...
Dispersion
...
Shepard wakes up slowly. The air smells faintly of smoke, and on her right something is buzzing quietly. She is lying on a bed, that much is certain. Taking a deep breath, she opens her eyes.
Everything is a dimmed shade of grey. She moves her head around slowly, a dull ache pounding in her temples. Grey, grey, dim grey everywhere. There is a vertical slash of darker shade in the endless grey somewhere to the left. A shape moves out of the shadow, becoming a vague human silhouette.
"How are you feeling, Theresa?"
"Doc?" Her voice sounds strange: she would not recognize it if she did not know she is the one who speaks. "What happened?"
The man gives out a short laugh, trying to cover slight nervousness with it. "You tell me."
"It doesn't make sense. Ouch... Dammit, my head is killing me."
"Don't try to get up, don't try to move too quickly. We'll patch you up."
"You've never been a good liar." Shepard sighs. "How did you end up here? And where... O-ouch..."
"For now, it's a makeshift hospital. Everything looks like a bloody hospital nowadays, except for those parts that look like a cemetery... Oh. Sorry."
"I've seen my share of both."
"Yeah, but I'm not supposed to have you worrying about any-..."
"Dammit, just tell me already!" She swallows a gasp of pain and puts a hand to her head. "What happened? The Reapers..."
"There ain't no more Reapers. Dunno what you did up there, Terri, but you made it. Saved the galaxy. A bloody hero, again. Now we just have some mess to clean up and it'll be fine. Eventually."
"The Fleet?"
"Somewhere." Doc shrugs, or so she guesses. "Dunno. Got out of here at some point before the big bang."
"The Citadel?"
"What's left of it is still orbiting Earth."
"Whoa, wait a moment. How did I get here?"
"How should I know? You're the engineer here. Maybe the bloody thing threw you back here just before it blew up. On when it blew up."
Shepard swallows. She remembers Doc from her past on Earth, with the Tenth Street Reds, before they went mainstream. He was about her age, dreaming of medical studies. No good with a gun, but with hands of an artist when it came to opening locks or dressing a wound. Always patching everyone up: them, after fights or shooting with another gang, street rats that came by because they could not afford a real doctor. Local kids called him Doc, and a few months later no one used his name anymore. Just Doc.
Seemed he somehow got his studies and finished them all right.
"And you? How did you get here?"
"Nothing to talk about. Left, got myself on an Alliance ship. Became an attendant, then a surgeon. You know, the usual stuff." The usual stuff phrase probably means he had stolen enough to afford a space travel before joining the Alliance. "I've always been good at patching people up."
"Speaking of patching up... How long will it take?"
Doc's silhouette whirls slowly as he turns away from her for a moment.
"We're running out of resources..."
"Doc."
"But I think we'll manage to get you something..."
"Doc!"
"Listen, Terri..."
"Bloody hell, I'm listening!"
"Sorry."
"Out with it. Now."
"You have any idea what exactly has Cerberus patched you up with? 'Cause it looks like some parts are missing."
"What?"
"You spine has more holes than Swiss cheese... Well, not literally. They're smaller, you know."
"Doc, I'm not a child." She is not certain, but can risk an educated guess: Reaper tech. Only Miranda could have an idea what exactly have they used, but considering Cerberus had access to what was left of Sovereign, the hypothesis makes sense.
"Sorry. Work habits... Your bone structure is weakened. Can't tell you much more without a more thorough examination. Clearly, your spine can't quite handle your bodyweight right now."
"Can you fix this?"
"Sort of. A nanosurgeon could try to fill those holes, but we're a bit short on staff. And stuff, too. But there are some injections I could try, and with a right kind of microweave I think we can build something to support your spine enough to let you walk."
"A med-corset?"
"Something like that. If... When we find more people."
"I can wait. It's not like I'm going anywhere. And my eyes?"
"I... don't know." Doc does not use his trademark 'dunno', and that alone is a sign it is serious. "I've never... seen anything like that before."
