A sudden heave of the Kodiak class shuttle was what alerted corporal Stephen Archer to the trouble they-and the rest of Operation Hammer-were in. He grabbed the safety bar on the opposite side he was on to stop himself from falling face first onto the floor. A nanosecond later a nearly blinding red beam tore the middle third of the shuttle away…and incinerated half his fire team. All that remained on the doomed shuttle were himself, Staff Sergeant Vickers, and the co-pilot. The pilot had taken a large chunk of hull plating through his skull and was most definitely very dead. The co-pilot furiously fought with the useless controls and they hurtled downward over London. Through the gaping wound in the shuttle's side Archer watched the Harvester bank off and open fire on another shuttle, no doubt certain that its work on his transport was sufficiently accomplished.
Operation Hammer was about to fail before his eyes. As the ground and buildings careened ever closer, Archer watched helplessly as shuttle after shuttle was knocked out of the sky or annihilated outright by Reaper forces. Things were falling apart for the resistance military forces and he had front row seats to the failure of the fight against the apocalypse.
Ground forces were not faring any better as far as he could tell from the quick glimpses he stole.
The first impact with the ground smashed his head and helmet against the interior of the shuttle sending a shower of stars before his eyes and leaving him totally dazed. His grip loosened on the safety bar as a result of his concussion just in time for him to be thrown violently to the aft of the shuttle. The third roll of the vehicle knocked him out.
He regained consciousness with a flash of mind blurring pain and agony. His ragged breathing and the HUD in his helmet told him that he was in sorry shape-a massive armor breach in the region of his right shoulder and a dangerous level of blood loss. He willed the haze of pain away to scan the shuttle…or what little remained of it. The co-pilot was smeared down the side of the structure they had impacted against like a careless brush of paint from a destructive child. Vickers was-he assumed- the corpse that was gibbered over the rest of the shuttles interior. Stephen was alone now.
His eyes darted around to attempt to gain his bearings; but between the pain and the concussion it was a virtually insurmountable task. With a quaking hand he brought up his omni-tool and queued a dose of medigel…but nothing happened. He mashed the command again and again until it brought up a flashing notice "Medigel Dispensing System Depleted And/Or Damaged". He shakily craned his head to look at his right shoulder and found that it had been all but severed by a jagged hunk of the shuttles hull armor. The wound dripped the cloudy substance of medigel and a slow yet steady stream of deep red arterial blood flowed from within the crack in his armor.
His human nature told him to panic. His training told him to treat the wound as best as he could and wait for either a medic or death. However a far deeper and much more primal set of emotions won out-rage and a drive to survive. Adrenaline surged through him as his anger forced focus upon a body that would have much rather have just given up and died.
He pushed himself off the shard of hull with a scream of pain and anger. As soon as his form was free of the intruding composite construct he fell violently forward. He clawed at the shuttles emergency transponder and eventually found purchase enough to clutch the device that he hoped would be his salvation. Coming shakily to his feet, he grabbed his combat engineering kit and found a way out of the shuttle, but not before grabbing his Scimitar shotgun and his ancient Smith & Wesson magnum revolver.
He crawled to the rubble of a destroyed apartment building across the street and set up a series of booby traps and fail-safes to ensure he would be safe before triggering the distress transponder. It was his beacon of faint hope of survival against the coming darkness…that darkness of both his end and that of all intelligent life in the galaxy. By now, even the anger and adrenaline were losing the power to keep him aloft. He assessed his wounds.
His omni-tool and HUD read-out told him several ribs were broken along with several organs suffering heavy bruising. Then he read the last entry on the readout-"Right arm critically injured. Amputation is advised." Stephen's remaining blood ran ice cold at that…and he also wondered if it had been such a good idea to install combat medic readouts into ones armor after all. Then his survival drive kicked in and overrode everything.
He activated his omni-tool blade and turned the thermal distance safeties off, much like he was about to attack something with it. He hesitated for a moment before he swiftly drew the plasma hot fixture through the remaining tissue that connected him to his arm. He felt teeth crack from his clenched jaw as he continued with what had to be done to prevent his own rapid death.
He amputated what was left by rapidly severing it with a sun hot edge. The stench of scorched flesh and burning composite armor rapidly filled Steve's senses and despite his best efforts to keep from vomiting he did so; and it was flecked with blood. The wound left by the removal of his own limb was cauterized in the act of him completing the task, with him gagging and retching at the stench of his own burnt flesh. The gruesome task finished, he fell back against the wall.
"Fuck this place." He said as consciousness began to slip from him. "Fuck everything." All he had lost came streaming into his mind…and he cursed all of it. His marriages, his family, even his own child. But why?
All this was due to the fact that he had been the one to kill each and all of his own family when the Reapers had captured them to corrupt them to their sick purposes. Only death provided the relief he so desperately wanted and begged for, yet somehow fought against.
Sorrow, hatred, and remorse were the last emotions he felt before slipping half over the precipice of death.
