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Ember Sky
The Enforcer
The engines of the ship droned on like combat drones, buzzing and humming from all sides as though escaping the very engine compartments themselves.
The Ember Sky had set out from the Citadel of Council Space to cross the border between it and the Attican Traverse in hours. Those hours were proving to be too long.
If he were a batarian then he might have shot the walls. If he were a krogan then he might have pushed the batarian’s head into the wall. If he were a human then he might have talked the krogan and the batarian into banging both their heads against the wall.
Human, krogan, batarian, salarian, asari—none of them mattered in that moment as much as that moment meant to one turian. This isn’t like me, he thought as he cradled his head in the cradle that held his body. The bed was too soft where it should be firm; too much of a cloud in contrast to a body that bore too much bone in comparison. A bed for humans. For fragile, flimsy forms. No bed for a turian.
His roommate was fast asleep. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t morning. It wasn’t evening. It was no time amid time that meant nothing in the depths of space. Still, the crew and company of the Ember Sky had beckoned bedtime 6.23 hours ago. To still be snoring so soon meant that the human in the bunk bed was quite a fool indeed.
It wasn’t exactly the turian’s choice. “I am Voram Braturius,” he had introduced himself when first boarding the starship. “The upper echelon of the Turian Hierarchy recommended me and I will therefore need my own quarters.” He had said.
“Sorry, sir,” the human had apologized, not that it was worth much. “Unexpected maintenance in the west wing, right where we intended to place you, sir.” The human shrugged. “Something about a...a…’krogan explosion’ was the phrase I think...though no explosives per se…”
So many eyerolls later and Voram Braturius, son of Primarch Talus Braturius, former hastatim turned esteemed security enforcer, was bunking it with some fool of a human who could not count past ten before falling asleep.
This is my punishment, Voram lamented. I will spend this journey into the unknown reaches waking beside a being with more fat on his person than a varren steak. The turian sighed, slipped one hand beneath his head on the pillow, and lifted a datapad with the other.
Jarlok and Damad was the war story that morning, or whatever time it was. Whatever, it was a tale that would keep the turian awake until time would call to leave his quarters or beat to quarters—or until he beat his human of a roommate to death with the datapad for snoring too loudly, of course.
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