by Joan Jett
The Illusive Man nodded. “That’s right. I can’t afford to recognize any limits on the imperative to defend humanity. Now that you’re a Spectre, neither can you. I think you know that already. You’re already abandoning the principles you claim to follow. Did your superiors in the Alliance give you any orders to attack Cerberus?”
Shepard hesitated, just for a moment. “No.”
“That’s right. You’re here solely on your authority as a Spectre. You saw a threat – Cerberus – and you took action. Believe it or not, I approve. Whether you will or no, you’ve already been placed outside the boundaries of civilized convention, out here where decisions of life and death have to be made. The survival of humanity is in your hands. Are you going to let your moral reservations get in the way of doing what has to be done?”
“That’s a false dichotomy. We can defend humanity without losing our souls.”
“An admirable ideal. I hope you don’t suffer too harshly when you discover that reality disagrees. In the meantime, I suggest you should be concentrating your energies on the real threat: Saren and his geth. I propose a truce.”
“A truce?”
“I’ll ensure that Cerberus doesn’t interfere with your mission. In fact, if we come across information that might be useful, we’ll forward it to you. There will be no reprisals for your actions on Binthu or here.”
“That’s very generous of you,” said Shepard scornfully. “What do I have to do?”
“Simply focus on your mission. Once Saren is dealt with, perhaps we’ll speak again. I think you’ll find that we have other areas of mutual interest.”
“I doubt that very much.”
He only smiled, his luminous eyes staring almost hungrily at Shepard. “Before you go, is Dr. T’Soni with you?”
Startled, Shepard said nothing. I stepped forward to stand beside him in the circle, transmitting my own image to the Illusive Man. “I’m here.”
He examined me closely. “I read your paper, Doctor. A superb piece of work. You’re to be commended.”
I felt a chill down my spine, and realized that this gambit was also directed at Shepard. If Cerberus is willing to take the idea of the Reapers seriously, then he might indeed have some common ground with them.
Shepard put his hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Liara, I’ve had enough of this place.”
The Illusive Man touched a control on the arm of his chair and vanished. The circle of light on the floor faded.
We proceeded to blow the Cerberus communications center to scrap . . . but Shepard was very quiet on the trip back to Normandy.
Chapter 24 : Canticles
20 April 2183, Interstellar Space
Garrus called my attention to the problem, coming to sit down across from me in the crew mess while I finished my evening meal. “Liara, have you seen Shepard all day?”
I had to admit I had not. “Of course, I’ve been in my lab with the Prothean artifacts. He tends not to visit when he knows I’m in full-on scientist mode, as he calls it.”
“Well, I have to admit I would find that intimidating too. But I don’t think anyone has seen him in hours. He talked to Joker and Pressley this morning, but that’s about it. He didn’t even make the rounds today.”
“That is serious.” I glanced across the crew mess toward the doors of the officers’ quarters. “Is he in his room?”
“I haven’t been able to find him anywhere else. Maybe you should talk to him.”
Something in the turian’s voice caused me to glare at him. “Is our relationship that obvious?”
“Only to people who care about both of you,” he said quietly.
I sighed. “All right, Garrus. Let me finish my meal and I’ll see what I can do.”
Five minutes later, I was ready to present myself at Shepard’s door. I touched the intercom. “Shepard?”
Silence.
I tried again. Still no answer.
Then I simply hacked the door. I might not have been up to Tali’s level of skill, but I wasn’t about to permit a simple low-security lock to stand between me and my purpose.
Shepard’s office stood silent and empty, the computer terminal turned off. I hesitated for a moment, and then went around his desk to the door to his private quarters. This door opened as well, without my needing to hack it.
I had never seen his stateroom before. I found it a small space, perhaps not quite as small as I had expected given the size of his office. Shepard actually enjoyed a little room to move around, a small couch and table, a refrigerator for his personal luxury supplies, a refresher cubicle, a small dresser and mirror.
Also a bed, of course. Large enough for two, I could not help but notice, so long as they snuggled close.
Shepard sat comfortably on the couch, illuminated by the only light in the room, a reading lamp placed on his night-stand. Most of him lurked in shadow, but I could see his mildly startled expression and the book in his hands.
“Shepard? May I visit for a while?”
“Sure, Liara,” he said, although I could hear uncertainty in his voice. He moved to put the book away.
“Please, don’t let me interrupt you. What are you reading?”
He hesitated, and then held the book out to me. I sat down on the couch beside him and took the volume, turning it over in my hand. Leather-bound, just small enough to fit comfortably in one hand, the pages of some thin material, densely packed with printed text. The book showed signs of age, wear, and long use. I found the title imprinted on the cover in faded silver leaf: Holy Bible.
“This is a sacred text?” I inquired, returning the book to him.
He nodded. “It’s the core book of one of our major religions, the one called Christianity.”
“I think I’ve heard of it. That’s the one with the god of suffering?”
Shepard smiled. “That’s . . . not quite how we would express it, but yes. This particular copy is special to me because it’s one of the few things I still have from my family. My father was a very devout man. This book belonged to him, and to his father before him. I recovered it from our home after the raid on Mindoir.”
