Disclaimer: I do not own the Mass Effect franchise, nor have I solicited or received any form of financial compensation for writing Music of the Spheres. Everything recognizable from the Mass Effect universe falls under copyright of BioWare/EA. Any musical compositions I may mention constitute the intellectual property of their respective composers. Hamon is completely my fault and should be treated as such.
MUSIC OF THE SPHERES
CHAPTER I
Anything cracked will shatter at a touch.
-Ovid
0300 hours. The slightest determined buzzing could be discerned over the habitual hum of the Normandy's engine, but this was to be expected. A lone seeker was busily assessing its options for escape, hurling its chitinous body at the reinforced glass walls of its cage and questing for an exit. It knew instinctively that its fitfully dozing captor just outside would awake rather soon, and that any break it could hope to make would have to occur during one of these brief intervals when the scientist would be off his guard. Then, there would doubtless be time sufficient to prepare him for harvesting before returning to the swarm; thence away to the succor of its overmind.
A faint, hesitant vibrating tone, as of another large insect, began emanating without warning from the upper floor. The seeker went berserk, flitting erratically in a sudden rush of primal hysteria as the scientist jerked awake. Blinking inquisitively into the cage, he eyed the seeker with keen interest. He fumbled through the sizeable stack of datapads to his right, pulled one out from the center of the pile without looking at it, and began typing furiously while muttering to himself.
"Rudimentary self-preservation instinct. Absent when incorporated into swarm. Influence of hivemind, for lack of better term, must substantially weaken when isolated. Phenomenon common to all Collector variants, or present only in seekers? Large-scale testing of hypothesis crucial to – no, no, no. Too risky. Will nonetheless inform Shepard at soonest opportunity." He paused, suddenly quite aware of what had sparked such an inexplicable reaction from the seeker. His gaze traveled slowly up to the ceiling of the tech lab, from where the unmistakable sound of a human-crafted stringed instrument was filtering in through the air vent. Delighted, Professor Mordin Solus leapt out of his chair and made a beeline for the elevator.
Commander Shepard had not touched her viola since before the mission on Ilos. Having additionally suffered the inconvenience of being dead for two years, she was more than a bit rusty. Still, she had never received an explicit order to give up practicing at any point following her enlistment, and she was not about to quit right when she most needed the solace it provided her. If a humble musical instrument could keep her from going insane on the shuttle off Mindoir, it could do the same on a ship that both was and was not the Normandy, populated with two-faced Cerberus agents and already reeking of treachery.
Shepard had never really let on to any of the original crew members that she possessed any artistic inclinations whatsoever; that is, until Gunnery Chief Williams had first confessed her admiration for Tennyson. When Shepard had made the initial rounds of the SR-2 and had inspected her cabin for surveillance bugs, she had discovered her viola inexplicably resting in its battered case underneath the bed. She suspected that Williams had had something to do with salvaging the instrument. Good old Williams. Shepard began wondering absently as to where she had ended up and how she was doing, but stopped abruptly as she forgot her place in the piece she was practicing.
Concentrate, damn it. It's not like you're in top form at the moment. She sighed, putting down her bow and flipping backwards through the sheet music. Sharps and flats danced a sickening polka on each page, and she realized that painstakingly re-learning an old piece was more than her overwrought mind could handle at the moment. She slumped in her chair, defeated by a swarm of accidentals. Behold the illustrious Commander Shepard: butcher of Torfan; destroyer of Saren and Sovereign; blasphemer of viola music; murderer of the rachni, the Council, Urdnot Wrex, Hamon...
A quiet, efficient rap on the door derailed Shepard's train of thought, and for once she was grateful for the distraction. Most nights, similar or identical thoughts were left to run their course without the interruption of blissful sleep – a concept that Shepard was beginning to dismiss as an improbable myth. Still, the fact remained that someone was at her door despite the hack she had improvised for the elevator controls six days earlier. There could only be one plausible explanation.
"EDI?"
The omnipresent blue globe that Shepard loved to hate ballooned into existence in its appointed corner by the door. "Yes, Shepard?"
In vain, Shepard tried not to let the deceptively helpful voice grate on her nerves for the umpteenth time. "Why'd you restore access to this floor?"
"Professor Solus was insistent that I provide a temporary exception to your 'override'. He mentioned something about having made a major discovery while observing the seeker you captured on Freedom's Progress."
