Signs and Portents
Chapter Two
Authors' Note: The eagle-eyed among you will have noticed references to 'Dragon Age' and 'Kingdoms of Amalur' in this offering. This is merely me staying true to the spirit of these games, all of which contain nods to each other: the 'Shepards Armour' set in KoA, the Chakram Thrower weapon in ME3, the Blood Dragon Armour in ME2, the krogan-head trophy in DA:I, and so forth. Accept this in the spirit of fun it is offered in.
Marcus Cole was often accused of not taking his job seriously. This was not true – he just didn't take himself seriously. He came from English stock, after all, and was genetically predisposed to self-deprecating humour. His job he did take seriously, which was why he was checking the security protocols he and the five other Warsworn on board the Xavarian had set up to protect the cargo. The pharmaceuticals the ship was carrying were vital to the survival of an unofficial elcor colony in the Terminus systems. But they were also very expensive and a target for the pirates and thieves that swarmed the sector.
The elcor government could not, as a matter of policy, send any official aid. However, there was nothing to stop a group of officials privately funding a charitable relief effort and recouping the money as a tax rebate. Equally, the elcor fleet was not permitted to send a warship or military personnel into the Terminus systems. That was a greater problem, as the amount needed to hire and support an escort vessel – even a corvette -could not be hidden among the charity funds. But the hire of six 'freelance security personnel' could be and so the elcor had approached the Warsworn.
His inspection ended, Marcus made his way to the quarterdeck to report to the Captain.
Captain Rajok didn't nod, nor did his grey face express any emotion – he was an elcor after all.
"Approving." He said in his deep, slow voice. "You are assiduous in your work, Oathblade. Admiring: the Warsworn live up to their reputation."
Marcus did nod. "I'm just grateful you're keeping the gravity at Earth normal!" He said feelingly.
"With understanding: you would not function well under elcor gravity." Rajok noted. "Sly amusement: though I understand the human dish called pizza is most palatable."
Marcus groaned. The elcors' sense of humour was less ponderous than their bodies, but only by a little.
"Concerned: " This was the ops officer, speaking English for Marcus' benefit, "I am detecting an anomaly approaching the port bow."
The ship was an elcor one, and as such had a clear dome over the quarterdeck. All elcor lived mostly outdoors and disliked enclosed spaces. Marcus instinctively looked up and to the left, just as it appeared.
A ship, at least he thought it was a ship, suddenly became visible, wavering like the reflection on a disturbed pool before solidifying. Cruiser-size, he judged, made of black glass or crystal. The arrangement of long, slender spines projecting in front and to the side gave it a spider-like appearance.
Rajok was probably speaking to his crew in the elcor language, which humans couldn't hear, but whatever he was saying was too late. A reddish beam shot out from the black ship and steadily sliced across the Xavarian. Elcor ships, like the people who build them, are big, strong and thick-skinned, and maybe that was why Marcus survived. He was already moving as the beam cut the ship in two across the middle. In his ear, he heard the screams as his team were sucked into space. The forward section, where the crew were, was for a moment saved by the force-fields that sprang up to cover the breach. But the beam must have been coming back for another cut, because he was suddenly running through fire and flying metal.
Something slammed into his side, knocking him off-balance, but he regained control, throwing up a biotic shield to stop it happening again. Ahead of him, elcor were lumbering toward the life-pods. He made to join them, but then there was another explosion and the path was gone as the section of the ship he was on floated free, Spotting a small opening to his left, he dived into it and a door sealed behind him. There was a jerk, and then the gravity went.
It took Marcus a moment to realise what had happened. He was in a cargo drop-pod. Used to deliver small loads planet-side without having to land and take off again -a lengthy and expensive process on elcor heavy-grav worlds – the container was some three metres long and nearly two across. Clearly something had activated the ejection system and thrown him clear of the ship.
Marcus took stock. Pods were equipped with locator beacons for easy retrieval on the ground, but he didn't know if this one had activated. There was, of course, no instrumentation inside -all the controls were under a panel on the outside. At the moment it was warm and there was air inside, but that wouldn't last. Great.
