Author's note: This is my second attempt at a novelization fanfic. I tried writing one (with the same principles and name as this one) for the first game, but after about 12 pages or so it turned out to be crap. This one's going much better so far. If you like this, be sure to follow and favorite and stuff; I'll try to post new chapters every two weeks (with school and everything, I don't have much time to write). Also, feel free to send me a message with any suggestions you may have about how this story should play out. I'm open to criticism, but keep in mind I'm a junior. From a public school. In Los Angeles. In Reseda (you get the idea, I didn't go to BAaT). Also, I don't proofread (nor will I) these author's notes, so the story itself is much better.
Dreams are like stars … you may never touch them, but if you follow them they'll lead you to your destiny. – Anonymous
A man sat in a dark room aboard an uncharted space station, gazing out of a glass wall at a giant star, its brilliant red and blue hues reflecting off the mirror-like floor. In front of him was a wide array of holograms, each divulging mission reports or statistical charts, but he did not seem to be paying them any mind. All of his features were concealed save his eyes, which glowed bright cyan, likely from cybernetic modification. Despite the darkness, one could observe that he was dressed in business attire, the dim light providing contrast between his suit's jet black jacket and stark white shirt. As he looked out, pondering, he would periodically take a long draw from a loosely held cigarette, exhale the smoke, and tap off the remaining ash into a small tray built into the armrest of his chair. A tall, slender woman with straight black hair descending past her shoulders stood a few feet in front of him, beyond the holograms. When she began to speak, his eyes turned toward her, fixing her with a static, steadfast stare.
"The Shepards did everything right." She spoke placidly, her accent tinged with possible British ancestry. "More than we could have hoped for. Saving the Citadel - but leaving the Council to die. Humanity's place in the galaxy is stronger than ever," She turned her head to look at him, "… and still it's not enough."
The man gave a knowing nod. "Humanity may control the Council, but the Shepards remain our best hope." His voice was calm, devoid of attachment.
The woman swung around and started towards the man, revealing rich violet eyes beneath delicate eyebrows, cheeks neither plump nor gaunt, and a slender jaw. Her black and white skin tight outfit magnificently accentuated her curves, of which she had no short supply. She passed through one of the holographic panels separating her from the man, causing it to shimmer with distortion. "But one of them is in the hospital, and the Council is sending the other to fight geth. Geth! We both know they're not the real threat - the Reapers are still out there."
An assistant walked up behind the man and handed him a data pad. After quickly glancing at it, he held it out for the woman, and spoke. "Then it's up to us to stop them."
She took the data pad, intending to review it in detail later. "The council will never trust Cerberus. They'll never accept our help, even after everything humanity has accomplished. But the Shepards, they'll follow them. They're heroes, bloody icons. But they're just two people. If we lose them, humanity might well follow."
The man leaned in slightly, and, after a long drag from his cigarette, commanded, "Then see to it that we don't lose them."
The Normandy, a small Alliance cruiser barely over ninety meters in length, orbited the icy planet Alchera, the planet's eastern hemisphere illuminated by the yellow dwarf Amada. This is the second time they've scoured this star system, and so far there was no sign of anything geth. They were about ready to head out, only scanning the planet again for the sake of fastidiousness.
A woman dressed in an Alliance blue jumpsuit sat alone in the captain's quarters, gaze fixed on the computer screen in front of her, the bright orange glow reflecting off her emerald green eyes. A small nose, thin jaw, and full cheeks made for lithe features, fitting well with the rest of her body, which was built like a dancer's; thin, flexible, and nothing too big or too small. Her dazzling face was marred only by a thin, inch-long scratch bisecting her left eyebrow towards its tip. If she were standing, she'd be just under six feet tall; shorter than most soldiers, but, as many who worked with her discovered, size isn't everything. Not by a longshot. The insignias on her shoulders identified her as Lieutenant Commander. The name emblazoned on the dress blues hanging by her bed read Shepard, Lillian.
Her fingers danced along the holographic keyboard as she flipped through various interfaces, stopping once she reached her email. Amazing how much junk mail made its way past her account's defenses. She sometimes wished that the Council would let her summarily execute the people who send this crap, but there are some things even a Spectre isn't permitted to do.
