Chapter 1: Andromeda
Journal Entry 1
My name is Scott Ryder, and I signed up for the Andromeda Initiative of "my own free will." They told us we needed to record our understanding of the project for the history books, but because dear old dad happens to be rather important, and because I'm a naturally suspicious sort of person, I also happen to know that a "select" number of these are being submitted to the Citadel Council to let the galactic community know that the Initiative isn't brainwashing and enslaving us before making a break for freedom across dark space to play with its toys.
Well, you can breathe a sigh of relief, Council—no brainwashing here. The people that signed up for this little one-way trip were already completely and utterly insane.
Oh, right, personal reasons for going. Honestly? No other options. And yeah, I get that there are some others like me stuck in the Initiative and not thrilled about it, but we're definitely in the minority. In my case, my mom developed a rare and terminal degenerative disorder. Dad blew all our savings, trashed our reputation, and got us blacklisted trying to find a cure. He developed an AI (which was bad) designed to interact via ridiculously expensive QEC implant (worse), which could theoretically let it mess with your nervous system (aaaand blacklisted). Of course, there are all sorts of safety features to keep Sam on a strict look-don't-touch regimen, but still.
And between the AI now in my brain (you can bet dad didn't explain just how invasive that procedure was going to be beforehand) and the omnitool surgically implanted in my left arm, and you start to wonder exactly where the threshold of cyborg is. Anyway, that's dad's AI, S.A.M., now universally referred to as Sam.
So, the Alliance found out, freaked out, and dishonorably discharged him and blacklisted the whole family. For him it's this or life in prison. And I still don't know how his friends in the Initiative pulled that off. Suddenly the three of us are without a job, without mom, and running out of friends fast.
That's when dad announced all three of us had joined something called The Initiative (Thanks for asking, dad!), a vaguely secretive, definitely sketchy bunch looking for nutjobs to hit cryo for a couple centuries and wake up in the neighboring galaxy. Where, of course, even if we get some sort of foothold, we'll all die out in a generation or two because the entire base population is made up of risk-takers, thrill-seekers, and those that had to run all the way to the next galaxy to get away from their problems.
Real recipe for success there.
As for my twin sister, Sara, she's ecstatic about the whole idea. Insane people, remember? And then there's me. Of course I said yes, in the end. This is dad we're talking about here. I was trying to make a career of it in the Alliance, working security and tech support guarding a mass effect relay, about as quiet as it gets, but after dad's . . . misadventures, that's a dead-end with a lot of "quiet conversations" going on among my superiors. No credits, no translatable skills, and honestly no idea how to start a business. So, it was either go it completely alone, assuming dad would even allow that, or sign on to this Initiative, and try to save up enough money to get back out before they actually leave.
I held out as long as I could, only signing on right near the end. Dad, of course, wasn't about to let me get away with just being a colonist or in admin or something. No, I needed to be more squarely under his jurisdiction, so surprise surprise, I've been transferred to the Pathfinder team, the nutters thrilled about "first contact scenarios" and "exploring new worlds." Nobody seems particularly concerned that we already did that not very long ago, and oh yeah, that our little scuffle with the exoskeletoned, avian turians was called the "First Contact War." But there it is.
Fingers crossed one of those brave souls forgot to attach the engines or something and we can all go back home. Wish me luck. We're boarding tomorrow.
Scott.
Scott sat up slowly, head woozy and eyes blurry. He blinked, trying to pull himself together. He kind of remembered going to sleep, something about . . . but no, they hadn't left yet, he was still in the cryo bay. And there was ice lining most of the pods. Ice from long-term buildup of microscopic pod leaks. The kind that built up only after years.
"We made it . . . damn."
He tried to stand, but one of the two technicians approaching grabbed his shoulder. "Easy there, deep breaths. You're going to want to take it slow."
The other technician wasn't actually looking at him, instead reading from her datapad. "Ryder, Scott. Recon Specialist, Pathfinder Team."
The man perked up. "Pathfinder team, eh? The ones finding us a home."
"Can you make it somewhere tropical? Nice warm ocean, summer year-round?"
"How about we get him a cup of coffee first?"
The two chattering techs grabbed him under each arm and eased him to his feet, talking easily and smoothly about nothing, probably to help him transition back to the living after, what, 600 years in stasis. Okay, maybe it was completely natural and unscripted. Maybe.
Either way, they walked him out of cryo proper and into the small medical bay with lots of other (purely coincidentally) equally chatty techs and a handful of nurses checking over the newly awakened, supervised by a lone asari doctor. It took a while to maneuver him to a waiting chair, and longer still to communicate that he did not, in fact, like coffee, after which they scrounged up some sort of stimulant, shot him in the arm with it, and left him to recuperate. Scott tuned out the noise, instead focusing on the soothing propaganda vid playing in the background, trying to collect his thoughts. A little late on the sales pitch, we're already here. And any more Arks are 600 years away from arriving. It's not like we can back out now.