“I see. Do you follow this religion as well?”
“I suppose I do, although I don’t practice it the way I did when I was young. I haven’t been to a worship service in . . . it’s probably been eight or nine years. I still read the Bible sometimes, when I feel the need for inspiration. There’s a lot of beautiful literature in it.”
Mustering my courage, I tucked my feet under me and leaned close to him. “Read some to me.”
He opened the book, his hands navigating the pages with the ease of long practice. “All right. When you came in I was reading from the book of Psalms. That’s a collection of religious poems. Many of them were supposedly written by an ancient king named David.”
He read:
Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war and my fingers to fight. My goodness and my fortress, my high tower and my deliverer, my shield and he in whom I trust, who subdueth my people under me.
Lord, what is man that thou takest knowledge of him? Or the son of man, that thou makest account of him? Man is like to vanity, his days are a shadow that passeth away.
Bow thy heavens, oh Lord, and come down. Touch the mountains, and they shall smoke. Cast forth lightning and scatter them, shoot out thine arrows and destroy them. Send thine hand from above, rid me and deliver me out of great waters, from the hand of strange children, whose mouth speaketh vanity, and their right hand is a right hand of falsehood.
With closed eyes, I listened to the cadence of his words, the ease of his voice as he read the familiar text. When he finished, I waited for a respectful moment before speaking. “That sounds like a soldier’s poem.”
“The legends say that David was a soldier king. I think he must have spent most of his life fighting.”
“It’s a beautiful text, but very strange. Very human, if I may say so.”
“So what is asari r
eligion like? I’ve heard you swear by a Goddess, but when I thought about it I realized that didn’t tell me anything. Presumably all asari deities are goddesses.”
I laughed gently. “That’s true. Actually, most asari don’t believe in or worship specific deities anymore. If you hear an asari swearing by the Goddess these days, it’s usually just a matter of cultural habit.”
“So what do asari believe in?”
“Most asari subscribe to a belief system called siari. The name means something like all is One. Siari asserts that at a fundamental level the universe as a whole is a single consciousness. All sentient beings are facets of this One. When we are born, the One sends us forth to live and grow and learn. When we die, our spiritual essence returns to the One, enriching it with our experiences, contributing to the pool of energy that can be used to fill new mortal vessels in the future.”
“Hmm. Is it what you believe?”
“I suppose.” I moved slightly closer to him, drawn by his warmth, his scent, his physical presence. I leaned against his side, resting my head comfortably on his shoulder. “I think almost all asari subscribe to the siari beliefs to some degree. It makes sense, given our limited telepathic abilities, our experience of joining our minds with those of a wide variety of aliens. It’s an easy religion to practice. It doesn’t make intense demands on anyone but the priestesses. One can even practice siari in tandem with other religions. I have met siari Buddhists, for example.”
“Asari borrowing from human religion?”
“It isn’t common yet, but it does happen. As I understand them, some Buddhist ideas are quite compatible with siari.”
“I suppose they would be, from what you’ve said. But you haven’t answered my question. What do you believe?”
I sighed. “I don’t often discuss it with others. I practice a religion that is no longer popular among asari.”
“What’s that?”
“It is called the Athame doctrine. Worship of the goddess Athame was once very common, and to this day when an asari swears by the Goddess she almost certainly is referring to Athame. But the practice of her doctrine has become much less popular since the rise of the siari belief.”
He set his book aside and wrapped his arms around me, embracing me gently. I relaxed and closed my eyes, feeling safe and cherished.
“So what makes you believe in this Athame?” he asked.
“I suppose it has to do with my love for antiquity. Her cult goes back into asari prehistory, and many of our early civilizations were Athame-worshippers. It’s also a good religion for a scientist. Legend has it that Athame and her emissaries taught our ancestors many practical things: agriculture, medicine, astronomy, mathematics. One of the ethical principles of the doctrine is to seek the truth through investigation and experience, never through passive acceptance of tradition.”
“I can see why that might appeal to you.”
I smiled wistfully. “My mother said much the same when I first asked to be initiated into the cult. She was known as a siari philosopher, but she respected the Athame doctrine, and she never objected when I decided to follow it.”
“So what does being a follower of Athame involve?”
“For a simple initiate like me, the requirements are not heavy. I pray for advice, intervention, or emotional support. I study the ethical precepts of the doctrine and try to follow them. When I’m in asari space, I visit a shrine or temple every few days to make my devotions.”
He chuckled. “Sounds like most Christians I’ve known. I told you we had more in common than might appear at first glance.”
“Maybe. I’m surprised by one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Well . . . I keep my commitment to the Athame doctrine private because most asari don’t share it. It makes me seem old-fashioned and unsophisticated. But as I understand it, Christianity is a very common religion among humans. Why do you keep your commitment so private?”
He remained silent for a few moments, considering his answer. “We humans aren’t as relaxed about religion as you asari seem to be. Our disagreements on matters of faith can be very bitter. Even violent.”