Spectres (an acronym for Special Tactics and Reconnaissance) are elite operatives handpicked by the Citadel Council to essentially take out their dirty laundry. When sent on a mission, it is entirely up to the Spectre's discretion how to accomplish the given objective, even if their methods break intergalactic law. This nearly boundless freedom is quite controversial; some believe that no one should be held above the law, while others feel that the galaxy needs people who can get the job done without being held back by oceans of red tape. Lillian Shepard and her brother were accepted into their ranks as the first human Spectres after they exposed the rogue turian Spectre Saren Arterius as a traitor to the Council. However, they were considered for the positions even before that, in lieu of their impressive service records and countless special commendations.
As she sorted through her mail, one message in particular caught her attention; it was from her brother, John. She opened the attached file, and his upper chest and head popped up on screen amid the backdrop of a hospital's inpatient wing. His hair, buzzed to about 1 millimeter long, melded seamlessly with his ever-present two day stubble. All of his features were large and strong, from his jaw to his nose. His blue eyes gleamed beneath full brows, complimenting the smile on his face. A scar on the left side of his head stretched from two inches above his hairline straight down to the middle of his forehead, making his dome look like the silhouette of a planet. He was wearing a black T-shirt with an obtrusive N7 printed on it. He stood straight, arms casually at his side, so someone else must have recorded him. It was most likely their turian friend and comrade-in-arms Garrus Vakarian, as he was currently taking his shore leave on the Citadel, where John was medically incarcerated.
Lillian was glad to see her brother standing, as his right leg had to be replaced after a large piece of debris fell on it during their mission to stop Saren. Out of the entire squad, that was the only, and quite humiliating, casualty. It would appear that the doctors successfully integrated the artificial limb with his nervous system. Thank God for modern medicine, she thought.
"Hey sis, just wanted to send you a status update," he spoke aloofly. "The doctors say I'll be good to go in a couple of days. It's about goddamn time, too; I've been going stir crazy in here. I mean, there are only so many times you can watch Blasto before it loses its charm, not to mention the food. All they have here are these weird salarian slugs and ramen noodles. I don't think I have any hydration left." His smile widened.
"Hey John, should I show her the leg?" Garrus' voice could be heard directly behind the camera. Lillian remembered learning something in high school biology about his species having two larynxes, which were responsible for their double toned voice.
John nodded, and the camera angled down to reveal the limb in all its glory. What wasn't covered by one his short's sleeves looked one hundred percent organic. He wiggled the toes of his bare foot to prove he had full control over them. Some of Garrus's sandaled right foot managed to make its way into the shot, its gray, talon-like phalanges opposed by the bright white floor. The camera panned back to John's face. "Pretty cool, right? They cloned my skin to make the cover. It wasn't technically necessary, but I really don't want a leg that looks like it came off a geth. Well, anyway, I guess I should tell you the news…" he paused, as if searching for the right words, fiddling his thumbs. When he spoke again, his tone had changed, becoming more serious. "Uh, yesterday, Anderson told me that I'm gonna be captaining another ship. He said it's really similar to the Normandy; it's a frigate with the same prototype stealth system and drive core. So, I guess the ship is all yours, no more splitting the command with your little brother." He sighed, trying to make it sound relieved to mask his disappointment. "It's not an Alliance ship though, so I can name it pretty much anything I want." His smile returned. With a dramatic wave of hand, "I'm thinking I'll call it The Shepherd's Ghost." At this, Garrus spun the camera around so his face occupied the entire screen.
Like all turians, Garrus was covered by a semi-metallic carapace that most species on his homeworld, developed to ward off harmful rays from the sun not blocked by the planet's weak magnetic field. This made his skin (scales, whatever) appear a pretty light shade of gray. His deep blue eyes twinkled amidst their large, black sockets. Two large, flanged mandibles took the place of cheeks. Right now, they were slightly parted in amusement, so several of his sharp pointed teeth could be seen. As he shook his head in condescendence Lillian could see the long, bony fringe that ran along his scalp and protruded almost half a foot from the back of his head, as well as the thick plates that covered the back of his neck. Lillian found it odd to see him without the visor he usually wore over his left eye. It had become canon.