And a day later…the Reaper War ended…
…but not without Stephen still clinging to what little of his life and humanity remained-a man with nothing to lose.
Mass Effect: Privateers
A Work of Fan Fiction By Atlas8193
Chap-1: Murphy's Law and Third Chances
It is now four years after the Reaper War. The galaxy is well into the process of cleaning up, rebuilding, and attempting to keep some semblance of the stability it had before the War while it still reels from the aftermath of a galaxy wide near extinction level event. There is still hope among most of the survivors though. They see this as a chance to begin anew amid the ashes of the past, with the potential for even greater achievements and milestones with the aid of the galaxy's former eliminator; the Reapers.
This is also a time of immense sadness and grieving. Countless trillions of all the intelligent species of the galaxy lay dead or corrupted. Families had been broken by corruption or death or even both; other to the acts of raiding bands that preyed upon the newly weakened and endangered. With a large majority of the galactic infrastructure in ruins, the governments of many species were forced to make the difficult choice of letting some of their lesser and more distant colonies fend for themselves so that resources could be pooled toward much more viable projects and population centers. Entire systems went dark and fell off the proverbial map; either recognizing that they were essentially independent now…or withered and died when the supplies ran out.
"The Synthesis"-as it came to be called-had also put medical science on a rocket sled of advancement as the Reapers poured forth their secrets on indoctrination and their ability to corrupt (though the Reapers themselves preferred to use the terms "Accession" or "preserve") organic life into something both living and dead, flesh and metal. Cybernetics alone advanced by hundreds of years in the span of less than a half decade. This helped the galaxies wounded and crippled-at least those who could actually afford the new equipment and procedures-to regain the full functionality or normal lives.
Those who benefitted were primarily in the military. The cost and number of patients of the procedures often forced the militaries to extend contracts and service times in order to assess the recipients abilities and recovery and/or to "make sure they got their money's worth"…and sometimes the notice that ones agreement to the procedure required such a thing got "lost". Some cried foul, others grumbled and carried on. Others said "to hell with it" and opted into far more invasive and comprehensive full body overhauls…and dangerous missions.
The last is just what one N7 Earth Alliance Army captain opted for, and who seemed to be having a run of utterly bad luck as of late…
Earth Systems Alliance Army N7 Captain Stephen Archer sat in the middle of the briefing room against a wall in the dreadnought class vessel Hindu Kush. The major giving the briefing was immeasurably boring, even more so than some of his lecturers in college. His monotone voice, poor delivery, and tendency to essentially just say what was on the missions briefing slides was a far better sleep aid than any medication that could possibly be developed. He-and the rest of the teams involved-had been sitting here for well over an hour and a half and had been told essentially nothing that they needed to hear. Archer was only here because he had to be there. The major had declared an order to his battalion that all personnel involved in any mission had to attend all briefings on it. The mostly aloof Lieutenant Colonel-who was actually in charge of the battalion-either didn't give a fuck or agreed with the policy. The day before the briefing Stephen had taken the liberty of exploiting his security clearance to gain access to Major Allen's personal data storage and studied his information on the mission at hand…and sent a copy of Major Allen's porn stash to his wife. Archer didn't even notice he'd fallen asleep into a vibrant lucid dream during the briefing when some sort of long device painfully prodded his forehead.
"Perhaps if I'm boring you, youshould be the one to give the briefing?" Major Allen barked at Archer so that everyone could hear him "scold" the "insubordinate captain".
Archer opened an eye to the overweight officer who had a metallic pointer upon his head. "Get that fucking thing off my head or I'll put your eye out." He grumbled.
"I'm sorry-what was that?!" The major bellowed at Archer. The intent was to inspire some sort of reaction of respect towards himself in the gathered troops. All it elicited was a round of thankful sighs and snickers from those who knew what Archer actually was-the top tier combat engineer classification (known as "demolisher") of all the Earth based militaries.
"Sure-I'll give the briefing!" Archer cheerily chirped as he sprang up from his seat. "I'd be fucking delighted too." He snarled at his superior. As Archer walked toward the front of the room he mumbled to himself "I probably read the mission information better and more carefully than your fat ass…"
He reached the front of the briefing room and looked around quickly for the controller-it wasn't there. "Major-'sorry'-Sir; could you toss me the 'clicker'?" The major stood andheaved it at Stephen; who turned toward the screen and still managed to firmly snag the device without looking…notably with his synthetic arm.
As the dumbfounded major slumped into the seat Stephen had formerly occupied, Archer began his version of the mission briefing.
"Alright fuckers-here's the shindig that we're ordered to crash!" He spoke to the soldiers gathered in the briefing room. Attention was fully upon Archer now-notepads came out, omni-tools activated, and all attention was finally aimed where it should have been all along-the front of the room and the details of/for the mission.
"There's a heavily dug in group of human preferring slaver ass-holes on the world we're heading toward. The upper brass wants the operation taken out-sadly, preferably keeping them alive. I assume for interrogation or something, or perhaps to not raise suspicions that we're onto them." A series of "boos" and general shouts of distaste for the "alive" part issued forth. "Folks! I know that sucks, but it is what it is-orders!" The crowd hushed quickly. "Besides-if the goal of this mission is accomplished we'll all have more of these fuckers to kill in the long term." A short burst of cheers followed before he resumed.