Shepard nodded resignedly. "All right, fine, open the door." Should have known he'd be the only other one awake at this hour...
Mordin swept enthusiastically into the room, only briefly scanning the gloom of the cabin before locking eyes on Shepard. She was sitting on a severe stool pilfered from Gardner's kitchen, wearing fatigues and a severe T-shirt, and propping her viola upright on her left knee most severely. Typical Shepard. Mordin decided not to comment this time.
"Rebecca Clarke. Human composer from early 20th century. Major proponent of viola as virtuoso solo instrument. Recognized style immediately." He grinned and blinked cheerfully at Shepard.
"Congratulations...?" Rarely did the breadth or depth of Mordin's knowledge surprise Shepard anymore, ever since he had quoted verbatim from her favorite tech manual during their first real conversation a few days back. Indeed, it was refreshing to have someone so professional and productive on board for a change, and Shepard decided that she could cope quite comfortably with his various oddities as long as he remained committed to the mission's objectives. She carefully set her viola onto the adjacent desk and let him continue, finding that she did not mind the company so much.
"Always was a great admirer of human classical music, Shepard. Participated in several productions of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. Relegated chiefly to patter songs, though...nothing terribly lofty. Never would have guessed you harbored similar interest. Quite pleased to have found kindred soul on ship."
Shepard made a valiant effort to imagine Mordin singing 'A Modern Major-General' in full regalia, but ultimately decided against performing the required mental acrobatics. Keep it strictly business. Always works when all else fails. "Well, I'm sorry if I woke you up. I haven't practiced since before getting spaced, so I probably sound horrible."
"Not at all. Sheer serendipity, Shepard – strains of 'Morpheus' forthcoming from this room produced unexpected result from seeker!"
"Did it think I was another seeker or something?" Shepard managed a wan smile at the thought.
"Not likely. According to seeker's observable behavior, it assumed threatening hostile presence nearby and attempted self-defense!"
"At least my 'musical talents' elicit some type of reaction...I guess I shouldn't be picky."
Mordin frowned. "Will address distorted views of your own artistic merit later. Collector forces never before observed with intact self-preservation instinct. Suspect sense of self manifests on inverse correlation with proximity to Collector hivemind. Either isolation or imposed false sense of isolation, ideally through dispersal of disorienting chemical via omni-tool, might be answer to seeker-swarm conundrum!" Mordin's dark eyes blazed even in the dim surroundings. Shepard looked away, suddenly acutely reminded of Hamon.
She shook herself. Nothing good ever came from dwelling on loss outside of her appointed practice time. It wasn't like the crew would understand or make time for her: everyone had plenty of their own problems. Wearily, she rose to her feet, adopting the most congenial mien she could muster.
"Well, Professor, are you going to need to run tests on the seeker immediately or do you have time to celebrate your breakthrough with a glass or two of wine?"
"Would like that, actually. Probably best not to traumatize sole test subject by running...(sniff)...a second test...after such a short interval."
They headed down to the mess hall on deck three. As they expected, nobody else was awake at that hour - unless you counted EDI, which Shepard definitely did. Mordin took a seat at the near end of the table as Shepard rummaged around in the sadly perfunctory liquor cabinet, eventually managing to draw out a bottle of Bordeaux from the least accessible corner. The last thing she wanted was to have Lawson, Chakwas or - heaven forbid - Gardner stumble upon her carefully curated personal vice.
"It's First Contact War vintage. Should be quite good by now; I've been saving it for an occasion like this. Here." She slid into the seat across from Mordin and poured him a full glass, which he sniffed doubtfully before taking a sip. He beamed immediately.
"Ah, humans. Say what you will about them: they do love their pleasures. Base ones to ravish the body; exalted ones to elevate the soul. Have to say, this wine handily encompasses both extremes. Seems you have exceptional taste for a human, Shepard. Refreshing rarity among your species."
Shepard chuckled as she took an unceremonious swig from her glass. "I may have come across a few rare and exceptional salarians who influenced me along the way. Take yourself, for instance - or Captain Kirrahe. It was nothing short of an honor to serve alongside him and his men on Virmire. Kirrahe is an officer and a gentleman and I'll say as much to anyone who asks."
