"Captain?"
Hannah Shepard raised a hand to her earpiece instinctively. "Yes? What is it?"
She could hear the sounds of her helmsman pressing keys and buttons in the background. "Got a transmission from the Fifth Fleet coming through on a secure channel. Says it's personal, ma'am. Want me to patch it through?"
"Why would they bother with a secure channel for—" she stopped. Secure channel. Classified. Personal. Jane. "Patch it through—I'll take it in the comm room."
"Aye aye, Captain."
Her daughter's last mission—as far as she knew—had been a simple one; clear out the geth. Every ship and crew had been given similar tasks. By nature of Jane's status as a Spectre, though, some aspects of her missions were classified. There were things only the crew aboard the Normandy would ever know.
She sealed the doors of the comm room behind her and turned to the console, finding the transmission in question.
"Captain Shepard. Admiral Hackett."
Hackett. Fighting off the feeling of dread, Hannah swallowed. "Admiral. My helmsman said this transmission was labelled as personal, yet it's on a secure channel. Would you care to explain?"
Hackett cleared his throat, audibly. "SSV Normandy fell under attack, and crashed groundside. I thought you should hear the news from the Alliance rather than the media."
If it had been a crash—although she knew damned well that advanced craft like the Normandy with the "best damn pilot in the Alliance" didn't simply crash—then it didn't mean anything. Every ship had escape pods. Hannah held her breath a moment. Alliance brass wouldn't call her simply to tell her that, though. "Yes, Admiral?"
"I don't know how to say this, Captain, but Lieutenant Commander Shepard was not among the personnel rescued from the escape pods. According to the accounts of the crew she was pulled into open space as the Normandy began to disintegrate."
Damn girl. Always trying to save someone else, never looking after herself. Hannah resisted the urge to kick something. "Were they able to find her? Is she all right?"
"No, Captain." The Admiral sounded wearier than ever before. "Lieutenant Commander Shepard is missing in action, presumed dead."
Hackett's words echoed around her head and she swore. Missing in action, presumed dead. Five simple little words. She tucked her hands behind her back and clenched them together tightly. "Admiral, my husband is still in deep space aboard the Manila. I haven't had contact with him. I would hate for him to come home to this, unexpectedly."
"Someone will contact the Manila, Captain, and see that Staff Commander Shepard receives the news."
"Thank you, Admiral."
"Captain, the Alliance lost a hero—but you lost a daughter. Our sympathies are with you, as well as mine personally."
"Yes, Admiral. Thank you."
"Once again, my sympathies. Hackett out."
Only military discipline kept her from screaming or crying, at that moment.
Once the Alliance gave up any hope of finding Jane alive, they arranged a very large, very public funeral for their hero, scarcely even consulting with Hannah. They wouldn't even wait for her husband to arrive groundside, to allow him to attend his daughter's funeral.
She attended because it was expected, and glanced at where the crew of the Normandy sat. It looked—at least to her eye—that the majority of the crew had survived the wreck.
Once the lengthy speeches were done and the empty casket laid to rest, she turned to leave. There was too much ceremony here, too much fuss.
"Excuse me, Captain Shepard?"
She turned to see a uniformed man standing in front of her, arm raised in a salute. "Flight Lieutenant Moreau, Captain. I served with the Commander."
"It's Joker, right? I heard all about you." Jane's stories about her… unconventional helmsman had been certainly entertaining.
"Yes, ma'am. That's me. I, uh—I'm not a people person, ma'am, but I just wanted to say that it was an honour to serve with her. She went back through the Normandy to save me…"
Hannah held up her hand. "Moreau-Joker. Listen to me. That was my daughter. If it hadn't been you, she would have found someone else to save. She got it from her father. She thought she could save the world, probably before breakfast."
The pilot smiled thinly. "That sounds like the Commander, all right. Thank you, ma'am."
"One more thing, Lieutenant. I was the XO of the Kilimanjaro during the battle of the Citadel. I've seen you in action. Whatever got the Normandy, it wasn't the fault of your flying."
"If you say so, ma'am."
"Think about it." Telling him 'don't blame yourself' would be foolish. She'd served with enough broken soldiers to know.
His mouth quirked, revealing the sense of humour her daughter had said he had. "Is that an order, ma'am?"
"Yes, that's an order."
"Aye aye, Captain." He saluted and walked off, something strange in his gait, and she found herself face-to-face with a well-armoured turian.
"Captain Shepard," he said, inclining his head. "Garrus Vakarian. Were you just trying to talk some sense into Joker?"
"Indeed. I hope he'll consider what I said."
The turian's mandibles twitched. "He will. Give him time." He hesitated. "Humans often have some sort of ritual for these things, I suppose. But I can only say I'm sorry."
"Thank you."
"I can ask the rest of the crew not to… swarm you, if you'd like. They'd all like to offer their condolences, but if…"
Hannah looked over his shoulder and saw the rest of the crew—some clad in fatigues and dress uniforms, others wearing civilian clothes or armour—clustered around. These were the people her daughter had not only served with, but had brought down Saren with. Jane had trusted them, called them her friends.