"The selection process saw the Andromeda Initiative evaluate thousands of potential habitable planets within the galaxy. Of those, the Initiative selected—"
"Scott Ryder? Let's get you checked out."
He looked up to see the asari doctor. Well, wasn't he special?
"Look here," she swept her omnitool's scanner over him while the video droned on.
"After discovering an unusually high ratio of potential candidates, or 'golden worlds,' the Heleus Cluster was selected as our destination. Now you are part of the first wave of arks arriving in Andromeda, our new home for humanity."
The doctor gently probed at his neck, checking the lymph nodes for swelling. "They make it sound so easy, don't they?"
Scott shrugged. "They say a lot of things. How do you feel about that 'new home for humanity' bit?"
She smiled easily. "So long as it's a new home for asari as well, it doesn't bother me a bit. And speaking of which, you're going to need to get started marking sure of that. Look here now." She waved her hand left to right, checking his pupil tracking.
That didn't sound good. "Oh?"
"The Pathfinder wants you all on your feet right away. He said 'mission ready within the hour.'"
"So that's why I get the doctor herself . . . any idea why?" he asked warily.
"No. But if I had to guess, you're 'adventure' is about to begin."
He managed, barely, not to groan out loud. Adventure, that was the last thing he needed.
"Okay, everything checks out. No stasis shock for you, it seems. Just one more thing before I send you on your way. Let's test your Sam implant. Sam, are you monitoring?"
The AI didn't respond for a moment which, if you know anything about AI, is somewhat terrifying, and even more effective than the stimulant at getting his heart pumping. Somehow the asari wasn't fazed. "Sam, are you online?"
A com console lit up with a blue glow, indicating a connection with dad's masterpiece, and the last straw for the Council back home—the artificial intelligence known as Sam.
"Yes, Dr. T'Perro. Good morning, Ryder. Are you feeling well?" asked the AI's almost painfully mild voice.
"I feel like a 600-year-old popsicle."
"Readings confirmed. Based on the levels of adenosine in your system, the neural implant is functioning properly."
Wait . . . was Sam trying to rile me up just to test the implant?
Dr. T'Perro looked up from the readouts. "It just means you're still shaking off your nap. No reason we can't get you on your way."
Scott was still woozy, but he was pretty sure that constituted an excellent reason not to send him on his merry way into the unknown, but of course, this was dad asking, and dad always got what he wanted in the end.
Dr. T'Perro tapped his shoulder and nudged him back to his feet once more. "Though you may want to wait for a moment while we revive your sister. It always helps to see a familiar fa—"
The ship groaned. There really wasn't a better way to describe the sound as thousands of tons of ship superstructure suddenly came under strain. The lights flickered once, then the entire ship buckled as something hit it. Scott went down, as did pretty much everyone else, with more than a few screams.
What the hell? He scrambled up to his knees just as gravity started to shift and a huge stasis pod slid his way. He had just enough time to brace himself when the gravity cut out completely. The stasis pod bounced off the floor and just missed clipping him, and then it was Scott's turn to float up, caught in empty space, out of reach of everything.
Scott didn't like danger, he wasn't the grizzled soldier his father was, or the adrenaline junkie Sara was, but they'd dragged him along in their wake enough times that he had developed one skill—he could think, clearly and quickly, under pressure. Of course, that didn't stop Sara laughing her butt off afterwards as the adrenaline wore off, his hands started shaking, and he tried (usually successfully, thank you very much) not to throw up.
So he thought.
The strain on the ship, plus the shift in gravity, meant that they'd come close to something, something massive that had tried to capture the Hyperion in its orbit. The impact though . . . they were moving at, quite literally, astronomical speed even after the ship flipped end for end and spent the last decade braking. If they'd hit something solid, and big enough to have that kind of gravity, the ship would be nothing more than microscopic particles. So whatever they'd hit, it wasn't solid. A gas field, maybe? It wasn't clear how hitting a gas field would be just a single impact, though. And if it was gas, it must be stupendously huge, as in, span the distance between planets kind of big.
The doctor grabbed his leg, the only thing in reach, and clung to it. "What's going on?"
Like I have any idea. "Just . . . just hang on."
A technician close to the door hit the emergency access panel and responded to the bridge. "Gravity in cryo bay is offline."
And that was it. After the initial panic, something very like calm was restored despite the fact that they were all probably about to die. Even the doctor was now floating calmly. Nutters, the lot of them.
His thoughts were put on hold as the door to the rest of the ship opened and a woman floated through, propelling herself with the deft little almost unconscious adjustments born from lots and lots of zero-g experience. Proficient in zero-g movement, probably combat trained. Blonde hair cropped short on one side, combed over on the other, just short enough not to get in the way in a helmet, or in zero-g. White uniform with blue sleeves, like Scott's own, meant Pathfinder team.
