Chapter 2: Training
20 years later
The only sounds in the small training area was the wind parting in front of the fists of the young man, who was dressed in naught but a pair of home-made trousers, the sound of his breath escaping in small exhalations, the gravel shifting beneath his bare feet. And the occasional instructions of his Hanar master.
"Panther." came the soft, serene voice and immediately the young man's fighting style changed. The outer two knuckles of his fingers and his thumbs bent inwards, forming half fists. He then began a series of lighting fast punches, the ridge of knuckles striking at the throats, the ribs, the joints and nerve centers of his imaginary opponents. Mixed into this the young man threw in palm strikes and low kicks, designed to cripple an opponent by breaking their legs or the fragile bones of their feet.
"Boxing." came the voice of the elderly Hanar once again.
And once again the young man's fighting style changed. Abandoning the wide stance he had favoured earlier he drew his feet together and became constantly in motion, almost dancing on the balls of his feet. Then his hands, now bunched into fists, shot out at speed, pummelling his phantom opponent's stomach, chest and face. First he began with a series of quick strikes, hitting at a near constant rate, then he began to slow down, adding more power rather than speed. All the while he kept light on his feet, occasionally dodging some imaginary blow of his enemy's.
"T'Shoak." his master instructed, his voice never losing its composure as he gazed upon his student.
In response to his master's command the young man began the fluid leg sweeps and high kicks of the Asari martial tradition. His body was constantly in movement, bending and changing like the water in a stream. At points both of his feet left the ground and he balanced upon his hands.
"As you wish." came the usual final command for his unarmed combat training.
The young man flipped back up from a particularly elaborate kick, one foot planted at the throat of his enemy, the other at its solar plexus whilst all he balanced on was one hand, which dug into the gravel of the yard. Regaining sure footing he began using his own personal style. In it he used all the possible striking techniques he knew, incorporating his fists, palm strikes, heel strikes, his elbows, his knees and his legs. The style itself was aggressive, even in defence he used a block or a dodge as a springboard for a renewed assault, but it was not wild. Each move was surgical, precise, designed to inflict maximum damage on the opponent with as little energy wasted as possible. Eventually the youth's master called an end to the unarmed practice.
"This one suggests you take a few moments Ethan and then begin your weapons training."
"Yes master." the youth said, bowing at the waist to his teacher.
He then walked over to the side of the training yard, which was an interior courtyard to the dwelling he shared with his master. There he took a sip of water from one of the canteens he had put out on a low table. Though he refused to show it he was heavily fatigued. Sweat sheeted his body, dripped from his hair, which hung to three quarters of the way down his neck, and ran down the chiseled muscles of his back, over the tattoo that had been inked into his flesh years ago, as part of a trial of mental and physical strength.
The tattoo itself was huge, spanning his entire back. The design itself was a massive pattern of thick black lines, which ran up from his waist, intertwining and mingling with one another as they went, up over the muscles of his back and over his shoulders, down both sides of his arms until they fused and tapered just short of his wrists. At the centre of his back some of the lines also fused into a perfect circle of black ink, whilst others wound upwards around them and in this circle was a line of script, written not in a differed ink but in Ethan's bare flesh. He'd examined it many times but even with the knowledge granted to him by years of study between training he still didn't know what it meant. It had taken his master three whole days to complete the tattooing process and throughout that seemingly endless period he had not flinched, had not groaned, nothing. His master had been impressed.
The warning that it was time to begin again came as a sibilant hissing in the air. Spinning round, his canteen falling forgotten to the floor, Ethan reached out with his right hand and caught the hilt of his blade. He did it so precisely that it seemed that it had almost flown from the three tentacles his master had used to throw it to his hand.
The sword itself was three feet long, including the hilt. During the months before its creation Ethan had been told to study all the styles of blades that were present on the small data console he had been given, powered by a small generator that his master maintained. He had read up on Asari Shia knives, Turian Rackantha blades, Krogan Daknor axes and even Drell Shuhei swords but the style he had chosen from that vast collection of data was an ancient Earth weapon: a Kopis, used by the Ancient Greeks as a slashing weapon.
Upon reaching his decision and informing his master of his choice, at which point he found out that his master had had a private bet with himself predicting that he would choose a Kopis, he was led to a small shack in the forests that surrounded their abode, which was built on a peninsula of rock which jutted out into the crystal clear water of one of the seas of the planet. There, under step-by-step instructions of minute detail, he had forged his blade, using an alloy formed of Palladium, Titanium, Platinum and Iridium. He had spent days without rest heating the metal, cleansing it of impurities which would weaken it, folding and re-folding it until, at last, after five days of near-constant work he beheld the finished blade. At that moment he was sent away by his master, who would ornament and fit the blade himself.
