September 17th, 2185

Arcturus Station

Admiral David Anderson hated waiting.

He'd never been much for it, even back during his days as an N7. In the marines your personal motto was "hurry up and wait", and God have mercy if you didn't have the patience for it. Anderson had always been impatient, but he'd always managed to put a clamp on his anxiousness enough to give the appearance of control; something that had only become more difficult as he'd climbed in rank. Lieutenants had to be calmer than sergeants. Captains had to be calmer than lieutenants.

More importantly, Anderson hated waiting for something he wasn't looking forward to. Nothing made doing nothing worse than knowing that soon you were going to have to do something you hated. That was something else that only got worse as one advanced in the Navy; the things you hated doing became worse and worse with each pay grade.

Unable to completely hide his displeasure, Anderson cleared his throat and idly brushed his uniform for the hundredth time. Beside him his escort, a thick-muscled man who looked like he'd dropped straight out of a recruiting poster, straightened reflexively for the split second it took him to realize the Admiral was simply fidgeting again.

"He's late," Anderson observed, turning away from the viewport overlooking one of Arcturus' secondary docking bays and sitting at one of the briefing room tables. "It's not like him to be late."

"He'll be here, sir," the man replied. Anderson couldn't help but note the defensive tone in his voice. Of course, isn't that why you picked him? Nonetheless, he had to keep up appearances.

"Don't sound so certain, Lieutenant Vega. For all we know, he could have set a course for the Terminus Systems as soon as he received the Alliance's message. We'd have a hard enough time finding that ship in our own space, let alone that scum-infested sector."

"With all due respect sir," Vega said, crossing his arms as he continued to stare out the window, "he'll be here."

Anderson sighed softly. "I hope you're right, Lieutenant."

There was a high-pitched beep from the briefing table's comm panel. Anderson's finger was on the switch in a flash. "Anderson here," he said, wincing inwardly at his overly-evident eagerness.

"We've just detected a ship on long-range sensors, Admiral," the officer on the other end reported. "Profile matches the parameters we were given."

Anderson felt a strange mix of relief and sorrow clashing in his gut. "Tell Bay Sixteen to transmit clearance codes to the new arrival." He hesitated. "And have marine fireteams standing by at the hatch."

"Aye, sir."

He rose and was about to tell Vega to fall in, but the big man was already halfway to the door.

Bay Sixteen was normally a pressurized drydock for light cruisers, but today it was serving a much different purpose.

The bay's massive waldo arms, normally tipped with industrial plasma torches, arc welders, and a variety of other implements, were now equipped with specialized magnetic grappling pads designed to hold mid-sized vessels firmly in place…even if they didn't want to be held. Because of the strange size of the incoming ship–not quite as large as a cruiser yet much larger than a frigate–a specially-constructed docking cradle had been hastily erected in the bay. No less than four teams of eight Alliance marines, including biotics, were waiting at the retracted hatch arm as Anderson and Vega climbed the catwalk nearly fifty meters up.

"We just received word, sir," the commander of the marines reported. "ETA on the incoming vessel is just under a minute."

"Good," Anderson said. "Remind your men that the objective is to take the target prisoner, not eliminate him. If he comes peaceably I expect you to follow the Alliance code of conduct regarding prisoners of war to the letter." He looked the commander and several of the marines in the eyes through their visors. "Is that understood?"

"Sir, yes sir!"

"Admiral," Vega said, "he's here."

Anderson turned towards the shimmering blue mass effect field holding the docking bay's atmosphere just in time to see the vessel in question streak into view.

It was a sleek design; human, with touches of turian engineering in the twin sensor masts protruding above the stern and the outrigger configuration of the drive pods. The fuselage itself was nearly a hundred and sixty meters long, a single smooth arc resembling a long-beaked bird.

The frigate slipped smoothly through the bay shield and eased into position just above the cradle. Anderson could barely make out the ship's helmsman through the viewport on the bow as he signaled the docking officer to activate the magpads. A warning klaxon sounded in the bay as the waldo arms rotated out of their pods and clamped down on the ship's drive pods with a dull clank of metal on metal. The ship's pilot deactivated the drive core, the arms gently lowered the ship until its lower hull rested perfectly in the cradle.

"Vessel secure," the docking officer announced over the bay intercom. "Defense teams stand by."

The airlock arm in front of Anderson unfolded and extended until it fit snugly against the hull around the ship's portside airlock. Without hesitating, the marines moved past Anderson to take up firing positions covering the hatch.

A long moment passed. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the curved hatch hissed to one side to reveal the airlock's inner door. Anderson noticed several of the marines tensing as they waited for the second door to open.

It opened.

Standing in the hatchway were exactly two figures; the first, an unshaven, hunched man in yellow and grey fatigues that looked like knockoffs of the Alliance Navy version. A baseball cap resting snugly on his head boasted the lettering "SR2".

The second man could not have been more different from the first. While wearing the same fatigues as the ship's helmsman, this man was clean-shaven and stood one point nine meters tall within a centimeter. The soft red glow of cybernetics showed beneath several scars on his face, but his eyes were still the same pale blue hue that Anderson remembered. What he didn't remember, however, was the weary look in those eyes; the look of a man with the weight of an entire galaxy pressing down on him every minute of every day.

After the split-second in which he took all of this in, the sounds of safeties being disengaged by the Alliance marines echoed in the bay.

Anderson straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. Forgive me, he thought to the man whom he wanted nothing more than to shake hands with and welcome home.

"John Shepard," Anderson said, his voice unwavering, "In the name of the Systems Alliance navy I hereby place you under arrest for the crimes of treason and mass murder."