Everything rode on the next few seconds. Failure was not an option. My hands seemed to disagree, and in fact may have found failure preferable, considering the slight tremor that ran through them, against my will. I exhaled, drawing my hand back, ever so slowly, twisting to avoid the wires. There was no room to maneuver, my grip hanging on by a thread, only two fingers clutching the key to my victory or defeat. Just a few more inches…
"God DAMNIT!" I roared, as the screw tumbled from my tenuous grip, falling back into the dashboard, lost in a mess of plastic and wiring.
A chuckle arose from behind me, accompanied by the last voice I wanted to hear. "Your shortcut backfired again, eh hoss?" Buddy stood next to me on the passenger side, leaning in, a faint aroma of cigarette smoke and smugness about him.
"There's no room for a grown-ass man to fit his hands in there, Buddy." I replied. "I'd fucking love to see you do any better."
"Plenty of room there if you take the radio out."
"My way is faster," I grumbled.
At that, Buddy let out a bark of a laugh. "Ain't faster," he said, jabbing a finger at me, "If you gotta take the dash out to fix that screw rattling around. Besides, you're one big sumbitch. You need as much room as you can get. Just take the damned radio out."
Well, now I had to, with a screw loose somewhere deep inside the dashboard. I slammed the heel of my palm into the dash in frustration, and reached for my ratchet.
"None of that, hoss." Buddy murmured, with a glance of disapproval. "You ain't ever gonna get mad enough at a problem that it solves itself."
"Makes me feel better."
"You know what makes me feel better? Fixing cars, 'stead of fixing my mistakes. Speaking of, gotta go unfuck a Chrysler." He turned to leave.
"Good luck," I called to him as he walked away. "I hear they come pre-fucked from the factory."
The only answer I got back was another bark of laughter. That was Buddy for you. He was my friend, my mentor, and frequently, my workplace antagonist. At 30 years my senior, he stood a good foot shorter than the average, with a wiry frame offset by the beer gut that had slowly encroached on the territory of his midsection in last several years I'd known him. With tanned, leathery skin like an old catcher's mitt, a coarse mop of hair that had blown right past greying and started to turn white well before all the black hairs had the courtesy to vacate, and a long mustache grown to proportions that would have been comical on a less rugged man, Buddy was every bit the picture of a blue collar worker, and had intimidated the hell out of me when I'd been apprenticed to him. Sure, I was likely large enough to snap him in half if I'd had the disposition, but he had a way about him, a swaggering confidence borne of experience, and occasional flashes of wisdom that lent him an air of invincibility. I'd come to work with him a few months after being discharged from the army. One tour in the desert, during which I'd mostly stayed on base, with a few awful exceptions, followed by months of aimless bumming about the apartment once I got back, at least until my bank account ran dry. I took a job changing oil at a local shop, and found the confidence I'd had holding a gun was nowhere to be found when it was swapped for a wrench. Buddy had taken me under his wing, and taught me most of what I know. I owed him big time, and he knew it. He liked to 'poke the bear' so to speak, testing my patience and pushing my buttons just because he knew that he could. I didn't mind, really, because once you knew Buddy, you knew that he meant nothing by it. The only people he was consistently polite to, he simply didn't care about. We had the kind of unspoken understanding often held by men who shared in a hard job – we were there for each other when it counted, and the rest of the time we'd probably just talk shit to each other.
With a sigh, I returned to the unpleasant task at hand.
It was two hours later that I found the offending screw, nestled in a little crook behind the airbag control module, sure to have caused a rattle if left unattended. By this point, the rest of the mechanics had already left the shop, minutes from close, with no work left to do and no good reason to stick around on a Friday night. It seemed far too common these days that I was the last to leave. Maybe I was taking on too much work. Maybe I was just slower than everyone else. Either way, the important part was that my day was done. The car was staying over the weekend, and I'd have to just reinstall the dashboard on Monday.
One pass through the shop, turning off the air compressors, switching off the lights, and locking the doors, and I was off – intent to put the place out of my mind until Sunday night at the earliest. Outside the shop, the sun had set already, and a soft blanket of snow lay quiet on the ground, leaving the parking lot still and silent. Winter had been strange this year. Only yesterday, the temperature had peaked in the 50's, and it had rained all night. It was a short walk to my pickup truck, made longer by the unsure footing of the icy lot. I opened the door with a great creak and a pop, a fresh dent catching the corner of the quarterpanel. She had seen better days, my truck. She was old – about 16 years old. Just old enough to rust out and break down every week, but not old enough to be considered vintage. It used to be that once a vehicle got old enough, it became cool again. I doubted that would ever happen to my truck. She started surely enough, though, with a sputtering cough and a roar, and I began my exodus home.