Two nights later he was awoken by his master and bidden to shave, wash and to clothe himself in his finest garments, a set of white robes. Then, as rain poured down onto him, soaking his robes and his skin beneath, and lightning split the sky, he knelt on the hard gravel of the training courtyard and bowed before his master, who spoke words of blessing over him. As he brought his head and upper body back up he was presented with his sword.
It was magnificent. The curved blade, which had been a dull grey when he had left in the hut, shimmered silver in the lightning's flash. The hilt was the typical hook style, but lengthened to allow for two-handed use if needed. It had been carved of Varren ivory and bound with black leather. The scabbard was of heartwood, taken from the very heart of one of the great trees which reared above the treeline of the forest canopy. It was again wrapped in black leather and embellished with golden stitching. The buckle which would attach it to a belt were of the same alloy of the blade, blacked to fit in with the leather. For all the years afterwards Ethan had cleaned, maintained and practiced with it daily.
Now he swung it through the air, privately revelling in the keening sound that the sword, already warmed by his touch, made as it scythed through the air. Immediately he leapt to the attack, slight through imaginary foes, diving and rolling through the air, following up with forehand and backhand slashes through throats, wrists, stomachs and spines. Occasionally he would switch his grip, using a backhanded grip for short, quick strikes and thrusts or a two-handed grip for powerful strikes that focussed the entire power stored within the lean muscles of his arms and back.
His master, watching from the side, was almost entranced at what he beheld. The sword was not merely a weapon to his student, it was more an extension of his arm. As his student's pace increased the display seemed almost like a dance but he knew there was more to it. It possessed a primal element that, although beautiful, was lethal. Each move was a kill, or a springboard to one. He knew in his mind that his student's technique was almost perfect, he could kill anything that threatened him at close quarters but alas that was not all that battle was. And so he called an end to the penultimate part of the day's training. Using three of his tentacles he hurled the scabbard he had fashioned to his student, who caught it expertly and slid the blade into it, making sure the blade was secure within it, before placing it upon the low table at the far end of the hall.
Gliding over to a panel on the wall he pressed a button, just as his student picked up his training pistols. Immediately primitive hologram projectors purred into operation, causing images of various combatants, armed with guns to appear. As the audio system supplied the sounds of weapons cocking Ethan began.
Spinning on his heels he used his hands independently, sighting on two targets; a Batarian and a Krogan. Using his years of anatomical study he placed the artificial shots at the weak points of his targets, namely the right between the four eyes of the Batarian and back of the throat of the Krogan, which would neatly sever both sets of nervous systems.
Rolling under a hail of holographic gunfire he moved lithely to his feet, taking out an opponent to his right and front, his guns firing at right angles to each other. Sliding one leg forward and bending his other knee, so that he threw of the aim of his holographic assailants, he switched targets and focussed on two figures who had just been brought into holographic existence. Shooting the first, a human, through the knee he caused the second, a Salarian, to dissipate as the weak laser foccused at the multiple places across its upper torso. Extending his right arm left and his left arms right he put down the two holograms that threatened his flanks. Then the audio system activated behind him and, without even looking but rather letting his sense of hearing guide his hands, took out his final opponents.
As the holographic projector wound down the sound that came from his master was another set of instructions, despite the pleased beginning of the sentence.
"This one is very pleased with you Ethan. Now this one instructs you to wash up and spend your time meditating or reading, whilst this one decides what is to be done."
"What is to be done about what master?" Ethan asked, between large gulps of air which stung the back of his dry throat slightly.
"This one will tell you when this one is ready. Now either spend your time reading or meditating." And with that Ethan's master span round and moved off.
Above the sound of his bare feet on the gravel as he walked towards his equipment table Ethan almost didn't hear the SNICK of another button being pressed. But he did hear the whirring as a heavy automatic mass accelerator cannon span into life. Dropping the two practice pistols he span round. Instantly his eyes fixed upon the rotating barrels which had appeared from behind a wall panel. Blue energy spread across his limbs as his biotic powers, earned after exposure to Element Zero during development in the womb according to his master though his parents had never mentioned it, if they'd even known, and amplified using an Asari-made biotic amp which was embedded in his brain, activated.