“You fight over religion? That’s . . . I’m sorry, Shepard, but that’s rather absurd.”
“You asari have never fought over religion?”
“Very rarely. Religion is based on myth, legend, metaphysical speculation, things it might be reasonable to believe but that can’t be proven. Why should anyone fight over something that can’t be known with certainty?”
He put a hand under my chin, gently tipped my head up so he could look into my face. “You’re serious.”
“Of course I am.”
“I . . . think we may have discovered a significant difference between asari and human psychology. We humans fight about things we don’t know for certain all the time. Religion. Political ideology. Whose sports team is better.”
“How strange.”
He kissed my forehead gently and released me to rest against his shoulder again. “We’re not as rational as asari, I’m afraid. Or at least we’re not as rational as you. Point is, it hasn’t been that long since we had some really vicious religious conflicts on Earth. It got very bad in the decades before we discovered the mass effect and came out into the galaxy. So today we’ve found ways to set a lot of that aside. Most humans are still followers of one religion or another, but we tend to keep our beliefs and practices private. The Alliance military is strict about enforcing that. The regs are clear: you’re not to talk about your religion at all, unless you’re off-duty and you’re very sure the people you’re with won’t have a problem with it.”
“So you keep your sacred book in your cabin and the subject never comes up with the rest of the crew.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t say it never comes up. Ash and I talk about these things from time to time. We’re both Christians but from different traditions. She knows the regs. She and I had to get to know each other pretty well before she would even hint at her position on the subject.”
“I see.” I inhaled and wriggled a little to settle more comfortably in his arms. “I suppose I should ask the question I really wanted to ask. What’s wrong, Shepard?”
He didn’t try to evade. “Was I that obvious?”
“I think several of us noticed. You weren’t quite yourself yesterday, after we left the Cerberus station on Nepheron. It’s unusual for you to linger in your cabin instead of making your rounds among the crew, as you have done today. Now I find you looking for inspiration in your holy book. Something must be giving you cause to think hard, at least.”
“I suppose thinking hard is about right.”
Suddenly Shepard released me, half-rose from the couch, and then settled back down, reclining at full length with his head in my lap. His hands rested on his chest, his fingers laced together. I smiled down at him, one hand resting on his, the other toying with the short hair on his head.
He closed his eyes and sighed in contentment. “What is it about you that puts me at ease so well?”
“It’s the asari mind control,” I told him.
His eyes snapped open and stared into mine for a moment, but then he saw that I was joking. “Hmm. Some humans are convinced there is such a thing, you know.”
I scoffed. “Sometimes we wish there were. It would make many things much easier.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He closed his eyes again. “Yeah, our talk with the Illusive Man is bothering me. I suppose I’m re-examining some of my beliefs as a result.”
“How so?”
“I think we can agree that Cerberus is an evil organization. Corruption, fraud, assassination, sabotage, viciously unethical experiments, who knows what else?”
“I’ll stipulate that.”
“Yet it sounds as if the Illusive Man takes the Reaper threat seriously. More seriously than the Council or most of the Alliance leadership. What happens if Cerberus steps up to defend the galaxy against the Reapers while everyone els
e is still denying the problem even exists?”
I frowned, thinking through the implications.
“My religious beliefs tell me to keep the faith, stay honest and true, fight the good fight, never give in even if it seems that everything is about to be lost. Never compromise with evil, never use evil means even in pursuit of good ends. God has promised that no matter what happens, no matter how broken the universe seems to be, all will come right in the end. Trust in God.” He sighed. “But that’s hard to do right now. If we’re facing anything like what the Protheans faced . . .”
“A trillion dead,” I said bleakly. “The whole galaxy turned into a graveyard.”
“Maybe the Illusive Man was right. Who am I to say that my moral principles are more important than all those lives? What if I’m faced with the choice to cooperate with Cerberus, or let all those people die horribly?”
“Then you cooperate with Cerberus,” I said firmly.
He opened his eyes and looked up into my face. “You didn’t have to think about that very long.”
“No. Shepard, when we think about moral issues we always run the risk of getting too caught up in theory. The pain and suffering of real people always has to trump our concern over abstractions. If your moral principle leads you to refuse to take the action necessary to save a trillion lives, then it’s a bad principle.”
He rubbed at the stubble on his cheek. “I suppose.”
“Besides, cooperating with Cerberus doesn’t mean that you have to become Cerberus. Evil people can have good objectives. You can work with them in pursuit of those objectives, refusing to do evil yourself, trying to prevent them from doing evil along the way. Who knows? Maybe they should worry about working with you.”
He thought about that for a long while.
“Shepard, my mother often taught on this subject. One of the things she said was that it’s easy to avoid our enemies, refuse to have anything to do with them, refuse to help them in any way. Anyone can do that. It’s much harder to do good to our enemies. It’s hard to be compassionate to them, to treat them as living beings with their own dignity, even when you know they will repay you with betrayal. It’s so hard . . . but it can be the most important thing in the universe, because it may be the only way to give the good a chance to triumph in the end.”