When the camera shifted back to John, it felt like an eternity had passed, when it had actually been only a few seconds. "Clearly Garrus doesn't approve, but I think it's a clever play on words." Lillian was confused for a second while she remembered what he was talking about. "Well, sucks for him, cuz that's where he's spending his next tour. Now Garrus, before you get mad, just let me say two things: it has a bar, and it's stocked." If the turian was going to protest, the promise of booze stopped him dead in his tracks.
Lillian smiled. Since John and Garrus met, the two had been practically inseparable. Though Garrus's combat style more mirrored her own, he had taken a liking to John because of their similar philosophies; get the job done and damn the consequences, and do it as drunk as humanly (or turianly?) possible. Though they never went into battle liquored up, their down time on the Citadel was sometimes spent in constant inebriation. Lillian seldom indulged, and she preferred to be more deliberate, careful, and overall more compassionate in her operations. That's what separated her from John, and their conflicting views often created conflicting conflicts. Their biggest dispute to date had to be after their mission on the planet Virmire.
Saren (the bastard) was breeding an army of krogan, the war-loving people of Tuchanka, in a secret facility to help him take the Citadel. In so doing, his scientists discovered a cure for the genophage virus, a sterility plague created by the salarians and administered by the turians to end the krogan rebellions. It makes only a few out of every thousand pregnancies carry to term. Now, the krogan are a dying breed, and their lust for battle isn't helping them stay alive long enough to reproduce. One of their squadmates, a krogan named Urdnot Wrex, was less than happy to hear that they were planning to destroy the facility. He and John had a Mexican standoff, each training their gun on the other, waiting for one to back off or make a wrong move. John would have pulled the trigger, would have killed his friend (albeit a crazy friend) for the sake of the mission if Lillian hadn't talked Wrex down. Garrus later told her that he also would've been prepared to kill Wrex if he were in John's shoes. Despite their differences in ideologies; however, Lillian knew that John and Garrus would never let an innocent come to harm unless it was absolutely necessary; that's what set them apart from the man they were trying to stop, so they only squabbled some of the time.
While she was heartfallen to hear he was leaving, Garrus would be much better off, and happier, with her brother. Plus, that meant that she wouldn't need to stock dextro-DNA food anymore. Oh wait… we still have Tali. Shepard nearly forgot about her quarian friend who so loved to hide herself down in the engine room. Never mind.
The video was coming to a close. "So, when you're done with whatever the hell it is the Council has you doing, be sure to pay me a visit, preferably once I've busted out of here." The message closed as Garrus cut the feed.
Lillian was about to move to her bed, intent on getting a good night's rest, when a shipwide red-alert sounded, coupled by flashing red lights. Adrenal glands pumping, Shepard ran to her locker just across from her room, by the med bay. She hastily began putting on her hardsuit, and she sincerely hoped that this was just a prank being pulled by her pilot. All doubts of the severity of the situation vanished as an explosion rocked the ship, throwing her to the side as she secured her greaves. Whoever was attacking was packing enough firepower to completely bypass their kinetic barriers. This did not bode well for the crew of the Normandy.
Flight Lieutenant Jeff "Joker" Moreau was in heaven whenever he was at the helm of the Normandy. To him, he was more than just its pilot; Normandy was his baby, his life. If he could mate with it, anyone'd be damned to think he wouldn't. Right now, he was lying back in his chair, occasionally sitting up to make a minor course adjustment. When the ship's in orbit, it doesn't demand much attention. Besides, his two copilots were more than adept to make sure the ship didn't crash land on Alchera. A soft ping from one of his monitors prompted him to lean forward, and he fixed his forest green eyes on Engineer Adams's report, stroking the strands of his rough beard, which he would never get rid of. Engines were nominal, kinetic barriers at one hundred percent, and the mess sergeant was making brisket for dinner; life was good.
"Four days of searching up and down this sector, and we haven't found any sign of geth activity." Joker turned his head towards the ship's Executive Officer, Navigator Charles Pressly, who was making his way to the bridge. A wreath of white hair encircled his head, a testament to his age. He tapped the ensign on Joker's right on his shoulder, relieving him of his shift. He gratefully started for the stairs on the other end of Combat Information Center, better known as the "sea I see", no doubt to catch some food and shuteye.
