UPDATED on 24/10/12 to include corrections of more noticeable errors. As ever this is a task in progress, pending further updates as and when I find mistakes.
Chapter 1
11th April (Terran Calendar), 2183 (Council Era)
Standing as a sentinel for the mass relay leading to Earth was a Stanford Torus-type space station named Arcturus. At five kilometres in diameter, the station was home to forty-five thousand permanent residents – including the Systems Alliance Parliament: the political heart of the human race. It was here that Admiral Steven Hackett usually presided over the Fifth Fleet (when his presence wasn't required elsewhere in a diplomatic capacity); but the station served many diverse functions: political, military, space dock, shipyard and home.
Arcturus had rapidly been inaugurated in 2156 – six years ahead of scheduled completion – to serve as the Alliance military's headquarters during the First Contact War. Humanity's entrance onto the galactic stage hadn't been without its fair share of dramas; indeed their curiosity had gotten them into trouble more than once. The turians had caught a human expedition trying to activate a dormant mass relay – a serious infraction by Council law – and had declared war on them. No matter what humanity tried to do to make amends; the other species would always see them as brash, impatient, violent and ignorant. But, most of all; the other species were scared of humanity. It was difficult trying to get ahead in the galaxy with that kind of reputation. The turians saw them as rivals; the salarians thought they were dim-witted; and the asari treated them as bullies. Perhaps their opinions weren't entirely unwarranted. Still, humanity was here to stay whether the aliens liked it or not.
The station was a buzzing hive of activity that morning, in anticipation of receiving a new ship into space-dock. Lieutenant-Commander Shepard went about her morning rituals as usual, strolling calmly down the corridors even as flustered technicians scurried past her. Apparently she was immune to the restless energy and excitement; all she had to look forward to was a double session of lecturing cadets in the N7 training program. After that, she had paperwork to catch up on. Tomorrow would hold the same monotony for her, and every day after that.
Winning the Star of Terra in the Skyllian Blitz seven years ago seemed like a whole other lifetime ago. She'd been a hotshot N7 marine with a bright career ahead of her. Now she was in her late twenties and stuck on Arcturus Station with a dead-end desk job, a friend with brittle bone disease, and spotty teenaged students who tried to hit on her.
Shepard sighed heavily – she was full of sighs that morning. A nagging voice inside her head reminded her that she had chosen to settle for the quiet, uneventful life; that she had firmly insisted she would not miss dodging bullets and courting death every day. She'd all but forgotten the weight of a hardsuit on her shoulders, or the way her hands had subconscious intimate knowledge of a rifle. Yes, a rifle – never mind a woman.
"Hey, Shepard! Over here!"
Shaking off her wistful nostalgia, Shepard looked up and picked her friend out from the string of spectators lining the corridor to witness the grand arrival.
"I saved you a spot," Joker grinned, waving her over.
"I've got a class to take," Shepard muttered, wedging herself between marines and civilians alike.
"And I've got a report to submit to Admiral Kowalski. Bite me."
Shepard didn't bother to voice any further protests; she wouldn't have been heard over the cheering and whistling as the docking lights started flashing, signalling the incoming ship.
"There she is. The SSV Normandy – prototype deep scout frigate with state-of-the-art IES stealth technology, powered by the experimental Tantalus Drive Core." Joker rubbed his hands together. "I can already imagine my hands stroking the conn. Come to me, baby."
Shepard raised an eyebrow. "Not you too. Jesus; it's like a damn fever." She cast a glare around at the others and lowered her voice to a hiss; "If I hear one more word about that stupid ship, I'm gonna slap someone."
Joker looked taken-aback by her unwarranted hostility. "And a very Happy Birthday to you, L-C."
Shepard's nose wrinkled in revulsion at the reminder. "Yeah, thanks, Joker. So I'm twenty-nine; in one year I'll be thirty – old and past it."
Joker laughed and clapped her shoulder. "Cheer up. All that means is that it's time to get off your ass and take action. And, hey; this time the magic carpet has come to you."
Shepard followed his pointing finger to the viewport framing the gleaming bulkheads of the Alliance's new frigate. She sighed again (she'd lost count). "Not another of your harebrained schemes, Joker. I'm getting too old for this, remember?"
"Oh, come on. You haven't even heard my brilliant plan yet. The Normandy's captain is an old friend of yours, right? I figure you can put in a good word for me – you know, since I am the best pilot in the Alliance navy."