His side was throbbing, but his armour – he always wore his armour on a job, because you never knew – wasn't compromised. He'd lost his rebreather helmet in the rush through the ship, but he had his emergency oxygen mask and a few hours supply in the suits' Crisis Tank. The suit also had heating elements -enough to keep him alive while the batteries lasted. If worst came to worst, he had his J-2 Thor pistol to give him an easy out.
Not that easy outs were on his mind. He was Warsworn, and the Grey Warden had a rule - 'Survive if you can, dead you're no use to anyone'. His personal locator beacon was a short-range affair, but he activated it nonetheless. Then he put on his mask, turning down the heaters and oxygen to as low a level as he could without killing himself. Then he began to meditate, sinking into a deep trance state that lowered his metabolism and reduced his body's needs. He would wait.
Vega checked in at the Spectre office early the next morning, dropping down at the nearest desk and typing his access code into the terminal. There were the usual checks, biometric ID, voice confirmation and so on, then the terminals' VI said:
"Spectre status recognised: welcome, Commander James Vega. Your orders have been cut, and the Iwo Jima is in Dock 35, at your disposal when you wish to leave. You have new messages."
There were four of them. Ain't I Mr Popular today? Vega thought.
The first read:
Hey, Big Guy!
Heard you were coming here, so figured you'd do for what I got in mind.
I have a job I can't finish, Spectre stuff, and I need you to put the final touches on it.
Meet me at Purgatory around 21:00. I'm buying.
Jack
It always amazed Vega, not that Jack had been made a Spectre, but that she'd accepted the job. Discipline and self-sacrifice had never been part of her make-up, as far as he could tell. But her record equalled his, even if her methods could get extreme.
Next up:
Hey, James,
Good to see you yesterday, but we didn't get a chance to talk properly. I'm curious about a couple things. Meet me for lunch at Luigis'? Around 13:00.
Michael
So what did Garibaldi want? They'd worked together a couple times, you could say they were friends, but Michael Garibaldi was not a man who got curious over trifles.
Hello James,
It won't surprise you to know that our friends contacted me about your latest job.
I've looked into it and I've come across some pieces of information that may or may not have a bearing. I don't want to send anything – if I can hack Spectre security then so can someone else.
Come see me on Horizon when you can.
Love,
Liara
So the Shadow Broker was in the game, too? No surprises there, and no surprise that she'd come up with something.
Vega,
I know you'll be heading this way soon, don't ask me how.
Your old boss was a good friend to me and Omega -though if you tell anyone I said that, I'll have to kill you – so I'm doing this because of that.
My people found somebody you're going to want to talk to. He was in bad shape when we found him, but he'll be OK.
Swing by Omega and come to Afterlife. We'll be expecting you.
Aria T'loak.
This was worrying. If Aria T'loak, acknowledged gangster queen of Omega Station, and the only real power in Terminus, was willing to offer something without a hint of quid pro quo, something bad was going down!
James had been planning to leave Babylon 5 today, but it looked as if there was stuff to do here. He called Captain Traynor.
"Hey, Sam, looks like we won't be leaving today, so your guys can take a bit more shore-leave."
"Thanks for letting me know, James. It means I can get on with updating the new sensor array."
"You should take time to have some fun, Sam."
"That is fun!" She told him.
"Nerd weirdo." He pointed out.
"Dumbass jarhead." She countered.
They laughed, and he cut the connection.
Zakera Ward was the shopping and entertainment centre of the station, and it was never less than crowded. Vega caught up with Chief Garibaldi on the way through the open market they called the 'Zokolo'.
Garibaldi was a shortish, wiry man with the face of a tough street kid, receding hair brush-cut and eyes that missed nothing. He took a no-nonsense approach to his job that had earned him the approval of the Council and the grudging respect of Babylon Fives' criminal community. Even Eclipse – the largest syndicate still intact -trod carefully on the station.
"Hey Mike, how's it goin'?" Vega asked.
"Same old, same old." Garibaldi told him.
"You wanted to talk?" Vega said.
"I need to eat first, or I'm gonna get grouchy." Was the reply.