She nodded to the technician and took his spot at the emergency access panel. She looked at it for a few second, then spoke into her omnitool. "This is Cora, I'm at the cry bay. Brace for gravity reset."
Cora Harper, Pathfinder second in command. As she was likely going to be his immediate superior, he rather wished he'd had a chance to read further into her file than that, but that's what he got for thinking he could actually break free of dad's orbit.
The gravity generators hummed back to life and Scott flopped unceremoniously to the deck. Dr. T'Perro, and Cora, of course, landed gracefully on their feet.
Cora looked out across the room at the groaning crew picking themselves up and started to sort through the chaos of knocked over beds, banged up instruments, and treating skin splattered by scalding coffee. "Everyone alright?"
When nobody immediately answered she scanned the room once more and locked on to Ryder's pathfinder uniform.
Scott, yet again, dragged himself to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster. Time to take the offensive before any smart remarks. "What happened?"
Cora glanced at the surrounding people, then stepped closer and lowered her voice. "We're not sure. Sensors are scrambled. But it's good to see you're up. It feels like centuries since we spoke."
That joke was going to get old very fast. Fortunately, he was spared from having to respond to that particular witticism by the cryo-bay's PA system.
"This is the Pathfinder. Mission teams, continue preparations. Cora, Ryders, report to the bridge."
Cora nodded. "You heard him, let's get—"
Her voice cut off and Scott turned to see what had caught her attention and froze. The banged dup stasis pod that had nearly crushed him was Sara's. Two technicians were trying to get it functioning. And failing.
Oh no.
One of them looked over at him and swallowed. "Uh, we may have a problem here."
Cora and the doctor darted over immediately. "Well?"
"It looks like some sort of power surge hit the stasis pod."
Scott just stood there, dumbfounded. Sara . . . that was impossible. Sara was . . . this whole thing was practically tailor made for her. She was the indestructible, happy-go-lucky adrenaline junky, and the, well, the unofficial translator between him and dad. She was crazy enough to get dad, and just barely sane enough to get him, too. Since mom's death she'd been the only thing holding them together. Without her . . .
He shook his head, trying to avoid the sudden surge of panic. "Is . . . is she okay?"
Dr. T'Perro looked up from the pod quickly at the quaver in his voice. "Scott, look at me, look at me, good. Scott, Sara is find. She's okay. Her vitals are strong. The revival procedure was interrupted, that's all, and the pod locked her in a coma as a precaution."
"I . . . that doesn't sound good."
"Don't worry, Scott, she's fine. It just means the process could take longer than usual. Sam?"
The AI's voice echoed from the com node. "My connection with Sara's implant was suspended. However, her pulse, respiration, and brain activity are all normal."
The doctor nodded. "The safest way now is to let her slowly awake naturally. The pod will let go of the induced coma when she's ready. Scott . . . she'll be fine."
He gave himself another shake. "Right . . . yeah. She'll be fine. Good to hear it."
Cora nodded towards the doctor. "Thanks, Lexi. Keep us updated. Ryder, I'll . . . wait for you at the door, whenever you're ready to go."
That, the hesitation from the super-professional-robot-soldier Cora, finally brought him back to the present. She was tiptoeing around him, uncertain how to deal with him. She thought he was compromised . . . unreliable. "No, no, I'm fine. Let's go." He followed in Cora's footsteps, trying not to listen while the doctor and technicians spoke quickly, with words like 'intravenous line' and 'cardiac arrest.' Cora moved through the chaos quickly towards the door and they stepped past the propaganda board where Jien Larson, the Andromeda Initiative's founder, smiled down on their first casualties.
Things didn't get better outside. More staff, a surprising number, really, hustled around. Scott cast an anxious glance at a small team swarming over a smoking generator powering the cryo bay, but they seemed to have it under control. From there it was a short walk to the tramway at the Hyperion's heart. Thankfully, it seemed to be intact.
The tram ride towards the bridge passed in silence, each of them lost in their thoughts. Without more information, there was no point freaking himself out speculating about what was happening, and he definitely wasn't going to think about Sara without having a panic attack, so instead he focused on his fellow Pathfinder Team member and pulled up her file.
Cora Harper, ex-Alliance officer, jumped ship at Lieutenant. Very little on family or life before joining up at 18. She'd served in some Council Initiative called the Valkyrie Program, though there wasn't much that wasn't classified on that. All-around excellent soldier, if a bit . . . rigid. She and dad must get along just great.
The tram eased to a stop and opened to the bridge, which unlocked and opened as the door read their omnitool's clearances. The bridge itself was tense, filled with anxious officers hunched over the still-functioning consoles at their stations, not-quite-shouting reports back and forth. He caught things like "sensors down" and "drifting," then tuned it out. Those were the only important parts—blind and helpless. That, and dad was ahead.