Over the next half hour he covered everything the major had in more detail and less time.
Archer concluded with "That's the game plan folks! Remember-only arrive at an extraction point immediately before the shuttle arrives so the LZ takes less fire and if you can't do that head toward your 'bravo' secondary extraction points." Archer said to the crowd without looking at the slide behind him. A small collection of arms arose when he finished. "Yes, Sergeant Lands. What is the question?"
The non-commissioned officer rose from his seat and stood at attention. "Sir-There are no secondary extraction points or coordinates on the slide presented, Sir!"
Stephen gave the man a puzzled look and then turned around. Sure enough-there were no secondary extraction sites marked. The Major was a total idiot-you always had a secondary extraction.
He studied the overlook map for a few moments and then used the laser pointer on the "clicker" to circle an area for each team and made them recite the exact coordinates of them. After ensuring that all present knew where to go, when, how, and if shit hit the fan; he dismissed the assemblage with the meet-up time of 0600 hours in the deployment bay. With the exception of Sergeant Lands who he called forward.
The NCO stood at attention before saluting Archer who returned it. "Sir-you wanted to speak with me, Sir?!"
Stephen took a seat on the desk at the front of the room and let out a deep sigh as he pulled a cigarette from the case he kept in his left shoulder pocket. He then brought out a blood red Zippo lighter from his right hand BDU pocket that was emblazoned with the Engineer Crest. As expected he then lit the cigarette.
"At ease, man." Stephen ordered after taking a long, heavy drag. "That level of formality bugs me. As long as ya don't get 'chummy' and 'buddy buddy' with me, I don't really give a fuck." He said. "Do you smoke Sergeant Lands?"
"Sir!" There was a pause, and then he finished his statement. "Yes sir, I do. And with respect to you, sir-just calling me 'Lands' is perfectly acceptable."
Without a nanoseconds hesitation, Archer produced his cigarette case for the man. When he took one, Archer motioned for him to take a seat. After its acceptance he put it back in its traditional pocket. "Chill the fuck out. Relax. Pull up a seat and let me inform you why you are here."
Lands took a seat before igniting the cigarette. He took one drag from the cigarette and was amazed at the quality of the tobacco. It had a fully earthen flavor and draw, with a heavily aromatic smell of spices with the hint of sweetness of being grown in dirt instead of some gene vat or hydroponics farm-for all intents and purposes, this cigarette was a premium cigar. However Captain Archer got these, it was far above and beyond the quality that the average citizen could afford or even find.
Before Lands could ask, Archer answered. "I garden such things as a hobby…except for the filter components. What you are smoking right now is the current culmination of the Archer Family Tobacco Growing Tradition. Enjoy it while you can...I probably won't be able to grow it for much longer…"
"Why?" Lands asked, savoring the cigarette like a $200 cigar.
There was a pause from Archer as he flicked his ash onto the floor. "I'm being set-up by Major Allen." Then an awkward silence befell the vacant room. Lands eyes went wide.
"How do you know, Sir?" Lands probed.
"To put it bluntly-it's simple rivalry. Allen and I were in the same N7 entry group and he washed out at stage one while I didn't. Interestingly his progress along his commission went faster than mine; and here we are." Stephen took a heavy drag on his own cigarette before continuing. "What Ineedyoutoknow is that whatever happens tomorrow, whatever or whoever we lose to death and injury, success or failure…" Steve trailed off for a moment before resuming. "It was not my intention at the core; but rather some scheming and angry asshole that did this to me."
Lands looked at Captain Archer for a moment before asking. "Did what to you?"
"Come tomorrow morning either my team or all the teams involved in this mission will either be swapped with junior and/or inexperienced members that will cripple our effectiveness. None of these members will have been at the brief where I directed secondary extraction zones."
"What is it you want me to do Sir?" Lands asked with genuine concern.
Stephen Archer looked at the non-com and stated flatly to him, "Remember what-admittedly little-I did for all of you. Know that I did my best for all of you enlisted-your lives may be thrown into the fire but know this-I have been in your shoes. I did my fucking best for y'all to make sure that you came back to your families...and yet some shithead found you all 'expendable' to his own political and emotional desires for revenge against me."
"Sir, I don't know what to say or do for you." Lands said; asking the veteran warrior.
Archer hopped off the desk and turned toward an exit door. "All I ask is that the disaster that tomorrow will be…" Stephen paused for a moment before continuing on, his voice shaking slightly. "Is that the rest of you enlisted folks understand that things were beyond my control. I did all I could for you and that despite my best efforts…I will fail. Some of you will die tomorrow-there is nothing that can change that. I have done the best I can with what I have at hand to ease the slaughter that will ensue; all for Major Allen's sick and fucked up method of vengeance." He paused for a moment, leaning against the frame of the automated door to the briefing room…and drew a deep breath. "It's all going to be because I ended up giving the briefing; now that I think about it."
