The Candidate: Private Conversation (3/18)
anonymous
September 7 2011, 11:30:23 UTC
It was half past ten. Nihlus had already searched two abandoned buildings for ‘meeting room eight’ and was running out of patience. Not that he’d been in any sort of patient mood even before setting out; he just couldn’t believe Saren upped and left him to handle the evaluation. Was he out of his twisted mind? He’d been acting strange ever since that fallout they had over cleaning the ship, of all things. Like an old married couple.
They’d had something like a fight and then Saren had told him to get the fuck out of his sight. Prior to that memorable occasion, Nihlus had only heard him curse once or twice during the entire course of his training. Of course he had done as bidden and left. It was three weeks before Saren contacted him again.
They flew here on a civilian shuttle and exchanged a total of three partial conversations: a cold hello when they’d met (just hello; no how have you been, or what have you been up to, or how did you manage the three weeks without pay and a place to stay). Saren told him then in that even, matter-of-fact voice that he’d sent the evaluation report regarding Nihlus's candidacy to the Council. Nihlus had to invest every shred of self-control in order to hide the slew of opposing emotions that had blinded and deafened him: he’d be a Spectre! That was awesome! But he didn’t want the training to be over. That was dreadful.
He paused to shake the conflicting feelings away. Not the time, not the place.
The second bit of conversation was a set of instructions during their FTL flight, about how Saren imagined the game and what sort of recruits his algorithms for “objective” selection picked out (misfits, every last one of them; Saren apparently had a thing for misfits). And the final took place before the inspection. After that was finished, he hurried to Saren’s prefab and found it locked; the trooper on patrol said the Spectre had already gone to the spaceport. Nihlus tried running to get there in time; and arrived half an hour too late, panting and sweating like a varren in heat, having learned first-hand why Ganima was a prime training spot after all.
The building he entered now seemed empty as well. He simply couldn’t wrap his mind about this camp. Where were all the people? Where were the recruits? The instructors? The drill sergeants? Where were guards and officers? Saren had told him once that these camps were a joke, that the probability of being inducted into the Spectres this way was close to nil. But Nihlus didn’t think it would be this kind of a joke. And the men in the two squads didn’t look like they were to joke with. Not at all. Misfits or not, Saren had chosen them well.
He looked behind one door, behind another, looked for signs on the walls or ceiling. Nothing.
“Look. Dad. This has to stop. I’m old enough…”
The irritated words coming from the room in front froze him still. He couldn’t see the speaker, but he thought he could recognize the voice of one of the selectees. The defiant young man with silver skin and the proud cobalt colors of Palaven.
“Why? Just because you say so? I don’t buy that. This is my decision to make, not…”
A pause. The other side of the conversation probably went into the boy’s earpiece. Nihlus considered his options: sneak back, walk right by, or stay and listen in.
“What do you mean, they never come back?”
Interesting. Nihlus decided to stay.
“It’s a military operation, Dad, of course there are casualties. We all know the risks, blah blah blah… What do you mean, ‘none’? You’re making no… Well that’s odd. How many did you say?”
Nihlus caught himself extending his neck in the direction of the voice, itching to hear the missing part of the conversation. They were obviously talking about Saren’s evaluation ‘games.’
“Look, Dad… Will you let me speak for a moment? Thank you. Listen. I can take care of myself. I’ll look into… There you go again. Can’t we speak like normal people for five minutes? I won’t… Dad. I won’t get killed. I promise.”
Nihlus shook his head. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, kid. We all get killed sooner or later.
They’d had something like a fight and then Saren had told him to get the fuck out of his sight. Prior to that memorable occasion, Nihlus had only heard him curse once or twice during the entire course of his training. Of course he had done as bidden and left. It was three weeks before Saren contacted him again.
They flew here on a civilian shuttle and exchanged a total of three partial conversations: a cold hello when they’d met (just hello; no how have you been, or what have you been up to, or how did you manage the three weeks without pay and a place to stay). Saren told him then in that even, matter-of-fact voice that he’d sent the evaluation report regarding Nihlus's candidacy to the Council. Nihlus had to invest every shred of self-control in order to hide the slew of opposing emotions that had blinded and deafened him: he’d be a Spectre! That was awesome! But he didn’t want the training to be over. That was dreadful.
He paused to shake the conflicting feelings away. Not the time, not the place.
The second bit of conversation was a set of instructions during their FTL flight, about how Saren imagined the game and what sort of recruits his algorithms for “objective” selection picked out (misfits, every last one of them; Saren apparently had a thing for misfits). And the final took place before the inspection. After that was finished, he hurried to Saren’s prefab and found it locked; the trooper on patrol said the Spectre had already gone to the spaceport. Nihlus tried running to get there in time; and arrived half an hour too late, panting and sweating like a varren in heat, having learned first-hand why Ganima was a prime training spot after all.
The building he entered now seemed empty as well. He simply couldn’t wrap his mind about this camp. Where were all the people? Where were the recruits? The instructors? The drill sergeants? Where were guards and officers? Saren had told him once that these camps were a joke, that the probability of being inducted into the Spectres this way was close to nil. But Nihlus didn’t think it would be this kind of a joke. And the men in the two squads didn’t look like they were to joke with. Not at all. Misfits or not, Saren had chosen them well.
He looked behind one door, behind another, looked for signs on the walls or ceiling. Nothing.
“Look. Dad. This has to stop. I’m old enough…”
The irritated words coming from the room in front froze him still. He couldn’t see the speaker, but he thought he could recognize the voice of one of the selectees. The defiant young man with silver skin and the proud cobalt colors of Palaven.
“Why? Just because you say so? I don’t buy that. This is my decision to make, not…”
A pause. The other side of the conversation probably went into the boy’s earpiece. Nihlus considered his options: sneak back, walk right by, or stay and listen in.
“What do you mean, they never come back?”
Interesting. Nihlus decided to stay.
“It’s a military operation, Dad, of course there are casualties. We all know the risks, blah blah blah… What do you mean, ‘none’? You’re making no… Well that’s odd. How many did you say?”
Nihlus caught himself extending his neck in the direction of the voice, itching to hear the missing part of the conversation. They were obviously talking about Saren’s evaluation ‘games.’
“Look, Dad… Will you let me speak for a moment? Thank you. Listen. I can take care of myself. I’ll look into… There you go again. Can’t we speak like normal people for five minutes? I won’t… Dad. I won’t get killed. I promise.”
Nihlus shook his head. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, kid. We all get killed sooner or later.
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