"So when are you not grouchy?" Vega wanted to know.
Garibaldi favoured him with a wry grin as they came out of the Zokolo into the Square. A large open space surrounded by cafes, bars and restaurants catering to every possible taste. In the centre of the Square stood a permanent stage which was used for free public performances of 'cultural and entertainment interest'. Currently the stage was surrounded by a good-sized crowd and occupied by a hulking krogan in the dress of a clan shaman. As Garibaldi and Vega skirted the crowd, the krogan began:
"Two clans, both alike in dignity,
On old Tuchanka, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where krogan blood makes krogan hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;"
"You have to be kidding me!" Vega said.
"The Tragedy of Montag Rom and Caplet Julya, adapted by Urdnot Mordin from an idea by William Shakespeare." Garibaldi said solemnly. "Big hit on Tuchanka and the krogan colonies, I hear. Popular on the station as well. Beats the fourteen-hour elcor version of Hamlet."
Garibaldi was a known regular at Luigis', and of course Vega was a Spectre. That got them a good table despite the lunch-hour rush and the food arrived promptly. Hunger assuaged, Garibaldi relaxed a little, and came to the point.
"What do you know about the vorlons?" He asked.
Vega shrugged. "What Ambassador Delenn told us. Very ancient race, only a few left, dying out. The minbari gave them a home, they give the minbari advice. Suit up worse than quarians used to, don't talk much."
"Well, that about doubles my knowledge!" Garibaldi grumbled. "Look, I'm Security Chief for this floating zoo, right? You know and I know that means more than just police work. It means keeping this place safe for a dozen different species with a dozen different needs. It means making sure that the quarians have clean sectors in the restrooms, making sure the volus quarters have the right atmosphere and pressure, keeping the elcor private quarters at high-grav. It's also letting people know not to serve levo food or drink to dextro customers – and now alcohol to minbari. Stuff like that.
"Now I'd been sent a full dossier on what the minbari need, so that's OK. But an hour after the Ambassador arrives, I get a whole file of instructions on setting up private quarters for this Kosh character. Apparently he needs an atmosphere so toxic it would kill a krogan in a space-suit. If any of that leaks into the stations' atmosphere, people are gonna get real sick or even die. It's not a job you can do at an hours' notice, so now this guy has to stay in his Encounter Suit – as they call it – until the techs can set his room up.
"On top of that, there's no medical data -if he gets sick or injured, there's nothing we can do. We don't know what he eats, what kind of sanitary arrangements he needs, or what he does for sex. For all I know, he could be snacking on duct-rats by now!
"I asked the minbari embassy for more details, and they told me the vorlons are a very private race who don't like revealing things about themselves. Now I respect privacy as much as the next man – within the law – but if it comes to making my job harder than it already is, then something has to give."
"So what do you want me to do?" James asked.
"Nothing yet." Garibaldi allowed. "But if or when something does go wrong, or if it comes to the point that I think my lack of information might compromise the station or the Council, I'm gonna need you to have my back. Babylon Security they might be able to ignore, but a Council Spectre, they'll have to listen to!"
The new edition of the Purgatory night club was pretty much like the old one. A raised dance-floor, a lively Lower Bar, an Upper Bar for patrons who preferred a quiet drink and a VIP area where more business was done than drinking. The place lacked the exotic dancers, prowling hookers and hallex vendors found in Omega's Afterlife. That might be down to Garibaldis' policing, or sensible caution on the part of the bars' majority owner, one Aria T'loak. Probably both.
Vega entered the Upper Bar, feeling the slight resistance of the weak force field that invisibly separated this area from the rest of the club. As he did so, the pounding rhythm of the music was muted to a mere background. This was a place where people came to chat, not shout.
Then Jack was waving him over to a corner table and greeting him with a hug. Lieutenant-Commander Jacqueline Nought, as Alliance Personnel records listed her, formerly Subject Zero, still looked like a kid. Short, slender and small-boned, she looked out of place in the uniform she had finally been persuaded to wear. But Vega knew that she was arguably the most powerful human biotic of her generation, more dangerous than an asari Huntress.
