Mass Effect: Wayfarer

"Well, what about Shepard?" the Ambassador asked tentatively. "Earthborn, but no record of a family."

"Doesn't have one," the captain answered. "He was raised on the streets. From how he describes it, the placement homes didn't 'work out' for him."

"There's got to be a reason why they're paying such special attention to him." the Ambassador pondered. "His file isn't spectacular, to say the least. His disciplinary action record is three times the length of his commendation list."

"I think we know exactly why they're interested in him," the gruff-voiced Admiral chimed in, briefly glancing to the captain, "especially considering your mutual history."

"Don't we have any better options?" the Ambassador asked.

"Dozens," the captain answered. "We've sent them files on all of our best. This is the only one they sent back."

"And you think he's up to the task?"

"No, I don't."

Siberia. That's where they used to send people when they just needed them gone. Today, Siberia is significantly warmer, so busy-work diplomatic and exploratory postings were the next-best-place to send a marine who's more trouble than he's worth. That's where Commander Shepard had been for the last six months of his life—hopping world-to-world in an experimental vessel just as likely to explode as it was to get him anywhere. No action. No heroism. It had just been hand-shaking, flag-planting and cargo-running for six grueling months. He'd begun to wonder what he'd done to piss someone off this much.

"Attention all passengers," the intercom blared to life. "If you look to our right you'll see a beautiful view of Jupiter, and if you look to our left you'll see a whole lot of nothing." Shepard joined as the rest of the crew rolled their eyes and shook their heads. "ETA to the Sol relay: 10 minutes. Strap in and say a prayer, people."

The commander approached the CIC casually—an arched array of glowing panels and readouts with a large holographic projection of the Milky Way at its center. He gave passing nods and nonchalant salutes to the crewmen as he made his way toward an open station beside the ship's balding, aged navigator.

"What'd I say, Pressly?" Shepard sneered as he tapped the holographic console open. "God damn Siberia."

Navigator Pressly chuckled to himself, maintaining a more dutiful focus on his work than the commander. "You never know," he smiled, "something interesting might happen down on Eden Prime."

"I know exactly what will happen," Shepard leaned against the readouts with his hands. "We'll end up at another backwater colony, give them a gift-basket and ask them to keep flying Alliance colors." He shook his head and watched as the rest of the crew busily prepared to hit the relay.

"I dunno'," Pressly said, looking up to the galaxy map. "Captain's been pretty tight-lipped about this one. And we've got a turian making the rounds."

"Probably another engineer making sure we don't blow up the ship." As if prophesized, the ship buckled briefly beneath Shepard's feet, sending both himself and Pressly reaching out for any hand-hold they could find. Once the vessel had quieted down, Shepard looked to his shrugging comrade with a brief quip before proceeding further toward the cockpit. "See what I mean?"

While the SSV Normandy was a diplomatic olive-branch between Human Systems Alliance and the Turian Hierarchy in theory, the ship was a logistical boondoggle in reality. It was a frigate with what was close to a cruiser's drive core—a marvel of engineering, to be sure, in the same way that the Wright brothers' first flights were marvels of engineering. They still didn't stay in the air all that long. In truth, just about the only thing the Normandy had going for her was her stealth drive, whose effectiveness remained wholly theoretical even at this point. Shepard wasn't entirely sure how you could have a stealth system in a vacuum but, then again, he never had the patience to listen when he asked.

Just about every other system on the ship had to be jerry-rigged to function with the drive core's disproportionately high power output. Momentary blackouts, random system restarts and a general unease were frequent enough to call into question whether a stealth drive was even worth her handicaps. Not to mention that the ship was damn-near always on the verge of melting down completely, generating far more energy than it needed when it wasn't running at top-speed. If the engineering deck got lazy for just a few minutes, the whole damn ship could go up in flames.