"Agree unreservedly. Once served under his command during tenure with STG. Bit of a cloaca, though. Command unit could have done without his interminable speeches. Loved them myself. 'Hold the line!' Still, not terribly useful on soldiers with short attention spans. Human rhetorical influence likely. Skirted boundaries of elcor torpor on more than one occasion. For most, functioned better as soporific than as stimulant."
"Not for you, though?"
"Not in the least. Getting old, even then. Find myself drawn less and less to harried salarian company. May need to retire properly at some point."
"Based on this seeker-swarm countermeasure alone, I'm betting you could buy yourself a gated estate on Sur'Kesh and live like a king for the rest of your life. You won't have a thing to worry about – provided you survive this mess, which is a given if I've got any say in the matter." Shepard gazed at the table for a moment, pondering idly if she had ever said such a thing to a crew member in the past. Certainly not on Torfan, or indeed at any time before then. Inebriation was certainly not to blame...at least not yet. What was going on?
"...Would gladly drink to that, Shepard. Thank you." Shepard blinked, returning to center. Drinking – now that was something she understood and could cope with. She raised her glass to clink against his, then drained it in one determined motion. Mordin still had almost half a glass of wine remaining, but Shepard still topped off his glass before pouring herself a new one. He eyed the opaque reddish-black decoction with subdued pleasure, meditatively stirring the contents of the glass by tracing tiny circles on the table with the base of the stem. It seemed to take him longer than usual to climb back out of himself in order to speak again.
"Must have met other notable salarians, Shepard. Forgive me in advance, but practically consumed with curiosity. Noticed that while coming to after batarian poisoning incident on Omega, you seemed convinced I was someone else. Someone named Harmon?"
Shepard choked on the wine, nearly leaping out of her skin in blank shock. Can Solus be serious?! That's it. Never accepting a drink from a batarian again, no matter how dire the perceived need. "Uh, Hamon. A friend of mine from Mindoir. Ancient history." She only hoped that her agitated demeanor would turn Mordin away from this line of discussion. In retrospect, she realized that she had only given him an invitation to investigate further, per ancient tradition of salarian body language. Mordin interlaced his fingers underneath his chin and leaned forward, genuinely fascinated.
"A salarian on a human colony? Out of the ordinary. Expect dire need for someone with considerable scientific or technical expertise."
"You would be correct." After a few deep breaths, Shepard managed to regain the selfsame icy calm that had pulled her through one dicey combat situation after another. Screw it. Solus would never let me get away with half-assing this story. Might as well continue. "...The humans there never really made a habit of admitting aliens, but Hamon was different. Most of the colonists on Mindoir, my folks included, were farmers with no knowledge of maintaining the automated defense systems already in place. Reports of batarian raids in the area had them running scared, and for good reason. They needed a few good engineers and they needed them quickly, so of course Mindoir's leadership embraced Hamon. Part of it was charitable, since he had found himself on the run from a slaving ring on Nasurn, but he was also well on his way to becoming a damned decent engineer. He would have only been about ten years old when he arrived -"
"Plenty of time for him to have received sufficient engineering training for Mindoir's needs, I would expect," Mordin added, sampling the wine once more.
"It certainly was...but he always wanted to know more. To study more. The hunger he had for knowledge was legendary by Mindoir's standards. He took courses over the extranet, but nothing could sate his desire to know everything there was to know about engineering. I had also taken an interest in the subject and would ask him for help with my homework – something that wasn't so easy for an egocentric fourteen-year-old who was top of her class."
A warm, avuncular smile illuminated Mordin's lined face. "Wouldn't have expected anything less from you, Shepard."
Shepard shifted uncomfortably as she attempted to smooth back a rakish strand of her short dark hair. "...Thanks, Solus. Anyway, one day he was going out to make repairs on one of the defense towers and passed my house. He must have heard me practicing my viola because he stopped by on the way back wanting to talk about human classical music. My parents were avid music lovers and they had a piano sitting in one corner of the living room. He walked over and started playing a Mozart piano concerto right from the score. I couldn't believe it."
"Impressive, considering three-fingered phenotype on all salarians with normal telomeres. Do continue."
"At that point, I decided that I wasn't going to remain in his shadow any longer. I was going to be better than him, both at engineering and at music. I never succeeded, of course: he was just too brilliant. We did manage to become something akin to...well, to close friends, after I got over my pointless envy. We even played some music together eventually – he did so love Clarke and Hindemith." She refilled Mordin's glass as well as her own before loosely replacing the cork.