"Enlighten me: why would I do that? I've got nothing to do with that ship, and Captain Anderson's probably here to meet with the admirals."
"Exactly; he's putting a crew together – which means it's feeding time at the zoo; which means you and I finally get our big break." He pouted when he saw that Shepard's expression was one of scepticism. "Come on. You can't stay on this bucket forever. Look at it this way; we've got a much better chance of chasing tail out there than in here."
Shepard rolled her eyes. "Just for the record; unlike you, I have no problems getting laid."
"Uh-huh, right. So when is that 'one' woman going to come along and make an honest woman of you? 'Cause you know, you're really starting to be the third nacelle; always raining on my parade."
"I'm the only friend you have, Joker; remember? In fact I'm the closest thing to a girlfriend you're ever going to get."
"Ouch," Joker pulled a playful frown; "we are grumpy today. Is this what I have to look forward to next year? Scratch that. I'll remember to send you a postcard from the other side of the galaxy – the side with adventure and beautiful women."
Shepard pretended to consider it. "You're right; I'm sure somewhere out there, some alien will be deluded enough to take pity on you – probably an asari, since they'll hump anything; even a guy with brittle bones."
Joker shook his head, too disgusted to even dignify her words with a response. "You know what? Forget it. You wanna stay here and rot, be my guest." Without so much as giving her another look, he turned and limped away.
Shepard watched his progress and sighed heavily; she felt bad for being so cruel and thoughtless. Joker was her best friend; her faithful sidekick; her wingman. Shepard had spent her life in space, making her home on space stations and star-ships. Yet according to her academy instructor, she had lacked the necessary intuitions to become a pilot. Joker – disadvantaged as he was (before the advent of modern medicine, he wouldn't have survived past his first year of life) – had an uncanny knack for flying. So Joker had become the flyboy while Shepard had become the jarhead. They'd been partners in crime ever since.
Turning her back on the viewport and the damnable ship, Shepard checked her watch and decided that it was time to siphon off some of her foul mood onto her students.
Systems Alliance Space
No sooner had Admiral Steven Hackett waved the Normandy goodbye from the Citadel space docks than he had boarded a cruiser in search of a comm buoy that would link to Eden Prime. As a small agrarian colony, Eden Prime wasn't high on the Alliance's priority list – ironic now considering that it was the site for one of the most important discoveries in human history. For those reasons, the Admiral had appointed himself as the messenger. The Prothean artefact was strictly classified and secrecy was of the essence. Eden Prime was vulnerable, and if there was one thing Admiral Hackett despised; it was the feeling that the enemy could take him from behind when he least expected it.
Every Alliance colony had a groundside garrison assigned to it; but everyone knew that the marines relegated to frontier divisions were those who weren't good enough to serve with the fleet. So not only did Eden Prime possess archaic communications and defensive technology; it was also protected by substandard soldiers. Hackett could only imagine how the men and women of the 2nd Frontier Division stationed on Eden Prime would shit their pants when his call came through. The admiral was about to make their careers – perhaps one career in particular. Hackett hadn't forgotten about Gunnery-Chief Ashley Williams, grand-daughter of General Williams.
The Williams name was well-known within the Alliance, but it wasn't held up with the likes of Grissom or Hackett himself. Williams had made himself infamous for being the first human ever to surrender to an alien. Since then his whole family had borne the stigma; his son had enlisted in the Navy and had never exceeded the rank of Serviceman 3rd Class. That, however, hadn't stopped Ashley Williams from enlisting on her eighteenth birthday.
Hackett sat in his cabin, looking over the chief's service record. Hell if she hadn't fought tooth and nail for a shipboard posting, only to receive repeated denials. Clearly the woman didn't know the meaning of the word 'no'. Hackett had to smile – whatever a man General Williams had been, it seemed that his grand-daughter had bags-worth of mettle. She was a fighter, fighting for her family's honour. Hackett could respect that. The Alliance had needed a scapegoat, and, frankly, General Williams had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The turians had deployed orbital strikes against the human colony Williams had made his stand on. Was the general really expected to throw away the lives of his men for the sake of pride? Hackett was by no means the kind of man to roll over to the aliens (he'd been all-too-happy to let David Anderson pay lip-service to the Council), but he knew the wisdom of tactics. The turians had backed Alliance forces into a corner; Hackett could at least appreciate the turians' impeccable strategy.