"Three ships went missing here in the past month. Something happened to them," the pilot said as Pressly sat down.
Pressly turned toward Joker with brows furrowed. "My money's on slavers," he replied, a look of disgust spreading across his face. "The Terminus Systems are crawling with them."
The ensign on Joker's left tapped the holographic display in front her several times as she, with barely contained concern, voiced, "Picking up something on the long range scanner. Unidentified vessel. Looks like a cruiser."
Joker bolted upright in his chair and looked at a panel detailing the ship. "Doesn't match any known signatures," he declared, curiosity piqued. They were safe; even if the ship had hostile intentions, they'd never find the Normandy. Their stealth system trapped the ship's heat emissions, blocking enemy ladars (Laser Detection and Ranging) from picking up their presence.
The ensign then said something that made Joker's blood chill, "Cruiser changing trajectory; now on intercept course."
Pressly chimed in, "Can't be. Stealth systems are engaged, there's no way a geth ship could-"
"It's not the geth," Joker interrupted. "Brace for evasive maneuvers!" he yelled, slamming his finger on his console, putting the ship into red alert. He got his first good look at the unknown vessel when the Normandy's scanners assembled its image on a monitor to Joker's left; it was almost one kilometer long, and had what looked like giant rocks spanning its length. It was charging its main gun; a bright yellow orb was increasing in size and intensity in an otherwise dark chasm at the ship's helm. Without even aligning them with its bow, the cruiser fired, its attack coming at an angle thought not possible from a ship its size. A devastating beam of energy tore right through their shields, ripping the outer hull above their heads to shreds. Pressly's console exploded in front of him, and he crumpled to the floor, dead.
"Pressly!" shouted the ensign as she moved to get up. Before she could, however, a similar explosion propelled her forward, and her head struck the ground, killing her.
Joker began to mumble damage reports, but only he was near enough to hear them, "Kinetic barriers down, weapons offline, multiple hull breaches." As the blaze behind him spread, he yelled, "Somebody get that fire out!"
Another blast echoed through the ship, rendering one the Normandy's thrusters nonfunctional and no doubt killing more of the crew. A plasma barrier materialized behind Joker; an automated defense designed to prevent decompression of the cockpit. It was a good thing too, for the next shot tore the roof off most of the CIC. He turned back to see no one in what was left to the room, which either meant that they reached the safety of the life shuttles or they got spaced. On the plus side, the fire was out.
Shepard had just finished making preparations for the ship's emergency beacon, which would broadcast a distress signal to the Alliance from the planet below. She was in a short hallway filled with cryo pods, and fire was threatening to trap her in a corner. Above the explosions and the screaming, she heard the familiar voice of her squadmate Staff Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko calling to her. "Commander!"
She fixed her helmet to the rest of her suit and checked the pressure seals before she turned to him. He was also wearing his suit, the glow of his technician helmet's eyes obscuring his own, which were no doubt filled with apprehension. Her own helmet's visor was currently polarized to shield her eyes from the bright explosions. "Distress beacon is ready for launch," she relayed coolly.
"Will the Alliance get here in time?" he voiced with concern.
A blast rocked the ship, forcing them to steady themselves. She yanked a fire containment unit off the wall and thrust it into Kaidan's hands. "I'm not doing this just so they can find our frozen corpses," she said as Kaidan spewed white clouds from the extinguisher. "Get everyone onto the escape shuttles."
As she worked in tandem with him to put out some of the fires blocking their path, he conveyed, "Joker's still in the cockpit; he won't abandon ship." He turned to face her, and with foolhardy bravado declared, "I'm not leaving either."
Lillian wasn't about to let him or her pilot go down with the ship. "Get to the damn shuttles!" she ordered. "I'll haul Joker's crippled ass out of here."
"Commander…," he tried to protest.
"Get the hell out of here!"