As the cannon fired he threw his biotics forward, forming a barrier of blue energy between him and the live fire coming at him. The barrier wavered for a second but he reinforced it, the iridescent light flowing across the tattoo and into the barrier. He grimly held on, fresh sweat dripped from his brow as heavy caliber round punched into the barrier at near point-blank range. In the face of the unending wave of death coming at him he desperately tried to think of options. Multiple plans occurred to him but he discarded them until finally he settled on one.
Summoning all the biotic power he could, Ethan smiled slightly before launching all his accumulated power and the power that formed the barrier forward. It smashed into the heavy cannon, crushing the metal beyond recognition and flinging its remains against the back of the alcove it had come from, spelling an end to the danger it posed.
"That," he exclaimed whilst he tried to regain some breath. "was a dirty trick Master."
"This one is sorry for the deception," his master called from the upper balcony "But it was necessary to reinforce the message that it has always told you: "Expect the unexpected and the devious. The galaxy is not the training room." Now you may go and rest."
A few minutes later Ethan entered the room that had served as his living quarters for the past two decades. It was of a reasonable size, 10 feet by 12, and within it was all his possessions: his blade, his clothes, a desk of worn wood with a chair of the same material, his bed, a terminal that he used to study history, philosophy, biology and rudimentary first aid, a target for when he was bored and decided to play darts with a few knives, and a few sheets of parchment, made from Varren hide, and an ink well with quill. Although everything written used an electronic medium his master had advised him to take up calligraphy, due to both its calming effects on the mind and its strengthening effect on the wrist.
Moving to a clear spot he began the series of movements his master had taught him years ago to sooth tired muscles and ease his mind. Slowly he performed the Reg'Hanar, all the while mentally going over what he had learned throughout his long years of study under his master.
He scanned through his knowledge of first aid, even though he knew that Medi-Gel healed relatively all wounds there was always a possibility you may not have any. Quickly he shot through how to plug bullet wounds, stop bleeding, splint broken bones, identify internal bleeding. The next thing on his mind as his body moved into evermore graceful shapes, which he could feel draining the fatigue from his limbs, was philosophy. Mentally he recited the works of the ancient Terran philosophers, Plato, Aristotle, Socrates and the Asari philosophers T'Lara, Vasern and T'Kara as well as the others he knew of. His personal favourite was Machiavelli, a Terran philosopher of mid-second millennium. He enjoyed his ideas on politics and leadership and he had personally transcribed his Art of War and Il Principe onto parchment for no other reason than he wanted to.
Finally, as he moved onto the final stages of the Reg'Hanar, he skipped over his biological knowledge, which amounted to where to strike various species to kill quickly, and moved onto Galactic History.
Quickly he mentally reeled off lists of dates and names such as The First Contact War, which he faintly remembered being told about when he was young, the formation of The Systems Alliance, the Salvation of the Drell, The Morning War, the Krogan Rebellions, The Rachni Wars, The Formation of The Citadel Council. Then he turned to Pre-Council history he continued mentally reviewing his knowledge until he finally came upon the subject that formed the main part of his historical education: The Protheans and their destruction.
"The Protheans are an extinct alien race which mysteriously vanished over 50,000 years ago." Ethan mentally recited. "The only known space-faring species of their time, the Protheans arose from a single planet and developed an immense galaxy-wide empire. Not much is known about them, but many of their artifacts, ruins and technology, including the Mass Relays and The Citadel have apparently survived the ages.
As to their destruction, many theories try to explain their total annihilation. Some historians believe the Protheans destroyed themselves through a huge and utterly destructive civil war. Others say that they died from a disease that not even they could protect themselves against. A popular theory is that they died out due to overpopulation, similar to what almost happened to the Drell but on a galactic scale. And then there was the theory nobody wants to believe, but that had persisted through the ages.
The Reapers. A highly developed race of sentient machines who reside in Dark Space until, every 50,000 years, they return and cull the galaxy of sentient life. It's absolute lunacy, might as well call them the wrath of an angry god. But then again, Master believes in them, and he has never seemed a simple or whimsical being. Hell, he even only believes in The Enkindlers due to it being better to believe and be wrong than to not believe and be wrong."
Ethan couldn't help it but, against the scholastic nature of his mind which demanded proof, something niggled in the back of his mind, saying there might be something to this Reaper idea.