Unfortunately he suspected that Ashley Williams had a chip on her shoulder the size of Gagarin Station. So determined was she to clear her family's name that she had earned a reputation for being brassy, even aggressive (it wasn't as though her name could be tarnished any further). If there was one consolation Hackett could draw from all this, it was that he could count on Williams never surrendering the artefact.
Perhaps it was ironic that humanity – indeed the greater galactic community – was counting on Williams to preserve the discovery that could well spark new technological breakthroughs in unquantifiable ways. If this wasn't the first step to exonerating her family's name, Hackett didn't know what was. It was likely, however, that no one would thank her. Captain Anderson was on his way with the Normandy – they would receive the glory for the find; more so than the archaeologists who had uncovered it. But that was politics. Anderson was securing humanity's place in the Spectres, and petty second-rate groundside marines had no place on the honour roll. Not this time.
A smooth handover was what Admiral Hackett was hoping for. Quick, clean, no fuss. Of course he had enough experience to know that things rarely went according to plan.
His navigator paged him from the bridge; they were now in range of a comm buoy that could relay a message to Eden Prime. Hackett opened a priority channel and encoded the transmission. Less than five minutes later he was face-to-face with a real-time image of the woman whose shoulders he was about to place a world of responsibility – more, even, that what her grandfather had carried.
"Admiral, sir," Williams saluted him. "Gunnery-Chief Williams of the Two-twelve, sir."
Hackett was seemingly unmoved by her show of courtesy; he could tell over the link that she was surprised as well as cautiously sceptical. This was the call she'd been waiting for her whole life, but she was distinctly aware that Christmas hadn't come round yet. "I'm aware of your credentials, Gunnery-Chief. I'm not one to beat around the bush, so I'll get straight to the point. The Alliance has gained Council approval to dispatch a ship and extract the artefact. Your orders are to muster your people and stand-to. ETA is three days. Get the civilians in lockdown and secure that artefact, you understand me?"
There was a pause while Williams considered him; she didn't have a lot of time to digest the information or even recognise her importance. "Yes, sir."
Hackett took a moment to scrutinise the screen. Privately he hated technology; he had no way of measuring a soldier unless it was in person, not over some damn vid link. "You make absolutely sure that the artefact stays safe until your detail is relieved." He wasn't in the habit of repeating himself, but so far Williams hadn't inspired his confidence in her.
"Are we expecting trouble, Admiral?"
"The Alliance's mandate is to always expect trouble, Chief. I'm sure I don't need to remind you how valuable Prothean tech is. Declaring the discovery was a risk; expect the vultures to be circling."
Williams clasped her hands behind her back. "I've got my best people with me. We'll keep the artefact safe, sir."
"You do that, Chief." Hackett paused. The Council was giving humanity a chance while the Alliance was giving the Williams name a chance. It seemed today was all about redemption, and he prayed that both David Anderson and Ashley Williams had it in them to pull it off. "Godspeed. Hackett out."
Arcturus Station, 11th April (Terran Calendar), 2183 (Council Era)
Shepard stared blankly at the opposite side of the classroom as the last of the N7 cadets filed out. Even they had been restless and whispering about the new ship in the docks. It was all anyone talked about. Unfortunately she hadn't been able to slap her students (spending her birthday in the brig was not her idea of fun – and she had first-hand experience). It seemed that life was determined to mock her, today of all days. She was one year older and all she could think of was how she had wasted her twenties. Her mind wandered to Sam Traynor – a smart, sexy colony girl Shepard had met on Earth during her N7 training. Sam had been studying at Oxford (Shepard had to admit that she had a weakness for the intelligent ones) with a full scholarship from the Alliance. They'd kept in touch via vid calls over the years, though there had come a day when Sam had stopped calling. Shepard knew that it was because Sam had been going places – important places. Shepard had once been the glamorous 'hero of the Skyllian Blitz' – enough to keep the attention of any woman. Now, however, she had faded into the realm of oblivion. Her routine was as regular and boring as she was.
The door buzzer sounded and Shepard felt ready to smack her head on the desk. "Come in," she growled irritably, snatching up a pad. "Forget your notes again, Dawson?"
"Classroom 11-D," came a chuckle. "Brings back memories."