"I hope most of you make it." Archer said, and left the briefing room.
The Next Morning…
Archer awoke with a violent start, already pointing his magnum at the source of the noise that had awakened him-his alarm clock. After going through a mental list of things that the sound could have been, he carefully set the gun down on his night stand before opening his eyes and turning the device off. He rubbed his face as he sat up while the little relaxation of the troubled slumber he had rapidly faded from his body. His timed tea-pot had already produced its usual aromatic cup of darkly brewed tea and several ice cubes had been dispensed into the large ceramic mug to bring it to a less than scalding temperature. He slammed the contents and ordered another serving before he proceeded onto a ritual that reminded him of who-and what-he was.
He fumbled around the area of his bed for the flesh colored textured wrap he had placed upon the bed stand...or somewhere around there. He had been navigating around his quarters until now by the light of his right arm…the one that had been replaced by the cybernetic technology the Reapers had given the galaxy. The limb had no discernible joints other than those at the shoulder (where it was mounted to a socket of hybrid organic/synthetic material) and the wrist (where the bulk essentially terminated into a discernible hand). The entirety of the limb emanated a soft blue light from the seemingly cable built addition to his body. Once he found the "sleeve", he dressed his synthetic arm in it and moved the sleeve around so that the internally sculpted grooves aligned with the tubule constructs and made his limb appear much more natural externally.
He stripped to nearly nothing, save for his boxers. As an N7 "construct" (the sub-classification for those composed mostly of Reaper cybernetic technology) his primary armor under garment consisted of a neurologically conductive body suit that "slaved" his armors movements to that of his muscles. Combined with his various skeletal, neurological, and muscle enhancements he was far superior to nearly any human and it may be said that he had been literally built for combat.
After donning his armor and securing the holster of his .44 magnum, clipping his helmet to his waist, and lastly pouring the second mug into a paper cup, he stepped in the corridor and walked to the lift that would take him to the deployment bay. Many gave the captain an odd or fearful look; mostly from the massive and archaic weapon that was slung across his chest in its flat green nylon holster. He said word zero to those that flitted in and out of his path as he made his way to the bay while drinking his tea.
He stepped off the lift and into the shuttle hanger-also known as the "deployment" bay while tossing the now empty and crushed paper cup into the waste chute. Archer took a quick look around and then headed to the armory station.
"Archer, Stephen T." He stated, "Saber rifle, serial AS-8493. Crusader, serial 1767." As he slid his weapons security card through the slot to secure his weapons. A flashing red notice and a disapproving sound came from the armory clerk's computer.
"My apologies sir, but both of your requested weapons have been sent to the depot level for maintenance, modification, and/or repair. It would seem that they were out of regulatory specifications." Archer stared at the man for literally a minute. The usual armorer was SGT Wilhelm-a man who fucking knew that Archer was above being forced into the confines of normal regulations regarding weapons load outs-and the idiot that stood before him reeked of a fresh from boot newb.
"What the fuck are you saying?" He sneered at the junior enlistee. "Did you not see the 'N7' on the sides of those weapons? On the file of who they were issued too? On the fucking issue card?! You sent all of my weapons to the depot?!"
The private tapped nervously upon his keyboard. "Yes sir. I did send them all to the depot…upon Major Allen's orders."
Archer stared at him once again. No longer angry at the private anymore, but he was still brimming with incomprehensible rage for the Major. "Fine-fuck it. Give me the best weapon you have available." Stephen growled, already aware of where these events were heading. Upon accepting the Avenger X rifle he growled at the new armorer "Read up on the regulations regarding the equipment of N7 rated personnel because you obviously must have slept through that part of your training."
As he approached his shuttle, the pilot gestured him to the far side…away from the three troopers Archer had no memory of.
Once on the far side of the shuttle and sure that the background noise of a busy bay would shield their hushed voices, did Lieutenant Marcus speak.
"Sir-who the fuck are these guys? I was expecting Jones, Davis, and Mitchell; but not this random group of assholes fresh out of training." Marcus asked.
Archer glanced over his shoulder at the three enlisted people behind them-not one over the rank of PFC-all full of self-gloating that their team leader was an N7. "It's Allen's idea for a brilliant plan to fuck me in the ass." Archer snarled. Then a thought entered Stephen's mind. "He may have my ass in a sling, but I know that. Only pretend to go to extraction point Alpha-give the slavers the illusion. Go straight to Bravo. I'll take care of the rest." The pilot nodded and moved toward the shuttle.
The Mission…
The actual mission went swimmingly-the other three teams absorbed the vast majority of the slaver bases troop detail and were holding their own in an exemplary fashion. Archer's team was a different story though.
He only had one of the "replacement" team members left. The first had been dead center of a doorway when he opened it (despite Stephen's orders otherwise) and had been shot in the chest with one of the slavers Graal Spike Throwers-and had bled to death in under a minute as the hollow serrated spikes drained his crimson life force rapidly from his body. The second trooper was lost when he failed to check a corner and received a Claymore shot burst to his helmet, pulping his cranium and wallpapering the room with the contents of his helmet.