If the commander were a religious man, he'd have said a little prayer as he stepped into the ship's modestly-sized cockpit. As the bridge crew readied themselves and bantered rather animatedly, the turian stood in quiet attention at the rear, hands clasped behind his back. Like most turians, he was a tall and imposing figure, but strangely slim even inside his black and red hardsuit. Turian military culture dictated that a serving officer was armored and ready for battle at almost all times, and Nihlus kept the tradition. His naturally plated, spiked head was the only part of him not covered in hardened, ballistic polymer. Even so, Shepard had a hard time reading what he called his face. Two small, green eyes peered intensely out from between articulated plates, his mouth sheathed by a pair of sharp mandibles held tightly across his jaw.

Shepard's attention was drawn away from the turian as the ship started buckling again, much harder this time. "Alright, everyone" the pilot announced over the intercom, pulling what couldn't have been an Alliance regulation baseball cap low over his eyes. "If you haven't prayed by now, I hope you're at least buckled in."

The commander hated this part from day one, and he still hated it six months later. He could see the massive, spinning core of the Sol system's mass relay outside of the cockpit's thin viewports, pulsing brighter as they approached. When he'd made the mistake of asking, he was once told to think of the relays as giant slingshots. The description didn't comfort him. The Normandy shook violently as the relay's field latched on to the ship. Lights flickered on and off all around them. Console readouts went haywire with an overabundance of data. The inertial dampeners made sure that the crew didn't end up as stains on the back of the ship but they weren't 100% effective—a fact that was absolutely clear as the entire crew held on for dear life as they were hurdled forward at speeds that would give Einstein an aneurysm. When his senses returned to him, Shepard surveyed the rest of the deck. Nobody else seemed to have the same trouble readjusting after a jump. Maybe it was just him, but there was something wrong about getting shot halfway across the galaxy like that. Nonetheless, they seemed to have made it through in one piece. There weren't even any fires this time.

The pilot's voice broke the silence on the deck. "Rudders, check. Inertial dampeners, check. Power in the green. Drift-" He paused briefly, thumbing across the holographic consoles that encircled his seat. "Just under 1,500K."

"Fifteen-hundred is good," Nihlus said, still staring at the stars through the forward viewport. "Your captain will be pleased." Without so much as a passing glance at the pilot, he turned away and slowly strode back toward the CIC.

The pilot brushed his cap and peered casually over his shoulder, watching the turian depart. "I hate that guy," he sneered under his breath when he was satisfied with the distance between them.

"Nihlus gave you a compliment, so you hate him?" the co-pilot spoke up from his perch across the cockpit.

"You remember to zip up your jumpsuit on your way out of the bathroom, that's good," the pilot remarked in a much louder, more boisterous tone. "I just hit a target the size of a pinhead from across the galaxy, so that's incredible, Kaidan." He didn't pay any mind to his co-pilot's shaking head and rolling eyes. "Besides, spectres are trouble. Call me paranoid." The commander stopped at the word—'spectre.' They were the stuff of legend, though less so on Earth. Humanity hadn't been around the block long enough to draw a spectre's full attention, which may have been a blessing.

"You're paranoid," Kaidan was happy to oblige. "The Council helped fund this project. They have a right to oversee their investment."

"Yeah, that is the official story," the pilot muttered. "Only an idiot believes the official story."

The people aboard the Normandy could be split into two groups: the ones who begged for the assignment aboard an experimental ship and the flunkies who were stuck there because they were expendable. The pilot, one Flight Lieutenant Jeffrey Moreau, was most certainly the prior. There wasn't much public acclaim for test pilots, especially not for ships as mundane as frigates. But whatever acclaim there was, Moreau had. Though his attitude and ego might have earned him a spot as a flunkey, his skills are what earned his posting to Normandy. They called him Joker.

"They don't send Spectres on shakedown tours," Shepard interjected, "especially not to backwater worlds like this."

"I'm telling you," Joker continued, vindicated. "There's more going on here than the fruit basket duty."

Before Kaidan could admonish the both of them, the intercom buzzed to life. "Joker, status report," a commanding voice rang through.

"Just cleared the relay, captain." Joker answered in a much more dutiful tone. "ETA to Eden Prime: 30 minutes."

"Hook us into the nearest comm buoy," the captain ordered. "I want reports relayed back to Alliance brass ASAP."

"Copy that, sir," Joker acknowledged. "Better brace yourself. I think Nihlus is headed your way."