Recognising the distinct tones and British accent of her former mentor, David Anderson; Shepard automatically bolted to her feet. "Captain Anderson," she said slowly, stunned. "Er, sorry, sir." She promptly snapped her heels together and raised her right hand in salute.
"Lieutenant-Commander," Anderson mirrored her gesture before letting slip an amused smile. "What, no hug? Since when did you go all formal on me? At ease before you strain something, marine."
Shepard couldn't help but grin when he stepped up to her desk and reached out to shake her hand. At forty-six years of age, David Anderson had lived an exciting career – the very first N7 graduate in fact – and had climbed the ranks quickly. Shepard hadn't been surprised to hear that he'd earned a captaincy. He'd been the Executive Officer of the SSV Hastings back when he was lieutenant.
Born in London on Earth, Anderson was mixed-race but had an unmistakable African origin. His skin was almond-tanned and his jet-black hair was already thinning. His hazel eyes twinkled with warmth and the wizened knowledge of a veteran. He was clean-shaven, well-groomed in his dress blues – the portrait of the immaculate officer and war hero (as the ribbons and colours pinned to his uniform could attest).
"Sorry, sir. I'm meant to be a respectable role model these days. I learned from the best."
"I don't know about that," Anderson chuckled. He took a moment to look her over. She looked to be much fitter than her old scrawny teenaged self back in the days when he had mentored her in the N7 program. But her skin was ghostly pale – the result of being incarcerated on the space station rather than soaking up some sunshine on exotic planets. She looked a far cry from the determined, valiant young hero of the Skyllian Blitz. She was, simply put, a picture of a waste. Lieutenant-Commander Shepard came from a distinguished naval family; she was destined for better things. Winning the prestigious Star of Terra had been more of a curse on her than a reward. Shepard's life had taken a turn for the worse, and the years hadn't been too kind to her – which was understandable, really.
Fortunately for her, the captain was here to revive her career.
"What are you doing here?" asked Shepard, still amazed to see him after all this time.
He held out his arm. "How about we catch up while I treat you to a birthday lunch?"
Shepard did a double take. "Don't tell me you came all this way just for little old me?"
That's exactly why I came, he thought. And how could he ever forget the day eleven years ago when he had encountered an aimless eighteen-year-old Shepard getting drunk on her own for the sake of getting drunk? Following her parents' footsteps had seemed like the natural course of action, and Shepard had had no other direction to go in. That was until Anderson had found her and offered her something much better – something to make her feel worthwhile. "If the coffee around here is decent, it would've been worth the trip. I've been living off crap that tastes like mud for the last two weeks."
Shepard laughed and took his elbow. "This way, Captain."
"How's your mother?"
"I dunno," Shepard admitted; "busy. She's serving as XO on the SSV Kilimanjaro now – no time to call me up and chat."
Anderson displayed a knowing smile. "Why don't you try calling her?"
Shepard decided to stir a sugar cube into her black coffee – she never normally took sugar, but right now she needed any excuse to occupy herself. Her relationship with her mom had been...fractured...ever since Shepard's father had committed suicide a few years ago shortly after his participation in the brutal raid on Torfan against batarian slavers. Apparently he hadn't been able to live with the atrocities he and his subordinates had committed. Shepard knew that Hannah Shepard had blamed herself for her husband's death; she hadn't been in the best position to help him get over his PTSD ever since the horrors she had witnessed on Mindoir in 2170 (the handiwork of batarian slavers no less).
Many humans may still have harboured feelings of contempt for the turians following the First Contact War, but it was the batarians humanity was really at war with. The Batarian Hegemony and the Human Systems Alliance had been irreconcilable enemies since day one.
Shepard had been sixteen; old enough to understand that her mother was in pain every night when Hannah had cried herself to sleep. The station she had resided on at the time (Shepard had been herded from one side of the galaxy to the other during her childhood) had been rampant with horrifying accounts of how the batarians had invaded a defenceless farming colony on Mindoir. But the batarians didn't deal in the standard currency of most pirates; their gold was slaves. The aliens had rounded up the population – men, women and children alike – and had caged them like animals, carrying out crude surgery to implant control chips in their brains. People who died on the operating table were the fortunate ones. Those who survived had yet to experience true terror at the hands of their ruthless masters...