The slight hesitation in the voice of Doc – Doc, who has never hesitated when he had to take out a bullet or stitch up a wound when he ran out of stolen sedatives – is what makes her realise he does not know how to help her. Unless they find a way to contact the Fleet – if there is still a Fleet to be contacted, and if any specialist is still alive – or unless they find an ophthalmologist somewhere in the ruins of Earth, she will continue to see the world as a blurred, trembling chiaroscuro. It could have been worse. She could have end up dead. Not that being aware of it helps in any way right now.
When Doc leaves to let her rest, she falls asleep. She dreams in colour.
.
.
.
For the Alliance, everything is clear. Or rather, not clear, and that is why she finally has to fly to Earth and face the music.
"Commander, you received a message on your private terminal." Kelly repeats her usual phrase, and Shepard forces a smile while thinking of another imaginative way of getting rid of yeoman Chambers. Heavens, does anyone seriously think she is skilled enough to save the galaxy, but she needs assistance in checking her mail? Knowing Kelly is probably spying on her on behalf of Cerberus does nothing to help.
For a few seconds Shepard wonders who could it be. She broke all ties with Cerberus and the Illusive Man – not that it would stop him if he really wanted to reach her – and almost everyone in the Alliance, including Anderson, is forbidden to contact her.
There is a single message on the terminal.
— From: Admiral Hackett
Commander:
Meet me at Arcturus on your way to Earth. I have talked with Anderson; we are getting you out of this mess.
Hackett. —
It is surprising somehow, but she does not begrudge the admiral for all the troubles. It was not an assignment, all he did was simply ask. Well, with a bit of persuasion, to be frank, but still, just asked. And told her straightforwardly she could refuse. Not that she ever considered it – refusing Hackett would feel strange after all the time he has been her commanding officer – but he left her the option. And, to be completely fair, there was no way he could have foreseen a simple task of breaking doctor Kenson free would turn into a decision whether or not risk the safety of the whole galaxy to save an entire system.
After Aratoht, he was angry, at first. But when she told him about the Reapers and Kenson's indoctrination, he believed her. Without proof, he believed her on her word, all evidence he needed being her history of service and the Battle of the Citadel, when he had seen Sovereign with his own eyes.
So now, when Hackett writes her he and Anderson are going to help her, she in turn believes him.
...
Shepard looks through the window of her cabin, Arcturus Station growing in her eyes as the Normandy gets closer. Waiting for the trial in infuriating; she hates inactivity more than anything. She is not afraid of struggles and challenges as long as she can do anything, as long as she can actively seek solution.
The Normandy is very quiet. Most of Shepard's friends are probably back home by now, and the ship feels empty. She did not want them involved, not in this. They all gave their statements about their time as members of her crew, and the precious records are all stored on her omni-tool and her personal terminal. But to make them wait for her, who knew how long, when they signed just for a single mission and had unfinished business of their own?
She tries to picture them, one by one: Tali, back on the Flotilla, returning as a hero; Garrus, home, visiting his family after years of separation; Mordin, on Sur'Kesh, immersed in some new research, or maybe on Tuchanka, working on a genophage cure for Wrex; Miranda, trying to catch on lost time with her sister.
She fingers the keyboard of her terminal absent-mindedly. What is it Hackett could not entrust to mail? She displays his message again. Short, as if he was in a hurry. Most likely, he was. Having an ex-subordinate and the first human Spectre blowing a batarian colony off the galaxy map was probably problematic.
She glances at the message again. She realises she is missing his 'Godspeed to you, Commander'. Maybe it is just her desperately looking for support and confirmation her actions are right and what she is doing has meaning, but each time the phrase reads like a sort of blessing and not just simple good-luck wishing.
On the spur of the moment, she opens the 'Create new message' panel.
— Liara, please send me the file you have on Hackett. —
Back then, in Shadow Broker's lair, she did not read it. Not after that talk, not after the message about first Normandy's crash site. Maybe out of respect: he was the right man in the right place, efficient and never overly sentimental, but never crude either, and that were qualities she could admire. But some part of her felt as if reading that single file would be a breach of trust, his trust in her.