"He's already here, lieutenant," the captain said, unamused by the remark. Joker grew visibly tense with the response. "Tell Commander Shepard to meet me in the briefing room."

"Sir," Joker acknowledged, resigned and shaking his head as he switched off the intercom. "You get all that?" he asked, turning back to Shepard.

Shepard had his forehead in his palm by that point. "Great," he growled, "you pissed the captain off and now I'm going to pay for it."

"Hey, don't blame me. The captain's always in a bad mood."

"Only when he's talking to you, Joker," Kaidan quipped.

Nihlus stood alone in the Normandy's dimly lit briefing room, hands clasped behind his back, head held high. Images flashed in front of him on a large monitor—visions of idyllic farmland and small settlements scattered across a quiet, out-of-the-way little garden colony at the edges of human territory. The door hissed open behind him, the light from behind its frame briefly casting a human shadow across the room before the door slid shut.

"Commander Shepard," Nihlus greeted the approaching human. "I was hoping you would arrive first," he turned, crossing his arms and relaxing his posture slightly. "We need to talk."

"Where's Captain Anderson?" Shepard asked in a much less welcoming tone than his counterpart.

"He'll be here shortly, there are preparations to be made before we hit boots on the ground." Nihlus motioned back to the viewscreen, still slowly flashing between scenic landscapes. "I'm interested in this world we're going to. Eden Prime? I've heard it's beautiful by human standards."

"I wouldn't know, I don't spend much time on vacation," Shepard shrugged.

"Point," Nihlus conceded. "But it's more than just some port of harbor. It's become something of a symbol for your kind—a world all to your own outside of Council protection, yet tranquil and safe." He turned back to the screen, returning to a more military posture with what passed for a chin held high. "But how safe is it really?"

"I wouldn't know, turian," the commander shot back, a drop of indignation in his voice. "Like I said: never been there. Why the interest?"

Nihlus showed no concern with the commander's tone, continuing unabashed. "Humanity has taken great strides since the Relay 314 incident." The fact that the man relegated the war to an incident was enough to make Shepard grit his teeth. "You've struck out on your own, and that can be a very dangerous prospect out here." He looked to the commander, blackened and green eyes narrow beneath his plates. "Is the Alliance really ready for this?"

"For what? Farming?" Shepard sneered. "In case you aren't aware, we've been doing that for a while already."

Before Nihlus could retort, the briefing room door opened once again, admitting one Captain David Anderson. "I think it's time we told the commander what's really going on," he interrupted.

Nihlus nodded in agreement. "This mission is far more than a simple shakedown run," the Turian turned back to Shepard.

Shepard shook his head, motioning back to the CIC. "So our pilot keeps telling me." He turned back to the viewscreen, still cycling through images of Eden Prime's farmlands. "So what is this all about?"

"Two weeks ago, a team of our excavators on the surface found something," the captain explained. "An artifact. We think it's prothean."

Prothean: An ancient, highly advanced space-faring species that had disappeared millennia before the rise of any of the modern civilizations. The cause of their suspected extinction or exodus remained unknown, but the construction of just about every marvel of the galaxy had been attributed to their ingenuity. The Mass Relay network, which served as the very basis of the galaxy's transportation, remained their greatest legacy, among what other technology had been left behind.

"The last time your people uncovered a prothean cache, it jumped your civilization forward two centuries," Nihlus interjected. "As it did ours so very long ago."

"And what does this have to do with Normandy?" Shepard asked, still unimpressed.

"We're here to recover the artifact and transport it to Council space," the captain said. "I'm sure you aware that this sort of discovery can't be allowed to fall into the wrong hands."

"So we put it on a diplomatic frigate with minimal armaments and an untested-" Shepard paused for a moment, considering just how ill-equipped his posting stood. "Well," he continued, "untested everything?"

"We put it on you," Nihlus answered with a tight-jawed glare.

Shepard was taken aback by the comment, staring dumbly for a moment before responding. "Me?" was the only response he could muster.

The captain sighed, shaking his head slightly. "The Council has been considering several dozen candidates for the induction of a human spectre." He motioned with his hands toward the commander. "The first human spectre. You are at the top of their list."