"Hey, James, hear you've been keeping busy!" Jack said. "Nice work on Kahje. Hanar suicide cult, right?"
"Yeah," Vega said, "thought it was wrong that they'd survived the 'Harvest' when the Enkindlers didn't. If they'd stayed a suicide cult, no problem – the hanar don't have issues with anyone killing themselves. But this group decided to spread the word with a little mass murder. The hanar don't like fighting each other and they didn't want to make drell kill hanar, either. So I got sent."
"I hear they sent some people after Javik?" Jack enquired.
"They did." James allowed. "But you know Javik. It got real messy, real fast, and he was the last one standing. Again.
"But last I heard, you were on Thessia?"
"Damn right!" Jack affirmed. "Rogue asari Commando unit, decided to become criminal masterminds. It was fun. Makes a change from teaching at Grissom."
"Surprised they still let you do that, now you're a Spectre." Vega noted.
"Part of the deal." Jack explained. "I'm a specialist, right? They only call me in for jobs that need high-level biotics. So I don't want to spend most of my time sitting on my ass waiting for a call. The teaching worked for me before, and the kids, so I still do it.
"That's kinda why I wanted to see you, James."
"What, you want me to do some teaching?" Vega shook his head. "Shit, I only just managed to finish high school! Wasn't for the military, I'd be collecting garbage or something."
"Relax, big guy, I wouldn't put you in front of a class!" Jack reassured him. "The guys would all crap themselves and the girls would be more interested in your six-pack than what you were teaching!"
She turned and waved to a woman who had been sitting quietly at a nearby table. As she rose and came over, Vega saw that she was tall and well-built. She had a wealth of dark hair and a face that was too strong to be pretty but too attractive to be plain – 'handsome' was the word that came to mind. She wore Alliance uniform with N7 tags on the collar.
"This is Lieutenant-Commander Susan Ivanova." Jack explained. "Alliance military, N7 and now a probationary Spectre. Susan's a biotic and I've been her Training Officer the last couple months. But now she's gone as far as I can take her.
"She needs more weapon and combat training before she's ready to go it alone, so when I heard you were coming here, I thought who better?"
"Right." Vega said. "You agreed to this, Lieutenant-Commander?"
"Sure," Ivanova replied, "I mean, you're not Shepard, but you're pretty much the next best thing!"
"Gee, thanks!" Vega said, not without irony. "Well, if Jack thinks you're worth my trouble, then I'll take you on. This is gonna be field work, no classroom stuff, and if you make the cut, I'll tell you."
"And if I don't?" Ivanova asked.
"You'll probably be dead!" Vega told her. "You better get your gear ready, Probie, because we're leaving tomorrow. Report to the Iwo Jima, Naval Dock 35 at 06:00."
Vega was actually at the door of his apartment when the man accosted him.
"Commander Vega? A moment of your time?"
A tall, well-dressed man with a thin face, dark hair, a practised smile and unreadable eyes.
"Can I help you?" Vega asked.
"We may be able to help each other." The man said. "My name is Morden, and I represent certain…parties…who are interested in your current mission."
There was something off about Mordens' manner. Vega, who had seen mind-control before, was direct.
"You talking about the Leviathan or the rachni?" He asked.
The bluntness of the question seemed to throw Morden a little off-balance, but he recovered quickly.
"Neither," he replied, "my associates prefer to remain anonymous for now, but would be interested in a mutually beneficial relationship. At the moment, however, they only want the answer to one question.
"Commander Vega, what do you want?"
"What do I want?" Vega was nonplussed. "Right now, I want to get good nights' sleep – I got an early start tomorrow. Beyond that, I want to know who your 'associates' are and what their agenda is, and you better believe I'll find out! So unless you want to come clean right now, Mr Morden, we got nothing more to talk about!"
"Your loss, Commander." Morden said imperturbably, then turned and left without another word.
Morden proceeded to a nearby park space and sat on one of the carved benches. He folded his hands in front of him as if in prayer or meditation, ensuring that he would be given a courteous berth by passers-by.