I was turning the bend by the old lake when it happened. I must've hit an icy patch on the road, because the tail end of my truck swung wide out, and I felt my stomach drop out as the front end torqued to the right, sending my truck skidding wide off the bend in the road, and straight towards the lake. Dammit, I knew how to handle this, but everything seemed to escape me in that moment. I could feel my foot slam on the brake, and the antilock brakes kicking back hard against my boot, through a distant haze, as if someone else were doing it.
Fuck! No, no, not in the lake, fuck!
Sheer animal panic gripped me. Cutting the wheel hard, banking into the turn, I could almost feel the tires catch, slipping and spinning to gain traction. I was already halfway down the embankment, so close to the water… There! My descent towards the lake slowed, as I felt the wheels grab hold of the loose dirt and snow. I had it! My heart beat hard in my chest, painfully hard, pressure at my temples and lightness in my head making themselves known after my adrenaline rush, but I had it. I was going to be ok. I was going to be –
What the hell..?!
Vivid blue light engulfed me. I could feel the hairs all over my body stand on end. I was… I was floating out of my seat. No, the whole truck was floating, like gravity had just… Stopped. My nostrils filled with the scent of ozone, and my mouth filled with the taste of copper. With a jerk, my seatbelt caught me as my truck was thrown back down the embankment, straight into the frozen lake. A howl of terror escaped my lips as I crashed through the ice, my head glancing off the window at the impact. Distantly, I could hear the rush of water filling the cab, as my vision softened, and a brief moment of calmness set in as everything faded to black…
"Test subject successfully acquired, excellent!" Turning to his partner, Wenon Fiks gave a brief smile. "Not bad, for new operative. Room for improvement, naturally. Vehicle almost came to a stop. Earlier intervention would have left more consistent skid marks, fewer questions. Still, all evidence clearly points to accident."
Etan Yorix shifted, his horns twitching in discomfort. "Still unsure about assignment, Wenon."
Wenon blinked, and shook his head. "Nonsense. You're doing well. A capture like this rarely goes perfectly. Fortunate that we were observing at the time of accident. Very opportunistic. Expect you will do even better next time."
"Not what I meant, sir. Respectfully, sir, are we doing the right thing? Project is morally… Complicated. Violating council first contact laws. Experimenting on intelligent life forms. What do we gain from it?"
Wenon was slient for a moment. A very brief moment, but not so short for Wenon, known for his energetic countenance, even among fellow salarians. Long enough for Etan to know he'd struck a nerve.
"You're young," Wenon started, "So certain impetuousness expected. STG doing important work. Too important for such qualms. Biotic research requires intelligent test subject. Cannot teach varren to create singularity. Cannot teach varren not to urinate on floor. Human is perfect. Capable of understanding basic commands, but still sub-optimal intelligence." He began pacing, gesticulating with his hands. "Still using internal combustion engine! Only spacefaring race so backwards is Krogan! Hundreds of languages, can't agree on one! Not even council client species require translators to talk to own people! No," Wenon said, coming to a stop, "humanity sub-optimal. Make no mistake. Despite signs of intelligence, animals with complex tools still animals. Besides, genetic diversity unrivaled among known species. Right now, salarian biotics occur approximately once per 250,000,000 individuals. Salarian biotics are objectively weaker than most council races. Cannot compete with Asari matriarchs, Krogan warlords. Not even Turian cabals. What we learn from these experiments may level the field. Worth the compromise. Worth the price."
He turned to the cryopod in front of them. "This subject… Perfect. Good physical shape. Large, for his species. Older than some previous subjects, but still at peak sexual maturity. Greater genetic diversity than 97% of all other test subjects. Ancestry traced to multiple locations across 4 continents. And most important -" He paused, and rapped on the lid of the cryopod with one outstretched finger. "Only test subject yet with previous exposure to element zero."
Etan inhaled sharply. "Wait… This is why you chose to accompany me? Thought it unusual for senior researcher to take interest in kidnap job. Makes sense now! But where was he exposed? Eezo not found naturally on earth!"
"Subject found meteorite in the desert, during military service. Kept small piece. Souvenir, perhaps. Regardless, exposure is clear. Passive scans show no signs of tumors, and early signs of eezo nodule formation. This is the subject we've been waiting for." Wenon sighed, and looked away. "Wanted to be here. This one must be preserved until data gathered from experimentation on other subjects is conclusive. Cannot afford failure on so perfect a specimen."
He turned back, making eye contact. Etan stepped back, surprised at the intensity in his stare. "Turned 34 this cycle," Wenon continued. "Never spawned. Never had time, work too important to leave to others. Had to be me. When project is ready to reanimate subject, I will be long dead. This is my legacy."
Stepping over to the cryopod, the salarian scientist leaned over the glass, examining the face of his captured human, the future of his research. A magnum opus he wouldn't be alive to pen. "If we succeed, he may change the future of Sur'Kesh. Of all salarians." He paused, his gaze lingering on the still form of Noah Cole.
"Had to be here," he said quietly. "Had to see the first human biotic."