In the end, when Liara sends her the file, Shepard does not read it.
...
Arcturus Station is the usual whirl of motion, everyone hurrying somewhere. Shepard tries to remember the last time she was not in a hurry, and fails miserably. More than a decade ago, back on Earth, a redheaded girl, bearing no other name but simple 'Terri', used to lie back in an old warehouse, watching an ancient science-fiction serial on a stolen pad and dreaming of going up there, into the stars. Over fifteen years later, Theresa Shepard wonders if she will ever have enough time to find a place to call home.
"Commander." A well-known voice shakes her out of the reverie. Hackett gestures towards her to follow him, and she falls into step beside the admiral. "They're getting impatient, back on Earth," he says before she manages a greeting.
"I'm not quite sharing their eagerness concerning our meeting."
It takes her a while to notice they are heading to the spaceport. Noise envelops them as they enter the area: buzz of countless talks, hum of engines, high clear notes of arrivals and departures news. This is as safe and private as it can get; it is impossible to overhear anything above all the noise.
"The Hegemony wants blood. And the Council is urging us to take some action that would prevent the war. As if the Alliance didn't know it..." Hackett grimaces: a slight quirk of one corner of his mouth, moving down for a second, and then he is back his usual composed self.
"What do they want? In the Alliance?"
"Court martial, detention, you know how it goes."
"Will look wonderful in my CV."
"I won't let them," says Hackett simply.
Shepard keeps herself from staring. "Is that possible?"
"The official version: Kenson pulled the trigger. You didn't make it on time to either stop or save her."
"You would really do this, sir?"
"It doesn't really matter to her any longer, does it? And they cannot blame you for not being able to stop an insane woman."
"She wasn't..." Shepard begins and breaks off, aware that it is Hackett's acquaintance they are talking about, and he knows better than her doctor Kenson was not insane. On the other hand, he has a point. Wherever Amanda Kenson is now, she is beyond it all, and it will not bother her.
"I doubt they'll approve of the indoctrination theory," Hackett explains. He does not have to: Shepard knows trying to convince everyone of Kenson's insanity is the only way.
"The batarians won't like it."
"I will suggest reparations."
"They want a scapegoat, not money."
"Oh, the Hegemony will accept money all right."
"The Alliance won't like it either."
"I'm the head of the Alliance Navy; they don't have to like it."
"But, technically..."
"You engineers and you technicalities. Practically, I have the whole fleet behind me."
"It's not worth the effort, sir. Not really."
"Have you ever heard you're a damn symbol, Shepard?"
"Ah, yes, a symbol... Once or twice."
"Well, you are. And so is this ship."
She glances at the admiral. Hackett is looking down, his hands resting lightly against the railing. He is watching the Normandy.
"Feeling a little bit guilty, sir?" She intends it to be a friendly, only half-serious question.
"A bit". Hackett's answer is serious.
"But that was a request, not an order."
"People usually tend not to deny my requests. I tend to use it."
"It doesn't work on me."
"Hell no."
"Okay. A little." Shepard shakes her head. "It's fine. I don't care for court martial and whatever the Alliance thinks about my actions all that much when we almost have a whole fleet of Reapers breathing down our backs."
"You don't care what they think, mhm? And that's probably the reason you left Cerberus, taking their top-tech ship with you and all but gave it to the Alliance."
"You, sir, are a goddamn..." Shepard reconsiders. "Apologies."
"I've heard worse." Hackett turns to her, no trace of anger on his face. More like a hint of amusement, but it fades so quickly she is not certain it has been there at all. "Earth is calling."
"Yes."
"Learn the official version by heart, Commander. You'll have to be convincing."
"But the reports?"
"You have the only report. And still some time to rewrite it."
"Thank you, sir."
"I owe you." Hackett explains, offering his hand, and Shepard grasps it briefly. "Godspeed to you, Commander."