"He would be easy to neutralise…." He said, apparently to himself. "No, he is like his mentor, Shepard, a simple-minded thug…. Vakarian, Urdnot, Alenko and Tali'Zorah will be the same….Because they are all disciples of Shepard, who chose his people in his own image….Then we must look elsewhere, among people of the new age, with more vision….He will find nothing, we are safe."
He got up and left, never noticing the drell not far away. The drell nodded to himself. The Commander would log a contact report, of course, and do a search – his curiosity would have been roused, and unlike Morden, the drell had no doubts about Vegas' intelligence. Spectre resources might find out more than B-Sec could, but Vega would certainly share anything dangerous. Still, it would be as well to see where Morden went next, and who he contacted.
Kolyat Krios murmured a prayer to Amonkira, Lord of Hunters, and continued to trail Morden.
Commander Miranda Lawson strode briskly through the corridors of Cronos Station, acknowledging the salutes and greetings of her fellow Warsworn. She still got that feeling of displacement, coming back here. The basic structure of what had once been the stronghold of Cerberus had not changed, but so much of it had been repurposed. The labs that had once performed obscene experiments on Cerberus 'volunteers' were now committed to medical research. The Indoctrination Suites were now lounges and games rooms where soldiers and scientists mixed and relaxed, swapping ideas and tall stories in about equal amounts. The black and white Cerberus uniforms had been replaced by the red and gold of the Warsworn, and Cerberus insignia superseded by the Warsworn badge - a galactic globe supported by two armoured hands. The armouries and training areas remained unchanged, of course, though the weapons made were more advanced, and the tactics more about clean victory than intimidation and terror.
The main difference lay in the people, of course. In the Illusive Mans' time, only humans had been permitted here, except for prisoners or experimental subjects. This had been the home of a movement dedicated to human dominance in the Galaxy at large – an agenda many of its members had failed to realise, or chosen to ignore, including Miranda herself. Now, however, the corridors and workspaces were filled with a mix of almost every race in the Galaxy. The Warsworn recruited anyone with the skills they needed and the willingness to adhere to their discipline and code of conduct. As a result, humans here worked alongside asari, turians, krogan, salarians, volus, drell, elcor, hanar, quarians and even geth. Each bringing their own unique skills and viewpoint to the whole.
"Legion," Miranda asked the air, "where can I find the Warden?"
The stations' AI, named for the geth collective who had worked with Commander Shepard, replied in its' firm, crisp tones.
"The Grey Warden is in the Overlook, Commander."
"Figures." Miranda said. "Thanks, Legion."
The Overlook had once been the Illusive Mans' control centre. A large, seemingly empty chamber surrounded with viewscreens that gave a three-hundred-and-sixty degree view of space around the station. Miranda knew that the glassy black floor panels could fold aside at a whim to allow control stations to rise up from below, and that some of them concealed holo-projectors linked to Cronos' quantum entanglement communications array. If need be, everything the Warsworn or their agents were doing across the entire Milky Way could be monitored and directed from this one room. That was how the Illusive Man had run Cerberus for decades.
The Grey Warden -only a few knew his real name – seldom used the room that way. He trusted his people to conduct their missions in the way they deemed best, and to respond appropriately to any situation that might arise. But he was always available for consultation, advice, or even simply encouragement. Just now, he was sitting in a comfortable chair, sipping coffee and gazing out at the magnificent view of the Horsehead Nebula. He never tired of looking at the stars he had spent most of his life among.
He rotated the chair as Miranda entered and smiled at her. A big, powerful man, imposing even when seated. The side of his head that was not a metal dome had a close-clipped growth of grizzled brown hair. The right eye was grey-blue and steady, the left was a glowing blue prosthetic in a silvery socket. The scarring that traced down the left side of his face and neck had not disfigured the strong jaw and firm mouth. The left hand was also metal.
"Miranda," he said with a grin, "welcome back! Been a while. There's coffee if you want it."
By the time she had fixed coffee to her liking, the floor had sprouted another chair and a small table. She sat down with a sigh.
"This is one change I like!" She noted. "The Illusive Man never let anyone else sit, no matter how long the meeting, and he never even offered a glass of water!"
