Mass Effect: Galactic Front.
Author's Note:And verily, it came to pass that yet another writer set their hand to writing yet another story based on Mass Effect 3's stellar Multiplayer mode. But wait! This one is different... hopefully. My aim, as the title suggests is to try and capture the scale of the conflict that Shepard and co were faced with during the events of the third game, albeit through the eyes of plucky "N7" operatives, and various other entities. To that end, we won't always be focusing on engagements in fire-bases and during the narratives great set-pieces. In fact, we begin with a slightly more low-key adventure, set shortly before the Reaper War truly kicked off, and far away from the Alliance fleets.
It only remains for me to say that I hope you enjoy what follows - in this chapter and beyond. Of course, it goes without saying (but hey, I'll do it anyway) that if you do read this story and enjoy it, please click the review button when you're done and let me know what you think. I'm always open to criticism - the constructive variety is always welcome, but I'm thick-skinned enough to hear the worst and survive. I'm especially interested to hear what you think about the characters in this story - I love them to bits, but the important thing is that you do too. And while I've got you, if you do enjoy my tale, and do take a moment to review, then why not add this to your alert, so you never have to worry about missing an instalment!
I've blathered on for far too long, so I'll shut up now. In the immortal words of Scott Pilgrim: "Please to enjoy!"
Chapter One:
Ford Llewellyn did not like Noveria. Not one bit. It wasn't the cold – no, he'd grown up in Wales, on Earth. So he was quite used to the cold, thank you very much.
No, it was the people on Noveria that he didn't like: every single bloody one acting as though they were the most important people in the entire bloody galaxy. He'd met Elcor that were more emotionally approachable – cold as the near-constant blizzard outside, this lot.
From his balcony position in Port Hanshan's banking plaza, he could watch the blighters: milling about, jabbering into their omni-tools, or engaged in conversations that amounted to little more than boasting and one-upmanship. Each and every one of them out to do nothing more than reel in the credits and stab backs.
There were few things that affected Ford's usual good-natured. Noveria, and its inhabitants had earned a prime position on his "list".
The one benefit about being here was that everyone underestimated him. Since his arrival, mere hours earlier, he had been systematically ignored – the bureaucrats and traders seeing only a short, stocky, rough-looking mercenary; someone of very little import, except as a potential hired fist. Though – as Ford would be the first to admit – this was not a million miles from the truth, the facts were a little more involved.
He was ex-Alliance, and although that was an accolade which would still not have impressed many of Noveria's finest, it was one that allowed him to stand here quite innocuously, and evaluate every inch of the plaza, and the people within it. A useful skill, when acting as a look-out.
His eye was caught, as a particularly well presented trader on the floor below him walked by. Not such a bad sight – he admitted grudgingly – for a Noverian. But there was something a little off about her good looks. Blonde hair, pulled back into a bun – with an almost artificial sheen, and not a single hair out of place. Cheekbones which were far too eye-catching to be original. A blue formal dress that had clearly been calculated to be as practical and appealing as possible, looking like it had been designed with all the enthusiasm of a Geth. She glanced up – just for a moment – and Ford saw dull blue eyes, cold and dead. Ruthless eyes – soulless eyes, he would have said, if he believed in such things.
He looked away, with a dry chuckle and shake of his head. Impatiently, Ford drummed his fingers on the balcony handrail. He was already wishing he'd stayed on the ship.
What was taking Quinn so long?
Harry Quinn stopped making eyes at the Asari receptionist – the temporary distraction having run its course – as a Mauve skinned Salarian stuck his head around the large screen which separated his office from the waiting room.
"Quinn, my friend – come on in." The slim alien pulled the Noveria approximation of a warm smile and beckoned his human client in.
Harry flashed a wink at the Asari as he stood – then promptly forgot her, turning his attention to the Salarian.
"Maris. Thanks for seeing me." He moved over to Maris Echedon, taking his hand in a firm shake, and affording him a much more genuine smile.
Echedon's smile turned a jot more natural, as he ushered Quinn towards his office door.
"Lillan, hold my calls." He told the receptionist, with an airy tone that Harry thought seemed a little forced. No matter, Maris had always been a starch-arse.
Walking into Echedon's office, Quinn was stuck – as usual – by the number of reflective surfaces inside. He couldn't honesty take umbrage at the Salarian's evident narcissism, as he took this opportunity to inspect his own visage. A pair of eyes peered back at him from the polished glass desk: one blue and vibrant, the other green and dead – comprising of little more than deep, inky blackness, and a thin band of that sharp green. The cybernetic-prosthetic rotated slightly, taking in red hair, unkempt and ruffled after several days without attention. His face still held that open, mischievous quality that so often served him well, but now it was drawn and pale, with fresh frown lines and dark bags under his eyes.
Snapping out of the moment's vanity, he took a seat in front of Maris' desk, just as the Salarian slid round to sit on the other side. Maris leant back, interlacing his fingers as he peered across at his human client.
"Well, it's good to see you Maris."
"And you Quinn. But what can I do for you?"