"I'd be honoured to meet them," she said. "Perhaps we should take this elsewhere?"
"Captain?"
"Yes?" Hannah set aside the datapad containing her half-finished mission report.
"Comm call for you, ma'am. Personal, secure channel, Fifth Fleet's signature."
She adjusted her earpiece. "Patch them through, Fitzgerald."
"Aye aye, Captain."
Scarcely two months after she'd buried her daughter, she'd been offered the command of the new dreadnought Orizaba. She'd been removed from her posting aboard the Kilimanjaro, allowed to mourn, and the offer of a new posting had been a not-so-subtle hint that she should get back to work.
The message had presented the offer as if she had a choice, as if it was optional, but she'd known better. If she'd turned down the command, the brass would have found a way to force her out or make her retire. If she hadn't taken the job, she wouldn't have flown again.
Having spent her whole adult life on starships, and her childhood on various ports, she didn't know how to do anything else, so she'd thrown herself back into work. It was easiest. Some days, it felt like the wreck of the Normandy had to have happened more than two years ago; other days, it felt much, much more recent.
Another trip to the comm room—albeit on a different ship, two years later—had her worrying. What was it this time? Could she really lose anyone else? She found the transmission and brought it up, waiting.
"Captain Shepard."
"Admiral Hackett," she responded, automatically straightening to attention. "What can I do for you, sir?"
If they'd called to offer her the Rear-Admiral's star again, as unlikely as it seemed, she was only going to turn them down—again. It was only a political ploy, that promotion, and she knew one when she saw it.
Much as her daughter's elevation to Spectre status had been a ploy, just a ploy to earn humanity respect on the galactic 'stage', the offered promotion was political. Perhaps they thought new badges on her uniform and an increase in pay would keep her quiet. They thought wrong.
"Captain, the Alliance recently received some… surprising intel."
She waited for him to continue, wondering what on earth this was about.
"It seems, according to reports, that Lieutenant Commander Shepard is alive."
"Alive?" She locked her knees and leaned forward, bracing herself on the console. "It's been two years!"
"Yes. We're uncertain precisely as to how this happened, but she recently reported to the Council on the Citadel—in person."
Hannah bit her tongue a moment. "Thank you, Admiral. Forgive me. That's surprising news."
"I can imagine, Captain."
No. No, you can't. "Yes, sir. Is that all?"
"Yes. I was advised not to inform you for security reasons, but you are certainly not going to run to the media with it."
"No, sir. I appreciate this, Admiral."
"You're welcome, Captain. You'll find an address for contacting the Lieutenant Commander, if you choose to. Fifth Fleet out."
Damn girl. Two years. Hadn't she ever heard of a distress beacon? Or a secure channel? Two years.
She opened a secure channel from the console and sent a brief message to the address the Admiral had provided to the Orizaba's data banks. Maybe she wouldn't get a reply, perhaps this was all another ploy, but she had to try.
She'd just brought a meal up to her quarters from the mess when her terminal bleeped, announcing a message. Setting the tray on the desk, she sat down to open it, uncertain of what she'd find. Maybe it wasn't anything, just an ordinary message, and she was hoping for nothing…
Mom,
I'm not sure how to explain this, but they tell me I spent the last two years on an op table.
Two years in surgery? How-?
I can't say much else—my communications are being watched, I'm sure of it—and some of it's classified, but someone spent a lot of time and money putting me back together.
Well, it certainly hadn't been the Alliance. They'd quickly declared her dead, and the Council had washed their hands of all the things Jane had stirred up.
I'm alive. I'm sorry you had to hear the news third-hand from the brass, but other things came first. I didn't even know where you were posted.
I'm chasing something really big—something important—and I'll be more careful this time, I promise.
Hannah tried not to roll her eyes. When Lieutenant Commander Jane Shepard, otherwise known as her daughter, was out trying to save the universe, 'safety' often went straight out the airlock along with 'sanity.'
I don't know when—or if—I'll be 'home.' (I don't think I have a home, anymore—did you know they booted me off the tax rolls?) Or when I'll get to see you in person again. It could be a while. I'm sorry that you had to go through what you've gone through. I wish it hadn't happened, but it was worth it.
"A while" was a damn sight better than "never." And rescuing almost the entirety of her crew would be worth her life, in Jane's view. The losses on the Normandy had been minimal—a surprise given the state of the ship and the damage to her.
Give my love to Dad, when you're next on the comm with him.
All my love,
Jane.
That sounded normal enough, sounded like her daughter. It was almost as if she'd never been presumed dead for two years. But Hannah didn't know how much more of this she could take.
Jane Shepard, she wrote back, if you die and end up mysteriously resurrected again, I think I'll lose my mind. That will just make the Alliance angrier with you. Stay alive this time.
Stay safe.
Love,
Mom.