Archer and PFC Larson finally made it to the command room and took out the slavers inside. The mission's true objective was now within reach.
The plan was to upload a communication "ghost" into their systems that would copy and send data and other information back to command. The goal was to essentially beat the slavers to their targets using their own info, or if not at least arrive in time to disrupt things. The purpose of all this was a plan to end the illicit slave trade incursions into Alliance occupied space, which was a problem that had exploded after the Reaper War.
Archer ordered Larson to cover him while he worked. The junior enlisted shook with fear but diligently did the task.
Stephen used his tool kit to remove several console covers in order to access the internals where he would attach the installation gear for the ghost program. Why do we still use screws and bolts in this day and age? He thought as he used a temporary wire harness to tap into the slavers communication servers. Now all they had to do was wait till the device signaled Archer's omni-tool that the upload was a success, remove the installer, replace the panels, and beat feet to extraction.
Archer took up station in cover on the other side of the door from Larson. A group of brightly colored slavers ran by and Larson raised his rifle to shoot when Archer stopped him. "Part of this plan is to not let on that we're really here for the comms. Shoot them and attract attention you'll blow it." He snarled at Larson over the internal helmet communicator. "The second part is me telling you where our extraction point really is. I'll beam the actual coordinates to you now."
A minute later and Archer's omni-tool chimed in his helmet that the upload was complete. He pulled the plugs, replaced the panels, and they made tracks for the power station.
They entered the bases main tunnel and were immediately met by a squad of slavers who opened fire almost instantly at Archer and Larson. Archer used a hand signal to tell Larson to stay put while he primed a homing grenade and stuck his hand around the corner to launch it. The grenade rapidly buzzed through the air for a moment and found its mark on one of the slavers engaging them from the side of the group. The explosion blew the man away, killed a couple others and sent the rest of the survivors slamming into the wall.
"Finish them off Larson." Archer ordered as he drew his magnum while casually walking toward the wounded enemies. The nearest one was on his back clutching futilely at what appeared to be sucking chest wound. Archer tapped a command into his omni-tool and copied the bases map from the critically wounded slaver…and dropped the hammer on his gun. In a thunderous roar that startled Larson badly enough to almost drop his rifle the slaver had his brains excavated via a jacketed hollow-point lobotomy. Five of the seven other wounded met a similar fate, the other two executed by Larson's assault rifle.
After scavenging the corpses for thermal clips they went to the power station, taking fire most of the way. Larson-much to Archer's surprise-was actually pretty damn good. The kid took a few rounds to the armor, but nothing major.
Archer placed his charges in the fusion reactor regulation systems with the intent to cripple the reactor-but not outright destroy it-and the two beat feet toward their extraction point. Shortly after reaching the location however; a vaguely familiar voice came over the comms net. "This is Lieutenant Colonel Howard and I am assuming control of this mission from Major Allen."
"Why the fuck would you do that?!" Archer barked at his communicator between bouts of shooting at the slavers who had him and Larson essentially pinned down.
"Major Allen had to take emergency leave to deal with an unexpected divorce with his wife; Captain." The LTC snarled back.
Part of Archer thought "Fuck Yeah!" while another part-the section of his mind that did most of his non-emotional calculating-"Of all the fucking times for his bitch of a wife to check her extra-net messages…" Stephen's eventual vocalization was simple. "Your orders, sir?"
"I'm shifting this from an infiltration mission to one of elimination. Wipe all enemy forces out." The commander ordered.
"Sir, we do not have the forces for that! Casualties will be severe! That also goes against the initial directive of making this look like a failed assault. Sir, please-for the sake of the lives of my troops-reconsider." Archer pleaded.
Without any emotional inflection in his voice the commander immediately replied; "Noted. My instructions stand. You have field control, Captain Archer. I trust you can do this."
Archer crouched behind cover for a moment while he took the information in. This is it. This is my chance to die in glorious combat…but what about them? He mused as he looked at an extremely nervous if not terrified Larson. No doubt there were others just like him in the assault company. These men and women had goals, objectives for their careers…families to return to. No. I can't deliberately leave them here to die just because I want it. He made his decision-give them the best odds he could manage at survival while minimizing his own.
"Ground troops, this is Archer-suppressive fire on all targets. Cover me!" Archer barked into his communicator as he hopped over his cover and made an inhumanly fast dash for the door to the power station. His HUD rapidly began to register a growing casualty list. His fall had begun.
It pained him to see the red flashes and solid blacks of his assault unit's members as he slaughtered his way toward his demolition charge. Each casualty his company suffered was s a failure to him and his mission…but he had to finish this.
When he arrived at the reactor cooling room he found an engineer attempting to disarm the timer on his charge. What Archer did next would be impossible for a totally human soldier; even an N7 one.
