The priest intoned the First, and one by one, they were to join. It was just like during the rehearsals, only now it had to be perfect. Zero margin for error. The eleven voices, all wearing the ceremonial whites, stood around the priest in a wide circle under the gaping spire of Tricabili, a seventy-stories-high wind pipe that amplified their voices many times over until the entire city, and presumably, the Spirits above, could hear the Chant of Unification.
Nihlus was the Sixth Voice: the voice of air, of purity, of freedom, the voice of turian spirituality. Of course the priest hadn’t assigned him the role for some mystical criteria, like actually fitting the description, but only based on the colors of his voice: the easy baritone of his normal speech, codified as cloud white, the crisp tenor overtones of excitement, codified as pure white, and the husky contrabass undertones of emotion, codified as bone white. All white, and air it was.
Saren stood in front of the door to his Citadel apartment. He couldn’t remember the entry codes. It had been two years since he’d last slept here; he’d changed omni-tools several times in the interim and each iteration brought about some loss of data. He liked his storage clean. Too clean. He relied on his memory too much, but that was supposed to be safe. It had never failed him so far. He could remember the file, now. He’d called it something like, “Center in the void” and probably deleted it while cleaning, thinking it some rubbish. He’d never call it “Entry code Citadel” or “Key to my apartment,” of course. It had to be a riddle only he could answer. That was the way of a Spectre. And this Spectre would never delete files before opening them to see what’s inside again.
Nihlus went through the airlock, kicked his shoes off, and initiated the cycle by hitting the control panel with his elbow. The hangover hadn’t been bad an hour ago but it got worse on the way. Water. He needed to drink lots of water. If only he had time to stop by the pool and swim it off; if only he had a nice, deep bathtub with the…
It was dark inside the cabin. Dark and stuffy. When had he last been in here? Garrus couldn’t remember. The emergency lights from the corridor were just about strong enough to paint the vague outlines of the spartan furnishing, a fuzzy stain on the metal floor the only reflection. Nothing to see anyway. A crew cabin like any other. Well. It was still new. You could tell from the sharp edges of the bed frames and the lingering smell of paint. It wasn’t enough to drown out the reek of alcohol, though. It alerted him to the other’s presence even before he sensed movement on the cot to the right.
Everyone seemed reluctant to leave the Comm Room. Everyone except Wrex, who was already out the door. The humans dragged their feet, looked from Shepard to Nihlus and back, and exchanged uncertain glances as if they weren’t sure if the meeting was over. They weren’t the only ones suffering from the impression that it wasn’t. Tali stood next to the door, just outside the range of the proximity sensors, bending her fingers in uncomfortable ways and unmistakably staring at Garrus. But Garrus wasn’t looking back; he was saying something to Shepard, something quiet and secret-like, whispering right into her soft, meaty ear in a way that made wisps of her hair dance in his breath. Shepard wasn’t listening. She was focused on Liara with a strange expression of red-alert wariness coupled with motherly concern. But Liara wasn’t aware of it; she was looking at Nihlus expectantly, pleadingly, just about ready to fall in his arms and open the deep, dark well of her soul to him again. For real, this time, her eyes were saying. Swim, and perhaps drown together in the warm, weightless void.
