! This Turian needs help!" He gestured down at the still form, which let out another feeble groan.
The fiend peered down at the dying Turian. It let out a derisive snort; clearly, it couldn't care less if the crewmember lived or died. It repeated the gesture, this time more violently, and snarled out what Jorus assumed to be an order to get on his feet and get moving.
"Please," he said. "He's going to die if he doesn't get help."
The creature's grotesque face twisted into a sneer, an unmistakable warning that its patience was running out. Just when it looked like the thing was going to strike out at Jorus, the purple mountain of muscle shambled up. The two then began speaking to each other in their guttural language. By the look of things, they appeared to be arguing about what to do about this delay. Judging by its violent gestures, the red fiend was all for putting the wounded Turian out of his misery. The other seemed to be appealing for the opposite.
Finally, the red monster threw up its hands in an exasperated manner. It lowered itself down until it was almost leveled with the near-dead Turian and then extended a hand. A thrill of alarm surged through Jorus; if the creature intended to finish the crewman off, then there would be nothing he could do stop it. One of its long fingers touched the bullet wound and right before the captain's eyes, the injury was sealed up. Jorus checked the crewman's vitals again; to his astonishment, his heart rate was now normal and his breathing was regular. It was as if he had never been shot, though he remained unconscious.
The monster grunted irritably and rose back up as far as the ceiling would allow. Once more, it gestured for Jorus to stand up. This time he obeyed and signaled for two other crewmen to bear their comrade. The captured Turians then filed out in an orderly fashion, flanked by the terrible fiends. They had survived the assault; now they had to weather whatever came next.
For the next several minutes, Jorus prayed.
#
Codex: Metaterrestrials
In days gone by, mothers would frighten their children with tales of things that went bump in the night. In the current age, there are many who wish that those things had stayed confined to bedtime stories. Nevertheless, creatures of nightmarish proportions do exist, and the Federation has no choice but to deal with them.
"Metaterrestrial" is the term given to the beings that exist within other dimensions. There are countless varieties of them, with hundreds upon hundreds listed in the Book of Five Shadows alone. Some are scheming opportunists, some are bloodthirsty beasts and some are the servants of higher entities. They were used extensively by the NEG's enemies during the Aeon War, from the marauding hordes that made up the Rapine Storm and the subtle assassins of the Children of Chaos to the indiscriminate monsters that the Migou unleashed before their own invasion.
The sorcerers employed by the Federation can and do summon these beings, but they are required to tread cautiously. The most commonly summoned things are those that possess only a bestial intelligence and are therefore easier to control as opposed to those that possess true sentience. Creatures such as Bahki and N'athm are both highly intelligent and naturally malicious, and so are among those whose summoning is prohibited.
Like all forms of magic, these rituals are controlled strictly. Only those magicians who are employed by the government are allowed to use summoning spells and only to bring forth approved eldritch creatures; Independents are absolutely forbidden to perform them, and violating this law carries a sentence that ranges depending on the thing summoned. A familiar or similarly low-level entity earns the summoner a one-way ticket to an OIS detainment facility and then life in prison. A sapient and intrinsically dangerous creature will likely result in the sorcerer being shot on the spot, if he's lucky.