He nodded, despite his opposition, and ran to the shuttle bay to start loading people onto the shuttles. She knew that Kaidan would carry out her order; his subordinate and personal love for her wouldn't let him disobey. She felt the same way about him, but she'd never say it; it would go to his head. The first time things between them got… intimate, was before their sortie on Ilos. Since then, it's been their little secret (Joker knew about it of course, but he was sworn to not tell on pain of death). She didn't want something like that broadcast to the whole ship; she'd never hear the end of it. Lillian knew her brother had feelings like that towards Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams. That is to say he did, before…
Shepard's thoughts were interrupted as another shockwave sent a tremor through the ship, momentarily throwing her off balance. With a start she realized that her current objective was to save her helmsman, a proverbial dude in distress. She began running to the bridge, hand out to protect her from the fire.
It was a common misconception that the shields built into a suit of armor protected against all forms of damage. As the name "kinetic barrier" suggests, it repels objects traveling above a certain speed, like bullets, particle beams, even punches (if they're swift enough). The suit itself is hardened to protect against extremes of pressure, extremes of temperature, dangerous chemicals, radiation, and explosions. Shields don't block these aforementioned dangers, but they can deflect, say, the shrapnel from an explosion, or the tiny globules of burning liquid spewed by a flamethrower. Rain presents a problem for the shields; however, as they can get overtaxed trying to repel all the little drops. Anyway, fire was hot enough to burn Shepard through the suit, thus her hand was thrust outward to feel for the thermal menace.
She made it past the mess hall and up the stairs in less than ten seconds, but when she opened the door to the CIC, what little atmosphere remained was sucked into space. She would've been as well, if not for her grav boots, which instantly activated upon crossing the threshold into the vacuum. The CIC's artificial gravity had failed, making the walk to the bridge slow and deliberate as she navigated the zero-G environment. Chairs and random effects were floating around, and would list away lazily if Shepard so much as brushed them. Beyond the plasma barrier protecting the cockpit some twenty five feet away, she could see Joker's arms pop in and out of view as he scrolled through various screens on his console. When she passed through the barrier, she instantly felt gravity return. Joker was wearing an oxygen mask, as the air was no longer breathable, but it would not save him from the vacuum of space if the barrier fell. Stepping over the copilots' bodies, she ran behind Joker's seat. "Come on Joker, we've got to get out of here!"
"No!" he shouted, still manipulating the various panels in front of him. "I won't abandon the Normandy! I can still save her!"
"The Normandy's dead – just like us if we don't get the hell out of here!"
"No!" He was unyielding. "We just have to -" a look of absolute horror engulfed his face when he saw the enemy ship's display. "Oh no. They're coming around for another attack!" As if to add drama, another ray ripped through the floor a few feet behind them, further compromising the deck below. That barrier wouldn't be up for much longer. Without waiting for compliance, Shepard grabbed Joker roughly and carried him to the pilot's escape pod. "Ah! Watch the arm!" he yelled, having finally given in.
Once she made sure the pilot was secure, she began to enter the pod, which, though smaller than the rest, had room enough for four. But before she could get in, another shot from the cruiser disabled gravity, causing her to be knocked away. She heard Joker scream her name frantically, as he struggled to get out in an attempt to rescue her. In a final act of gallantry, she slammed the eject button by the entrance before he could leave. Just as she did so the field fell, the wind taking her further into space. One final detonation sent the Commander spinning into the frame of the wreck that was once her ship, sending crippling pain through her body as her neck and extremities struck the hard metal. When Shepard's vision cleared, she saw the Normandy, what was left of it, sailing toward the planet below. As she gazed, horrorstruck, angry, she felt an unbearable coldness creep along her body. Her fears were confirmed when a red warning flashed across her HUD; the pressure seals were compromised, and her oxygen supply was now feeding the ever hungry vacuum. Dying from asphyxiation, she futilely grabbed her throat, gasping for air, as gray fog condensed on her visor. As she fell to the planet below, her final thoughts were of her friends, her brother, and Kaidan Alenko.
So, as you guys can see, my story will deviate from the game from time to time. For instance, in case you didn't know, the ship wasn't orbiting Alchera when the game starts, it had just popped out of FTL. I also invented words that I know don't exist but that should exist, like horrorstruck and shockwave. Anyway, I'll shut up now.