Second-Lieutenant Hannah Shepard had been a bridge officer on the SSV Einstein when their ship had answered the colony's distress call. There was a very good reason for the fact that over fifty percent of the crew serving on that carrier had been discharged from active service and admitted into psych wards.
Humanity's odyssey in the stars was not without impediment; and the batarians seemed to like nothing more than to wound humanity's efforts wherever possible – as though it was a sport for them.
Shepard would be lying if she said she didn't have a personal agenda with the batarians. The First Contact War was a little before her time, and so she didn't share the older generation's grudge with the turians. Seeing her mother suffer after Mindoir, Shepard had been afraid of the batarians. She had been terrified seven years ago when she'd been on shore leave on Elysium and batarian raiders had hit. But rather than being a scared sixteen-year-old kid in that instance; she'd been a qualified marine. Her training had kicked in. She had been able to use her fear and turn it into something productive – an instinct to survive. Remembering the atrocities on Mindoir, Shepard had been determined to save the population of Elysium from sharing the same horrible fate.
Events at Elysium had been heralded as a miracle – a point in the Alliance's favour. Unfortunately the triumph was short-lived. The history between humanity and the batarians was simple; retaliation and revenge for one attack after the other. It was a never-ending feud of blood and hatred. No sooner had Shepard and relief forces repelled the batarian pirates, than Shepard's own father had planned a counter-strike. Torfan.
Torfan was a moon in batarian space, and had been home to a prominent pirate base. The Alliance forces under Major John Shepard's command had been merciless in the raid, sparing no one – not even batarian children. It was payback for Mindoir, payback for Elysium. For every time the batarians had kicked humanity, Major Shepard had been determined to hit back ten times harder. That, he did. His actions that day earned him the nickname 'Butcher of Torfan'. The Alliance hadn't seen fit to Court Martial him (there was no sympathy for the batarians), but he'd taken retribution into his hands yet again – for the last time. Suicide by spacing himself out of an airlock.
Since John's death, Hannah had pretty much shut down from her friends and family, and had thrown herself firmly into her job and duties. Shepard was lucky if she'd said more than three words to her. It was awkward. Shepard had been a teenager when Hannah had suffered the traumatic events on Mindoir – hardly a fountain of wisdom, nor a rock of support. She'd taken the death of her father just as hard. The thought that John had done whatever he'd done on Torfan for them, for his wife and daughter... Shepard couldn't bring herself to feel sorry, not even for the batarian children. The batarians had destroyed her whole family.
She was smart enough to know that more blood wasn't the answer – her father had taught her that – and so she hadn't gone looking for more fights. Instead, she'd resigned herself onto Arcturus Station, contemplating life in the stars and whether there were more aliens out there like the batarians who were depraved and hell-bent on ruining humanity. Shepard had grown up thinking it was normal for humanity to suffer tragedy. They'd only been exploring the stars for some thirty years; there were unknowns lying in wait, disasters waiting to strike. It was an Alliance soldier's duty to protect humanity, but there were days when she felt small – that a single soldier would get crushed under the weight of the galaxy. Perhaps it was natural, or perhaps she'd given up.
"I'll think about it," Shepard conceded, remembering Anderson's query about her mom. She swirled the dark liquid of her drink round and around even though the sugar granules had long since dissolved.
Anderson watched her progress – or lack thereof. "The real exploration's out there; but you've yet to explore that coffee. Come on, Shepard; chin up."
Shepard looked up into his gentle, wizened features. She could tell that he was a soldier who wasn't a stranger to combat. She felt a familiar twinge of resignation in her gut; he was just another reminder that humanity had accumulated wounds and scars. "Unlike the English, I don't have a stiff upper lip." Thinking about England made her think of Samantha...Sam...
Anderson chuckled, oblivious to her regret. "That we can do something about. Speaking of which; you seen my new ship?"
"Yes, sir; one of my friends who's a pilot thought she looks impressive."
Anderson smiled. "I'll say. Co-building with the turians gave us Council funding with few limitations. I won't bore you with the technological breakthroughs, but the Normandy is the future of space travel."
Shepard straightened up in her seat and raised an eyebrow when the captain pushed a datapad toward her. She caught it up and briefly skimmed over what looked to be schematics. The thing that stood out was the fact that the frigate was powered by a drive core that had cost millions of credits. Dozens of smaller fighters could have been commissioned for the same price of this frigate. Still, as Anderson had pointed out, the Citadel Council had contributed most of the funds. "This is all very fascinating, sir, but why are you showing me?"