He jumped into the air at a dead sprint toward the slaver engineer with his right arm pointed into a spear. The tips of Stephen's fingers effortlessly penetrated the woman's visor and entered her skull through the bridge of her nose. The woman kneeled as a twitching mass of flesh that didn't know it was dead yet while Archer dug through her brain to find her spinal column. Once he found it he wrapped his fingers around it and tore the woman's skull, upper vertebrae, and helmet free from the body before tossing it aside.
He shook her brains from his arm before working on his demo-charge. He swapped the timer for a remote detonator using the comm unit from the dead slavers helmet before overwriting its codes with his own. He now had an improvised remote detonator that would respond exclusively to his control. He placed the charge in the reactors cooling systems and armed the charge.
He shifted comms networks so that he could speak exclusively to his shuttle pilot, Marcus. "You and all the other pilots need to head toward your extraction points. Like yesterday." A distorted but recognizable phrase of acknowledgement came back and Archer walked toward the exit…but not before grabbing the corpse of the dead female slaver.
Stephen Archer used the corpse like an ablative meat shield as he viciously fought his way toward the bases exit and his (and Larson's) extraction zone. The front armor on the corpse was quickly shot to confetti, but the actual body was doing a remarkable job of soaking up incoming fire. He shot, mauled, and murdered his way toward his troops whose depleted numbers clung to their positions for their very lives.
He reached a wounded Larson at their Bravo extraction site. The private was holding a wound in his side as blood seeped between his fingers. Archer grabbed his hand and wrenched it away as he began emergency medical applications. His omni-tool rapidly scanned the wound and tubules emerged from the back of Archer's artificial hand. Larson recoiled a bit in fear until Stephen tightly grasped his neck with the words "Don't move."
The tubes sprayed antiseptic compounds over the visible wound while another burrowed a slight ways into the wound to administer a topical painkiller. A second later the agents had taken effect a cluster of tubules went straight into the wound and then rapidly filled it with medi-gel before they retracted back into Stephen's hand.
"I'm not a medic and that's not a solution Larson. But it will get you going again." Archer said to the enlistee. "If you don't make it off this rock you badass, I will be very disappointed! Don't piss me off by dying!"
The next literal minute was a shit storm of fire from both forces. The slavers poured it on in an attempt to eliminate their invaders while the Alliance forces dished out an equal amount of whoopass to keep the few of them that remained alive as such. There was a sigh of relief when the shuttles finally arrived to evacuate them.
Many fell in their frantic sprint to their salvation. Archer made sure he was directly behind Larson the whole way. Then a rocket blew Stephen off his feet. Why did there always seem to be some douche with a rocket launcher? Archer thought to himself.
He was dazed for less than a second but it was enough for some of them to surround him. He kicked the first ones weapon up as it discharged, causing the poorly trained fool to shoot three other slavers. Archer's omni-blade made a swath through the legs of two others before the last two surrendered…whom his magnum killed quickly.
Stephen jogged quickly toward his shuttle. One last idiot tried to stop him. And this one received Archer's Avenger rifle through his upper chest as it was thrown at him. He made it too his shuttle slightly the use for wear.
Marcus craned his head around. "Shuttle's sealed sir. We are gone."
"Let me know when we're about 3 kilometers away." Marcus gave a thumb up to Archer who was now checking his assault companies list of casualties. Just a hair over a quarter on them had made it; the rest KIA. Of those that had made it, a full half where in need of critical medical attention…and a large portion them wouldn't even make the trip back to the Hindu Kush. All this was because the battalion commander had not paid attention to his own superiors as to the true objectives of the mission.
And for the simple reason that he was the lowest member on the totem pole that could be held accountable and the ground troop's leader during the fiasco, Archer was the perfect scapegoat for any failure they found.
"We're three klicks out now, sir." Marcus said.
Stephen brought up his omni-tool and hit the "detonate" command sequence for his demolition charge. A green light flashed confirming detonation. "Hang on to your britches folks-we're in for some turbulence." He declared over the company's channel. A few seconds later the nuclear shockwave slammed into the shuttles, disrupting flight paths but nothing serious.
He slumped into one of the jump seats while removing his helmet. Tossing the bucket of protective gear aside he reached into a pocket and drew his pack of cigarettes, lighter, and his flask of scotch. With a hand steady as the grave he lit a cigarette and passed the flask to Larson while taking a long and heavy drag. The PFC raised a blood covered hand in refusal until Stephen shook the container at him with the words "They won't check you for booze with that injury. Besides-you look like you need a good…stiff drink. Oh, and keep the flask-you have fucking earned it after this shitstorm."
Larson smiled at his company commander before taking a swig at the contents of the ornately decorated flask. It burned his throat like euphoria inducing molten glass and the alcohol quickly brought a sense of relaxation to the soldier's fried nerves. He coughed slightly as he rested his hands in his lap before asking Archer a question.
"You're gonna get burned for this, aren't you?" Was the question, then the addition of "Sir?"