"You don't like the other changes?" The Warden asked.
"I approve of them." Miranda allowed. "But coming back here still gives me the creeps. Too many bad memories. Too much I did that I still have to make up for.
"Why this place? I've never asked before, though I've often wondered."
The Warden grinned again. "I'd have figured you'd work that out yourself." He said. "This place is isolated, off the beaten track, orbiting a dying sun in a system with no resources. With Cerberus driven out, it was empty. The Alliance didn't have time to strip the place – they went straight to Earth with the other fleets and the Crucible – and they hadn't done too much structural damage. The Reaper power core was still running and the place was littered with Reaper and Prothean tech just waiting to be picked up and worked on. Even Cerberus' research database was still intact. But after the War, nobody ever bothered about this place. Too busy rebuilding.
"All it needed was a few repairs, and it had everything I needed to start building the Warsworn."
"Pure practicality, then." Miranda said. "I should have known. For a sentimental man, you have a very pragmatic streak."
"I prefer to think of it as pragmatic but with a sentimental streak." He corrected her. "So, how are things out there?"
"Same shit, different assholes." She told him. "The krogan finally got all their old colonies back, but Wrex and Bakara aren't letting them over populate this time. Some of the more traditional tribes are grumbling, but nothing more. I don't think we'll see another Krogan Rebellion, but if we do, it'll be an internal thing, and we can trust Wrex to handle it.
"The new associate race, the minbari, are going to bear watching. They have a Warrior caste who are spoiling for a fight, and the turians or krogan might just be willing to give them one. We don't need a repeat of the batarians or vorcha. They have three castes, and all it needs is for the Warriors to swing one of the others behind them to change policy.
"There's an STG outpost on a pre-Mass Effect planet called Narn that's been reporting odd things. There's no Prothean remains on Narn, but the salarians have been watching the people there because they're close to developing the Mass Effect. Some of the salarians think the narns might be being helped by another race who conquered them but then withdrew around a century ago."
"A hundred years ago?" The Warden asked. "Before the Reaper War, and still around?"
"Exactly." Miranda said. "There might be an advanced race that we never met, but who never got wiped out by the Reapers. The Reapers ignored civilisations that didn't have the Mass Effect when they arrived. That's why they left the minbari, the yahg and these narns alone. But these guys must have had it long before. Maybe we should look into that?"
"Pass it to the Shadow Broker." The Warden decided. "Liara will know who can be trusted to make best use of it.
"What about the problems in Terminus?"
Miranda shrugged. "The Blue Suns are lowering their protection rates for colonies and transports to the point where it's getting cheaper to pay them than to hire us!
"Aria's no fool, and she must've figured out that her mercs would only stand for getting their asses kicked by the Warsworn for so long before they deserted her. Means we stand to lose some cash, though."
"No problem." The Warden observed. "That's not our only, or even main, income stream. What about the ship disappearances?"
"The Council finally got onto it." She told him. "Garrus had to remind them that shit going down in Terminus was how the Collector business started. They've assigned a Spectre to investigate. It's James Vega, and they've given him a frigate -the Iwo Jima.
"You want to send him some back-up?"
"Not openly, not yet." The Warden decided. "That's your new assignment, Miranda. Monitor James' progress. Put together a team and shadow him. If he gets in too deep, pull him out. Your call as to if and when. If he can sort it out by himself, good, but if not…."
"Understood." She said. "By the way, Kolyat reports that there's some guy called Morden running around Babylon Five making offers to people. Might be some kind of gangster, but Kolyat thinks there's something off. This Morden approached Vega, for instance, but he should have known you can't bribe a Spectre!"
"Not always true." The Warden said. "The old Shadow Broker used to have at least one in his pocket. But you're right about James at least. If Kolyat's worried about this Morden, he probably had a good reason. He's no assassin, but he has his fathers' instincts. Get hold of Kasumi and put her in contact with Kolyat. If anyone can find out about this Morden, she can.
"Or am I overreacting?"
"Probably not." Miranda allowed. "You trust Kolyats' instincts, and I trust yours, Shepard!"