"Straight to business then," Harry raised a rusty eyebrow, "It's my accounts of course – I want to empty them."
Maris blinked rapidly. This in itself was nothing out of the ordinary for a Salarian, but he accompanied the twitch with a nervous tug to his collar.
"Both... accounts? Empty them... completely?" He stuttered, and then attempted a somewhat forced chuckle. "You'd, ah, tell me if there was an issue, wouldn't you? The NDC's stock is higher than ever you know..."
"Yes Maris, I know." Quinn replied, not unkindly, "And my shares in the NDC have served me very well over the years. But lately I'm feeling like... making a few changes."
A pause. Outside the office's wide single window, a mute blizzard raged on; raw environmental fury totally at odds with the sterile port interior. The blur of snow reminded Harry of static on vid-screens, and he was reminded – not for the first time – of just how isolated Noveria was.
"You know something, don't you Harry." Maris was now visibly agitated, opening and closing his palms, rubbing his slim hands together, a reptilian tongue flickering over thin lips.
Quinn's own mismatched eyes narrowed; he'd not intended this meeting to drag on for so long. Ford would be getting agitated, might even decide to come find him. That would be a mistake: the less attention they attracted the better – especially with Echedon's nerves apparently playing up.
"What do you mean, Maris?" he fixed an enigmatic smile – one that had always served him well, "I know a lot of things, friend, you'll have to be more specific."
The Salarian leant forwards, frowning, "Don't bullshit me Quinn – you and your connections – you will know something. The Hegemony's gone dark; Batarians refugees are swarming in everywhere, with the fear of whatever God they have in them, off-world comms are getting patchy and Omega..." he made a noise somewhere between exasperation and concern, nostrils wrinkling contemptuously, "Well, clearly something is wrong with Omega or you wouldn't be here. Things are happening Quinn, anyone can see that; and here you are trying to clean out your accounts? Seems like you're trying to cut and run."
"You never used to pry this much Maris. Is the NDC encouraging you? Or did you just get nosy?" Impatience – not to mention apprehension – rising, he snapped back, "Echedon, I want my money. Now."
Maris' eyes had shifted away from Quinn – just for a second – jumping to the window, to an ostentatious Turian timepiece, then to the door, before they refocused on Quinn. He didn't quite meet the suspicious glare that Harry levelled his way.
"I... alright, then." Echedon tapped at his computer uncertainly, those beady eyes still rather restless.
"Maris... what the hell is wrong with you?" Quinn's left hand dropped a few inches, nearing the concealed holster at his hip; his voice adopting a cautious tone now, all pretences gone.
The Salarian forced his eyes onto his client, and opened his mouth.
Crack. Cracka. Crack.
The staccato rhythm of gunfire flared up in the instant of silence, echoing from outside Echedon's office.
Quinn burst up from his seat, wheeling about; the frosted glass doors of the office gave away nothing, but the sounds of a skirmish grew, screams now accompanying the rattle of firearms.
He turned back, all thoughts from before forgotten – he owed it to his old friend to get him out in one piece. Quinn knew all too well who those guns belonged to, and knew that this wasn't Echedon's fight
"Maris – we need to –"
The Salarian was smiling.
Shock like a biotic's punch hit Quinn, then dissipated just as quickly as this new detail provided the last piece of a puzzle he'd been working with since he'd sat down across from the Banker.
"You are running, aren't you? They said you'd be coming. Trying to clean house – trying to make a getaway." Maris' thin lips were stretched in a foul-looking grin, hands folded neatly on his desk.
"You son of a scaly bitch." Quinn spat vindictively, he kicked back, knocking his chair away, his hand clamped at his hip, "You sold me out."
"Well, yes."
"To Cerberus!"
"Yes. Cerberus. They were really very insistent, and really very eager to talk to you. Not as Xenophobic as I remember though: they offered me a quite generous deal. Protection, in the main."
"Protection from what?" Quinn frowned; Maris' rationale – stupid as it was – had piqued his curiosity. He was still very much aware of the crashing gunfire outside, but hopefully the Elanus mercs would have responded by now.
"From what's coming you idiot." It was Maris' turn to scowl now, "From whatever is out there that got the Batarians. Cerberus knows even if you don't!"
"You idiot Maris. You paranoid bloody idiot... Cerberus isn't going to protect you..." he cut himself off, knowing that there was no point in arguing now. It was time to go. He pulled the Predator pistol from his hip holster, snapping his arm up and aiming, one-handed at Maris.
The Salarian practically jumped out of his seat, all the agitation from earlier reasserting itself, with interest.
"What! Come on now Quinn – you wouldn't – but no, of course you would," he looked caught somewhere between bitter realisation and abject terror, "H-how, did you even get that into the port. W-weapon's aren't allowed in Hanshan." Maris finished speaking in a very small voice, eyes locked on the pistol's barrel.
"Spectre's licence, Maris. Let's me take what I want, where I want." Quinn allowed a cruel smile to cross his features as he adjusted his aim.
"But you're not a Spectre." Maris whispered, eyes bulging.
"No, no I'm not."