"I would've thought that would be obvious, XO."
Shepard looked up. "Huh?"
Anderson held her gaze and Shepard had a feeling that the resolute glint in his eyes was somehow going to land her in trouble.
"I've got an offer you can't refuse. The Normandy is my ship and I get to pick my own crew. I'll be blunt, Shepard; I want you to be my XO."
Shepard stared, dumbfounded. "You want...me...to be your Executive Officer?"
"That's right. The Normandy is going to play a unique role on the Alliance's frontlines. I need someone I trust at my side; someone I can depend on."
"I'm flattered, sir; but you can't seriously think I'm the most reliable person in the galaxy?"
Anderson knew that she was referring to all her mishaps during her N7 training; how she'd been late, rude and sometimes disrespectful. Still, he had fond memories of those times. Taking Shepard under his wing and sorting her out had made him forget his own family and obligations. In fact Shepard was very much the daughter he'd never had. "So we'll keep each other in line."
Shepard was still just trying to get her head around the idea. 'This time the magic carpet's come to you' Joker's words echoed in her mind. "I'm...I don't know what to say."
"How about 'yes'?" Anderson smiled at her.
"I'm a bit rusty at naval protocols," she admitted, scarcely able to believe that she was even entertaining the notion.
"So you'll pick it up as you go. It's like riding a bike, Shepard; you just need to get back on and the rest will come to you."
Shepard wished that she shared his optimism. "I don't know, sir."
"Are you telling me you have a better offer?" Anderson paused and considered that Shepard had spent the last four years based out on the station – long enough to build a life for herself. Perhaps she had put down those roots Anderson so envied. "What's her name?" he sighed. "I'd be happy to explain the situation."
"What?" Shepard looked up and had to chuckle. "There's no girl, sir; not this time." Not that a girlfriend would ever hold her back; space exploration and duty to the Alliance was in her blood.
"So what's the problem? Hell, I've got a dozen other candidates who would jump at the chance and seize it with both hands. At this rate I'm going to have to abduct you and chain you to the CIC."
Shepard smiled, appreciating his humour. "I'd like to see you try."
"The Alliance is moving ahead, and I'm taking you with me – kicking and screaming if I have to," he added seriously.
"Do I get my own quarters?"
"Sorry, Shepard. She's a compact ship; not a luxury liner. You do get your own desk though."
"More paperwork?" she sighed.
"You'll have officers reporting to you – delegate."
Shepard liked the idea of having subordinates to do the all her chores for her; "Don't give me ideas, sir."
Anderson clenched his jaw. "Is that a 'yes' then?"
"Can I have some time to think about it?"
"No," he said flatly; "You shouldn't need time. The offer's on the table; take it or leave it. The Normandy departs first thing tomorrow."
Shepard stared at the mug between her hands. "XO Shepard...just like my mom."
"She'd be proud. Now you have the perfect excuse to call her."
Shepard considered his words and shrugged. "All right. I'm in."
"Atta girl," Anderson slapped the table with both hands and rose to his feet. "Now, you'd better go and let your girlfriend down gently."
"There is no girl," Shepard looked up. "Seriously, sir."
Anderson shook his head with a chuckle. "Of course there isn't. I'm not a fossil yet, you know; I do remember what it's like to be young."
"Save me a spot with you in the museum."
Anderson laughed and met her gaze. "We're not there yet; not by a long shot. Your life is only just beginning, Shepard."
Shepard was decidedly unconvinced, but she forced a smile and watched him leave. "Captain," she blurted after him; "Wait. I...don't suppose you're in the market for a helmsman?"
Anderson looked back at her. "How do you think I got here?"
Shepard changed tack. "That pilot friend I mentioned? Joker – Flight-Lieutenant Moreau – he's the best pilot I've ever seen. We've had our fair share of scrapes together." She paused and wondered whether she was being too cheeky for her own good. But it was her birthday, so she figured she could get away with it. "We...come as a pair, sir."
Anderson was genuinely surprised. He turned away and considered her words. "Moreau," he murmured, trying to conjure up any knowledge of the name. The man wasn't distinguishable by naval relatives, but for something else entirely... "Doesn't he have Vorik's Disease or something?"