"I will be accompanying you on this assignment to assess your skills as a candidate," Nihlus explained. "I believe the human term is try-outs?" It wasn't clear whether the Turian was making a joke or an insult. "Quaint," he concluded. It was an insult.

Shepard glanced between the two, waiting to speak long enough for an awkward silence to overtake the room. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but it wasn't until the third try that he managed to get anything out. "This is all," he stammered, "very sudden."

"I believe your military doctrine is familiar with the concept of need-to-know, yes?" Nihlus asked rhetorically.

"And I'm supposed to expect you to vouch for me?" Shepard skirted the issue, motioning to Nihlus.

Nihlus made a noise that could have passed for a chuckle. "Not all of my people begrudge yours, commander." He approached the commander, standing several heads above him. "Some of us see your species' potential, even if it is—how to say—unrefined."

Shepard sighed, running his hands across his scalp and briefly examining his own feet. A spectrum of questions buzzed through his head, few of which he suspected would be given any real answers. He glanced briefly to the viewscreen, still quietly flipping back and forth between the same scenic vistas. After taking few deep breaths, he stood up straight and looked to Anderson. "Give me the brief," he said.

Anderson gave a curt nod of acknowledgement as he approached the viewscreen. "Sixty three hours ago, excavators on Eden Prime discovered a cache of artifacts. This was the largest," the captain explained, tapping the viewscreen.

The idyllic images flipped from a field of flowers to what looked like a stripped-out quarry, barren and desolate. Shredded, alien-looking sheets and chunks of grooved metal littered the site. A large and seemingly-intact pylon stood tall at the center, made out of the same materials by the looks of it. Geometric, rune-like grooves indented its otherwise sharp and flat surfaces, glowing faintly green. It certainly looked prothean to Shepard, or judging by what he'd heard their artifacts described as anyway. Whatever it was, it still had batteries and it looked important.

"Early analysis indicates prothean origin. Likely a data-storage device," the captain continued. "Forty eight hours ago we received an unencrypted transmission from the excavators requesting Alliance assistance in the matter, hoping for some kind of reward."

"So what's the problem?" Shepard asked. "Send a freighter and pick it up."

Nihlus shook his head. "The problem is that your people don't know how to secure a communiqué," he said, returning to his prior condescending tone. "We picked up that transmission, too."

"Okay," Shepard shrugged incredulously. "And you're here now. Still not seeing the problem."

"Do you want to know how many mercenary convoys from the Terminus pass through this system?" Nihlus sneered.

The captain stepped between the two, pulling the briefing back on track. "We don't know how many people picked up that transmission, so we're taking every precaution," he explained. "That's where we come in." The viewscreen flipped again, this time displaying a large map of the excavation site. "The artifact has been relocated to a small port a few klicks from where it was discovered."

"Your team and myself will secure the area. We'll be assisted by a local contingent of your forces," Nihlus said, approaching the screen and marking a few key locations surrounding the dock. "Once we're sure we've got the site locked down, we hold position and await the PFS Havinclaw. It's scheduled to arrive in-system within eighteen hours." He tapped the location of the artifact. "They'll be dropping off a team of our engineers to secure the device for transport. Once they arrive, you and I will fall back to their position and see them off. Normandy will provide escort to the Widow system, where we'll-"

The intercom blared, interrupting the Turian. "Captain," Joker's voice came through, significantly less insubordinate than just a few minutes prior. "We have an incoming transmission from Eden Prime," he said with a worried tone, "you need to see this."

"Put it on-screen," the captain ordered.

The screen changed once more to a garbled image. The three could barely make out the audio, which blared with gunfire and static intermittently. What they had previously seen as a bright vista was now a warzone raging in front of their own eyes. A human man appeared on-screen, clad in military-grade armor. "-of the 212-…-general distress-" he said, half of his words inaudible between the sounds of gunshots. "-Came out of nowhere, we need-" he attempted to plea before a stray shot pierced his chest. The man fell backward, the camera panning to the sky to reveal an enormous vessel tearing through the clouds. It resembled a black claw, slowly carving its way toward the surface. The picture flickered and warped and a tremendous roar overtook the audio before the signal abruptly cut out to static.