Jolting himself into full consciousness Ethan finished the last movements of the Reg'Hanar, sliding his left foot slowly back across the floor to its position beside his right and letting his arms fall back to his sides. Casting aside the upper cover on his bed he flopped down upon it and closed his eyes, trying to get a few moments rest before his master summoned him again.
He is standing upon a desert world, the sand beneath his feet the same burnt orange as the sky. Before him lies a great sand dune, towering above him, taller than even the trees that grow deep in the forests of his home. He doesn't know why but he knows he must climb it.
The climb is hard, he stumbles on the shifting sand. But he rights himself and continues on, each step displacing more and more burnt orange sand, which trickles down behind him. Finally he reaches the top of the dune, his legs strangely do not feel fatigued, despite the climb.
He stares down from his vantage point and his eyes alight on a verdant oasis. Crystal clear water glimmers in the sunlight at the center of it whilst all around figures relax and play. He sees Humans, Salarians, Asari, Turians, Hanar, Batarians, Elcor, Volus, Quarians, Krogan and even Vorcha totally at ease. Young ones play in the water, their shrieks of joy carrying to him.
"Ethan!" a young woman with long blonde hair, standing at the oasis' edge, calls to him, a powerfully built man beside her. He feels he knows the pair but he cannot place it.
"Come on!" the man calls, waving him over. He feels joy at their presence; brilliant, boundless joy. Unbidden his legs move forward, taking him down the slope towards the pair.
He only gets a few steps and then the world turns dark. He looks up and in the sky their sits a huge dark shape, filling the sky from horizon to horizon. Then a beam of lights flashes from the darkness at lays waste to the oasis. The shrieks of joy turn to shrieks of pain. Bodies of every species and every age lie upon the ground, burnt beyond all recognition. The trees and grasses surrounding the now boiling water turn to ash and still the pair of humans keep smiling and waving him over, oblivious to the destruction behind them.
The beam fires again, heading straight for the pair...
"NO!" Ethan screamed, throwing himself upright. A cold sweat covered his body, evidence of the nightmare he had just experienced.
Swinging his legs he sat upon his mattress, his head in his hands, trying to make sense of the nightmare. It had seemed so real, so vivid. And those pair of humans who had called to him, who were they? Why had his subconscious mind created them? And as to that dark shape-
His thoughts were derailed by the presence of his master at his door. Immediately he dropped to the floor, his forehead resting upon the wooden boards.
"Ethan," the Hanar intoned, its voice carrying a subtle mixture of confusion and concern. "This one wishes to ascertain your current mental and physical status. It was on its way to talk to you when it heard you cry out. Are you alright?"
"Yes Master," Ethan replied, keeping his head bowed "Simply a bad dream."
"This one does not remember its instructions supplying sleeping as an option." the Hanar reproached his relatively young student.
"Indeed you did not Master."
"Then why is it that you were sleeping, for how else could you have been dreaming?"
"The need for such a rest were too great master, for no man can fight beyond his means, no matter how eager."
Unseen to Ethan his master nodded slightly, recognising the words of the ancient Terran poet Homer. "This one finds such an excuse acceptable. Now as you are awake this one believes it is time to inform you of the final part of your training."
"Final part, master?" the young man asked, incredulously, raising his head to look at his teacher.
"Indeed. This one has one final task for you to complete. In the hills to the west there is an old ruin. You are to travel there, armed with only your wits, and make camp for the night. When dawn arrives you will return and tell me of your journey. You have until dawn tomorrow to pack and make ready for the trial ahead."
The next morning, as the sun just broke over the horizon to the east, its first rays spreading over the glistening waters of the sea, Ethan stood at the threshold of the house he had lived in for around two decades. From the threshold he could see his objective faintly in the distance, the hills towering above the treeline in a hazy undulating pattern. Stepping onto the the dusty track, had formed in the surrounding thin grass by his passage over many years, he turned and bowed to his master, who bowed in return, kneeling forward slightly on his tentacles.
Then he picked up his pack, which contained his tinder and flint, a small tent and the miscellania that aided in its construction, bare rations and a length of rope, and swung it across his broad shoulders. He carried no weapons and had given his word to his master not to use his biotics against anything that might threaten him, to survive the test he could use only his mind and whatever he could fashion himself.
And so, taking a deep breath, Ethan started out on his final test. Standing just within the doorway his master watched him go. He jogged down the winding path that led down the peninsula to the mainland, he jogged past the clearly where he would sit and simply listen, in order to develop and improve his hearing, and past other places he would use for training before finally his form was lost within the towering trees, the vines, the bushes and the shadows of the forest.