"Vrolik's Syndrome, sir," Shepard respectfully corrected him.
Anderson raised an eyebrow at her. "Tell me something, Lieutenant-Commander; what good is a man with brittle bones to me?"
Shepard bit her lip. "Well, sir; it was my understanding that one doesn't fly a ship with one's feet. Joker's fine as long as you don't ask him to dance. If it's any consolation, sir; I'll take care of him."
"You'd better," he sighed, wondering how Shepard had always had some way of making him soft. "But if he screws up, it's on your head."
"I understand, Captain. Thank you, sir."
"Hmm. All right. Bring this 'Joker' and report to Docking Bay 1-Alpha at O-eight hundred hours tomorrow. Oh, and remember to pack light – one footlocker."
"Aye, sir," Shepard grinned as she stood up and snapped off another salute.
"As you were," Anderson nodded before marching out of the mess hall.
12th April (Terran Calendar), 2183 CE
"Attention all hands. Duty call for crewmembers of the SSV Normandy. Please form an orderly queue and standby for processing."
Chatter rose in an abrupt crescendo the instant the announcement had finished. Lieutenant-Commander Shepard was already sweaty and bothered in her dress uniform as she tried to navigate her way through the maddening crowds. From the amount of people pressing in on her from all sides, it was clear that there were way too many people in the docking bay to all be a part of the crew. Perhaps they were simply there to see off friends and family, or to catch a glimpse of the new ship itself – or even a last ditch attempt to steal that ever-coveted position on the crew.
Shepard had spent last night familiarising herself with the ship's specs – just out of professional duty of course. If she was going to be the ship's Executive Officer, she would need to know the ins and outs of every bulkhead and shield emitter. The Normandy was to have a crew of 31 – a skeleton crew befitting a small frigate. Named after the famous Battle of Normandy in 1944 (Terran years), she was a prototype 'deep scout' vessel optimised for solo reconnaissance missions. As well as the cutting edge IES (Internal Emission Sink) stealth system and Tantalus Drive Core; the ship was equipped with GARDIAN (General Area Defence Integration Anti-spacecraft Network) point defence lasers, kinetic barriers and a spinal mass accelerator cannon that fired dual disruptor Javelin torpedoes. She was no pushover.
But the real exciting thing about the Normandy was that it had been co-engineered by the turians. The CIC (Combat Information Centre) was based on their design, and Shepard was quite looking forward to seeing it.
She wasn't the only one.
"I could just kiss you right about now," Joker hugged her arm.
"Please don't."
Joker released her and grinned to himself as he hobbled along beside her. "Thanks – for not leaving me behind."
"Am I forgiven for being a jerk then?"
"Totally forgotten. This is like the best thing anyone's ever done for me."
Shepard smiled. "You owe me one," she reminded him.
"I'll polish your boots every day, press your uniform -"
"- Massage my feet."
"Don't push it."
Shepard laughed as they moved up the queue, ever closer toward the ramp and their new home. She could already imagine the feeling of subtle vertigo the second a ship's momentum dampeners kicked in. It would be nice to be on the move rather than be stuck in limbo.
"Next!"
Joker stepped forward eagerly. "Flight-Lieutenant Moreau reporting for duty, sir."
The officer took his time scrutinising him, so much so that Shepard noticed Joker's body begin to tremble from the exertion of trying to stand straight.
"Is there a problem here?" she blurted.
"Lieutenant-Commander Shepard," the man's expression widened in awe. "Er, Charles Pressly. I served on the SSV Agincourt when the Alliance got sent in to relieve you. You're the only reason Elysium is still standing; it's an honour to meet you in person, ma'am."
Shepard allowed him to shake her hand. "Yes, well, I owe a lot of my accomplishments to this man. I wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for him."
Pressly returned his gaze to Joker who raised an eyebrow but said nothing for fear of ruining the ruse. "I see. Well, after you, sir; the captain's waiting."
"Yes he is," Joker smirked, stepping past him and sparing Shepard a backwards glance. He waited on the edge of the ramp until she'd been cleared to join him. "I'm touched," he admitted matter-of-factly. "All that stuff about me being the bane of your existence..."
"Yeah, yeah," Shepard took his satchel and slung it over her back so that he wouldn't be encumbered during the climb. "Don't let it go to your head. You owe me another one, by the way."