Stephen snorted before pulling another cigarette out and using the already expended one to light it. His armored boot crushed the butt as another exhale of thick smoke filled the shuttle's cabin before the air filters pulled the contaminants out. "Larson…you have no idea how bad this 'ill burn. You and Sergeant Lands need to link up after we get back. Stick together through thick and shit and the two of y'all 'ill be un-fucking-stoppable." There was a few minutes pause, then Stephen finished. "Because my career is history."
Redemption Takes Many Forms…
A week after the debacle found Archer transferred to Sisyphus Station as a demoted officer and chief of security after his court martial. The charges leveled against him were-to be honest-pretty severe: inhumane use of force, execution of enemy casualties, conduct unbecoming an officer (which was surprisingly tied to the use of a corpse as a shield), and insubordination (which was tied to his "exchange" after returning to the Hindu Kush with the battalion commander). If it wasn't for the fact that he was N7 construct, he'd have been either dishonorably discharged after serving time in a military penal colony, or simply executed.
Major Allen had received his just rewards as well though. He was currently sitting in prison for a variety of things, among them being certain…contents of his porn stash that apparently just about any sapient species would have considered immoral-or just plain sickening. The major also would have been an eligible bachelor now that he was divorced; if he wasn't in prison with his lover named "Scarz".
Archer had spent the last six months on Sisyphus station now in a state of utter misery and depression. This was no place for an N7-they were supposed to be out getting shit done! Saving lives! Fucking killing tons of enemy dudes! Instead, he was stuck as some hyper qualified desk jockey combat veteran. All he had was his routine now-wake up, perform an hour and a half of physical training (in his quarters so no one could smell him as he sweated out the last nights booze), bathe, sit at his depressing job for eight hours, stop by the liquor store to pick up a liter or three (curse his enhanced liver), eat dinner, get drunk as hell, and pass out. Rinse and repeat. It had been a Friday night and since he didn't work on most weekends he had thrown it all in for a real bender, hoping to kill himself with alcohol poisoning or something. However, there was something that would be different about this Saturday afternoon…
A faint chiming noise entered the blackness of his head. He ignored it. It came again and the black that was his mind faded to a dark grey. It can't be the Voice…he only comes in the dreams… Archer thought in the haze of a lucid dream. The chime grew louder, insisting he return to the retched world of his life's reality, and he still fought it. It chimed again…
He awoke to a sharp inhale of his own breath, flailing for his magnum. Empty beer and liquor bottles clattered to the floor in his violent return to the reality that was his miserable life. The lewd sounds of the main menu of the porno he had been watching before blacking/passing out faintly filled his quarters, but were quickly squelched with the push of a button on the hand held remote for the vid screen.
Again there came the chiming…
He looked around him for some semblance of what time it was and forced his eyes to focus on his tea maker-15:30. He scanned the entry/exit log of his quarters and found he had-in fact-spent the entirety of his evening in his chambers, negating the lawful potential that he had another "drunk and disorderly conduct" charge waiting from his subordinates on the other side of the door.
Again there came the chiming…
"Fine-I'm moving! Just let me get some pants on…" he yelled at his door.
He opened the door in his half naked state to find a well-dressed Turian standing there with his arms crossed along with four armed and armored guards…all of which had their weapons pointed at him and/or the door.
Nonplussed by the display of power he addressed the fancily dressed one. "What do you want?"
The nearly seven feet tall being armed Stephen aside and his contingent of armed troops followed him into Archer's dwelling. "Fine-make yourselves at fucking home!"
The Turian brushed the empty bottles off the table and motioned toward the one empty chair in the room-the one opposite him at the table. The weapons pointed at him were quietly persuasive in Archer's choice to obey the gesture. He was technically in his underwear after all…
The Turian looked at Archer for a long moment before speaking. "Jack Daniels? I hear they have a dextro-DNA version out now. I might have to try it!" The Turian stated as he looked at the bottle before setting it on the floor. "You have no idea who I am…do you Demolisher Stephen Archer?"
Stephen glanced at his magnum which was unfortunately behind the Turian administering his questioning. The alien caught the glance and reached back to grab the archaic pistol. He held the weapon in a surprisingly reverent fashion before popping the cylinder open and emptying the six .44 Magnum cartridges from the cylinder. He then placed the pistol-with the cylinder still obviously open-between them as he placed each round from the gun next to it. "A mighty fine pistol in its day-I think you humans called it a 'Smith and Weston', model twenty-nine?"
Stephen hesitated a moment before deciding to go for broke. If this was the bad situation he thought it was (a hit squad from the slavers); he would probably die here anyway. "Smith and Wesson model twenty-nine. But yes-it's a damn fine pistol that I was given by my mother who had been given it to her by her mother…and so forth." He looked at the four armed guards and noticed the slightest sense of relaxation from them.
Archer leaned himself and his chair back. The guards didn't react to this benign act. In the flash of a nanosecond, Stephen had grabbed the Mattock out of the hands of the nearest guard, spun it so it hit him in the face, and pointed the muzzle at the seated Turian...who just laughed at the whole show.