"Sam, we need eyes out there."
The AI's near-monotone cut through the bridge chatter. "Attempting to adjust sensor arrays."
Captain Dunn, the non-nonsense woman presiding over the chaos, cast dad a sharp look. "Alec, you may be Pathfinder, but this is my ship."
Trying to take over already, are we dad? Didn't take you long.
The tough-as-nails ex-N7 marine didn't back down an inch. "Captain, the protocol is clear. In the absence of communications with the Nexus or the other Arks, we proceed to our appointed golden world. Solid ground."
That was not good. Proceeding independently to the assigned golden world was right above eating non-essential personnel on the contingency planning list. They had the supplies and population to make it work alone, just barely. In theory.
And this is the best option? Oh, and typical dad, what the hell did that have to do with having Sam override the sensor arrays?
Captain Dunn must not have known him well, because she fell for the distraction hook, line, and sinker.
"If it's even out there. Nobody said anything about running into an energy cloud—and that's just a wild guess about what we hit."
The sensor readouts popped back up, and everyone took a moment to just look. They were surrounded by . . . something. It was, quite literally, astronomically huge. It seemed to be absorbing light and energy judging by its amorphous, probably gaseous state, and utter blackness. And yet, there seemed to be activity of some sort, bits of burnt-orange energy? Radiation?
Dunn shook her head and turned to face dad squarely. "Alec, I need to assess the damage and stop the bleeding. We've got 20,000 helpless people asleep on the ship."
Cora nudged him and whispered, "Hard to blame her."
Oh no. He knew better than to get involved in this, not when dad was in the same solar system. He always heard. And when he didn't, he found out.
Cora kept digging. "I mean, she is the captain, so I guess she gets the final word—"
"This isn't about having the final word," dad cut in sharply.
Called it.
Cora snapped to attention. "Yes, sir."
She was rescued by a sensor tech. "Ma'am, we're getting something through the cloud. Putting it up on screen now."
And there it was. A beat up, battered, broken down planet. The Pathfinder was unperturbed. "Is this it? Confirm that this is Habitat 7."
"Confirmed," noted Sam mildly. "This is New Earth."
"If we're lucky," muttered Alec. "Give me planetary readings."
"The energy from the phenomena is interfering with our sensors. Planetary conditions are unknown."
He turned, his gaze sweeping across the bridge, drawing every eye.
Here it comes. Sorry Captain, but dad never loses.
"We're marooned, 20,000 souls adrift at sea. And when the power runs out and stays out . . . we need to know if that's safe harbor."
Dunn made a show of it, at least. "And if it's not?"
"As Pathfinder, it's my job to find an alternative. It's what I and my team trained for . . . but if this goes well, we're already home."
Finally, Dunn gave in to the inevitable. "Alright. Just make it quick."
"Harper, the rest of the team should be awake by now. Have them spin up two shuttles. Planetfall in thirty."
Harper saluted again. "Yes, sir."
Dad took off in his not-quite-a-jog quick-march, and Harper took off after him, chattering orders into her omnitool.
Scott was content to let them get a lead on him. If he was lucky, he'd get to sit in the second shuttle. Meanwhile, Captain Dunn watched the Pathfinder leave with a look of exasperation she quickly masked, then glanced over at Scott and spoke quietly. "A stubborn one, isn't he?"
Ah yes, back in the familiar role of damage control, trying to hold everything together as dad did his thing. "He cares in his own way, enough to give him a chance."
Dunn pursed her lips, then offered a little nod. "I suppose you're right. He is our Pathfinder, after all. If this doesn't work out, we'll need him more than ever." Then she dismissed the concern and turned back to her crew, requesting status updates and diving back into the mammoth task of reasserting control over the floundering vessel.
Well, no more delaying the inevitable. Back to the tram. It was time to take his first steps in Andromeda. Somehow, the thought didn't make him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
A/N: I have a strange relationship with MEA. The game is poorly designed, shows a fundamental misunderstanding of the interplay between the ME series' core design pillars, is a patched-together quilt of at least two different overall designs, with iffy writing, and is buggier than a Bethesda launch . . . and yet it's still so much fun to play! More than anything, the writing suffers being second fiddle to a single-player MMO. Well, now I have the chance to remove the MMO portion and focus on the writing and criminally underdeveloped characters.
Just FYI, I try to respond to every review I receive. So drop me a review or PM if you want to discuss ME, video games in general, law, literary theory, philosophy, etc. etc.
Also, for those of you (semi-)patiently waiting for progress on my other stories, yes, I am still working on them. Sometimes I just run into a wall and need to work on something else for a bit to get some forward momentum again.