"Surprising that his sundry talents would have gone unnoticed." Mordin cleared his throat, guessing at the probable answer even before he asked the question but attempting to be as tactful as possible. "...Went on to become eminent professor, I assume?"
"Didn't live long enough. He died during the raids. Not right away, though – the batarians recognized how much value he could provide to them and so they...they forced an implant into his skull while pinning him down..." Stubborn tears began to prick at the corners of Shepard's eyes as her voice faded to a choked, guttural undertone. Blast it all. Why couldn't I have kept my stupid mouth shut like usual?
"Shepard..." Mordin breathed. He took her hand in what he hoped she would construe as a harmless, comforting gesture, but one never knew with Shepard. The way she had chewed out Chambers over a minor disagreement about professionalism on the Normandy still burned brightly in his mind. To his considerable surprise, she continued without paying him any heed.
"That wasn't the worst of it. He fell completely under their control. All the technical knowledge he had gathered during his short life was still intact, all at the expense of his personal memories. He turned all our defense towers against the colony itself...killed scores of people, my folks included. When I saw him in the wreckage of my house standing over their bodies, I just lost it. I...I..." She squeezed Mordin's hand until it throbbed with pain and he felt it would snap off, but he did not release his grip.
"...Hamon was the first man I ever killed. And damn if he wasn't also the greatest friend I ever had." She suppressed a half-chuckle. "Probably why I don't like people to get too close these days. I'm just dooming them by my very presence." Shepard released Mordin's hand and took another gulp of wine, once again embracing her habitual role as the unshakeable commanding officer of the Normandy.
"Apologies if I lost my composure, Solus. We should be celebrating your discovery, not wallowing in your commanding officer's sordid past. Here's to your continued success and to the success of our mission." She clinked her half-empty glass against his as she gave him as sincere a congratulatory nod as she knew how.
Mordin wasn't buying her act for a moment. "Appreciate the sentiment, Shepard, but suspect half-drunken revelling not the wisest course of action under current circumstances. Shepard -" He clapped her on the shoulder with unusual authority. " - you need to rest."
Shepard smiled sadly and looked away, not wishing Mordin's keen gaze to broadside her another time. "Next time I'm dead, I'll be sure to take your advice."
"Sleep patterns abnormal for levo-amino-based non-salarian species. Two hours of sleep per circadian cycle patently insufficient for humans. Can offer you melatonin supplements if necessary, but Shepard..." He eased a finger underneath her chin and lifted her head while his eyes scanned expertly over her enervated features. "...have reason to believe problem runs deeper. Crew in need of physically, mentally, emotionally healthy commander. Wars rarely won by getting depressed. Have noticed concerted efforts on your part to keep crew at substantial emotional distance. Suggest you initiate effort to reverse paradigm. Doctor's orders. Can begin with me if that is most comfortable."
Shepard couldn't help but find Mordin's concern touching. She let out a heavy sigh and feigned reluctance, though she could not completely suppress the ironic smile that threatened to blow her cover. "If you insist, Professor."
Mordin gave a minute inclination of his head, relieved. "Another thing. Have been observing your excessive usage of surnames and/or titles when referring to crew members. Might improve camaraderie on ship if given names were employed more often. Yours included, Shepard. Appellation of 'Mordin' nowhere near shameful, in my professional opinion. Consequently unfazed when others see fit to call me by it."
Shepard grinned. The pedantism that had irritated her before now seemed nothing short of endearing. "Roger that, Mordin. Deal. And...thanks." She rose from her chair and headed unhurriedly back towards the elevator. Mordin followed suit, pushing in Shepard's errant chair as well as his own.
"Always here if you need me. To whom have I owed this pleasure?" He paused and turned to face Shepard, hand outstretched in a mindful analogue of the common human greeting. Shepard warmly accepted the gesture, gripping his gloved hand with unaccustomed vim.
"The name's Morrigan."
Mordin stroked his chin, eyes flitting over Shepard's figure as if assessing the fit of a garment. "...Interesting. Ancient vernacular human origin in reference to great female leader. Unexpected...but apt nonetheless." He offered Shepard an understated, glancing grin as the elevator doors hissed shut between them.
Shepard stopped dead in her tracks, shaking her head in disbelief. Somehow Mordin just knew everything.