"The least expected show of skill from you Archer! How do you humans say it? 'Bravo'?" All while clapping-and what he thought was-smiling. "You are perfect! Zero survival chance and you did it anyway…"
Archer pulled the trigger and got nothing. He hit the button that would have ejected the weapon's thermal clip but all he got was a vacant slot where the device should have been…and the sound of the other three guards mounting their weapons on their backs. He moved the rifle toward the trooper he had disarmed and stole a glance at the Turian-"No hard feelings please?"
"Such a thing bound to happen. Apology accepted." The Turian stated while rubbing his chin and mandibles.
"I am perfect…for what?" Stephen asked. "Also, who the hell are you anyway?"
"I am Councilor Sparatus, member or the Citadel High Council and its representative for the Turian Hierarchy." He stated flatly.
The Turian continued, "I have come to offer you a way off this backwater station."
Archer looked at the alien, mouth agape before asking, "Why? I have been dishonored by my military. I have no family left. I am an…abomination amongst my own-why me?"
The Councilor leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. "Why not? You have the skills, the training, the experience, the ability, the drive to do whatever it takes to succeed, the…whatever. You are what we seek for what we need."
Archer leaned forward and looked the Councilor straight in his eyes. "Need for what, exactly?"
Sparatus motioned the guards to stand outside. When the door closed behind them he began.
"In the wake of the Reaper War Citadel forces were-actually, still are-cripplingly depleted. That is one reason why so many of the farther flung colonies were left and abandoned-there simply wasn't enough man power and equipment at the time to maintain them. Even the SPECTREs were hit hard.
"The Council founded a new…operative group to compensate for the heavy losses the SPECTREs endured. While many of the tasks are the same there are some that are so sensitive that even sending a SPECTRE is out of the question. This group operates in total secrecy; so as to be…" The Turian trailed off.
"Deniable and expendable." Archer finished. He was well on his way to liking this idea. To do what had to be done-no excuses.
"Yes, that is exactly the intent of this force group." The Councilor continued. "Any success of your team benefits the Citadel powers. Failures, disasters, and…unforeseen consequences can be written off as terrorism, freak mishaps, or the act of a group of militant marauders; which is the guise your team will frequently operate under. You will do what we tell your team to do, and you will do whatever it takes to accomplish our orders." The Councilor said. The Turian sat back in the chair, his hands upon the table the two of them sat at. "Are these terms acceptable…N7?"
Archer looked down at his calloused hands; hands that shook from excessive alcohol use and nicotine. His next glance was around the grey and black darkness of his quarters-no posters or other pictures, nothing that would have marked it as "his" other than the plethora of empty beer cans, liquor bottles, and empty cardboard beer cases that littered his dwelling. A wave of self-disgust nearly overcame him before he squelched it behind his anger.
He raised his gaze once again the alien that could possibly deliver his salvation. "What about my term of service? My…'upgrades' are still years from allowing me to just 'walk away' from the Alliance. What of them?" Stephen asked.
"Bought out…or transferred as the case may be. The Council will buy your service term from the Alliance through a series of straw buyers and the paper trail will lead to nothing…but you will still owe 'us', as in the Citadel Council. Your military is literally looking to get rid of you Mr. Archer-your service is a buyers' market if one is willing to take the…chances involved in accepting you. I will tell you now-your term has been on the market for the last year…with no takers despite your qualifications. Many desire your skills but none are willing to take the chance on one such as you."
The Turian reached over to Stephen's refrigerator, opened it and grabbed a can of beer. Using a clawed hand, the alien opened it and set it upon the table before sliding the cold beverage toward Archer. The alien motioned toward the drink with an open hand. "The Citadel Council and I offer you the chance to get what you want. Your choice is totally voluntary-a simple yes or no answer. Answer 'no' and I assure you-through no fault or reason of the Council-that you will spend the rest of your days here on this station."
The Turian then leaned forward so that his face was mere inches from Archer's. "Say 'yes', and the paycheck and your desire to die in battle will be substantially rewarded…even if off the financial records. What say you?"
"What say I? I say fuck it. When and where do you want me to report?" Archer said a second after the Councilor had concluded.
What Archer perceived as a Turian "smile" blanketed the Turians face. A firm handshake affirmed their agreement. "On this stations Sunday, an unmarked and unscheduled shuttle will arrive exclusively for you at 0325 hours time. Bring a week's civilian clothing. Your personal credit account will be allotted on demand for travel, lodging, and food. All your arms and armor will be waiting upon your arrival at The Citadel. Any other issues and/or questions can and will wait until then."
The Turian opened the door. "Welcome to the 'Hero's Branch' Archer." The door closed and that was the end of it.
And from here…Archer had no real clue what was going on. He was free to do as he please within missions. The thought made him tingle inside.
However there was so much left to do! A myriad of ideas, plans, and theories ran rough shod through his mind.
Sleep! You must sleep! The Voice quietly urged. He resisted a faint moment…and then obeyed.
Tomorrow…his third chance began.