"Rewind eight seconds and pause," the captain ordered. The picture flipped back to the vessel and froze. It was too distorted to discern much detail, but it was clearly unfriendly.

"You're going to need a new plan," Shepard said.

Normandy was by no means a warship. She had three small decks, minimal crew-capacity, an under-stocked armory and just two fixed, forward-facing cannons. She could take a pirate or two in a pinch, but neither Normandy nor her crew were anywhere near prepared to fight a ground-war. The situation on the surface certainly resembled a ground-war. She yet sailed nobly toward danger despite her crew's apprehension.

Shepard himself was no less apprehensive than his compatriots. Being a prototypical ship on diplomatic assignment, there was little in the way of combat gear. The commander had to make-do with wearing a military-grade EVA hardsuit. It certainly looked like armor, but it wasn't top-of-the-line. The commander's suit could project protective kinetic barriers designed to deflect orbital debris, but they would only deflect a few bullets before they were fried. It was painted coal grey. A red stripe with white borders adorned the right arm, meant to distinguish his rank from a distance.

Shepard stood with Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko in the cargo bay, both sorting out their equipment before the drop. Kaidan's suit was similar in appearance and construction, if slightly more marginal in protective features. He had a particular set of skills, however. Even without the barriers and the plating, he was still significantly more protected than Shepard when the biotics were accounted for. This did not make him feel any more comfortable about the situation. "So it's just us and the turian?" he asked, holstering a pistol at his hip.

"I don't much care for it either," Shepard answered, taking a rifle from his locker and inspecting it thoroughly. "I don't think he had a Plan B."

"He's a Spectre," Kaidan retorted, "he's got to have a Plan B."

"I mean a Plan B that ends with us still alive," Shepard glared toward Nihlus, standing tall and heavily armed, as he spoke with the captain across the cargo bay.

Kaidan took up a rifle of his own and threw it over his shoulder where it snapped into place on the back of his suit. "Well, maybe we should come up with a Plan C," he said with a small grin. "You know, just in-case."

The cargo bay door slid open with a humid gust of air roaring into the ship. It was always somewhat of a shock, going from breathing ship-board air to a real atmosphere. There aren't many smells aboard a ship; the air-scrubbers keep every breath sterile and dry. It's easy to forget what real air smells and tastes like, and it comes as quite a shock when you're almost thrown across the deck by it. Thankfully, everyone in the hold had learned to keep proper footing by that point, so there weren't any bruises for the doctor to deal with like the first few assignments.

Nihlus seemed content with his loadout, judging by how he took a running start toward the open doors of the ship. Kaidan tried to ask what he was doing, but by the time he got to the word "are" Nihlus had leapt out into the open air and onto the surface. Captain Anderson approached with a wide frown on his face. Kaidan and Shepard started to stand at attention, but Anderson waved them off.

"Nihlus is going to make his approach from the West," the captain explained. "He says he moves faster on his own." He pointed to what remained of the gear that the two men hadn't donned. "He said you should stay put—that 'try-outs' were cancelled."

"Like hell we will, sir," Shepard sneered.

"I told him that wouldn't happen," the captain continued, disregarding the officer's choice of words. "You still take orders from me, and I'm sending you two in from the East. You're going to rendezvous with whatever's left of the 212 and organize a retaliatory strike. Their last known position put them near a small dormitory complex two klicks out from the excavation site."

The wind died down as Normandy came to a gentle stop just above the surface of the planet. The smell of smoke slowly overtook the air, and fires were visible from outside the open doors of the hold. Kaidan finished gathering what remained of his equipment, gave the captain an informal salute and made his way to the loading ramp toward the battlefield outside.

Captain Anderson turned to the commander. "Re-securing the artifact is your top priority, commander. No heroics," he ordered.

"You know me, sir," Shepard nodded, walking toward the loading ramp. He stopped briefly before he reached the doors, turning back to the captain. "What if I say no?" he asked.

"You can't," Anderson answered.

"I can," Shepard retorted.

"You won't."