CHAPTER III
Without friends no one would choose to live, though he had all other goods.
- Aristotle
"Are we going to have a problem?"
Shepard stood outlined in the hatchway, the glaring light from the main deck sculpting an imposing silhouette from her austere frame. Aside from the sinuous blood-orange scars that glowed menacingly in the gloom, Jack could not detect a hint of expression either in Shepard's countenance or her tone of voice...not like she cared what the commander thought, especially after that humiliating exchange back on the Purgatory. She crossed her tattooed arms and spat a retort up at Shepard.
"Blow it out your ass, Lance."
The commander shut her eyes in resignation, barely containing a groundswell of fulminating anger. After a few deep breaths, during which she might or might not have been fantasizing about drinking vast quantities of whiskey, she countered with as coherent an argument as she could assemble under the circumstances. "Listen, I know you don't like Operative Lawson. I don't either, to tell you the truth. That doesn't mean we shouldn't maintain at least a thin veneer of civility around her. Cerberus is a lot shadier than they let on, and Lawson's got top-level clearance and a 24/7 comm link with the Illusive Man. Do I make myself clear?"
Jack scoffed. "You're seriously gonna talk to me about Cerberus being shady? You strut around up there on your shiny deck, thinking you're so perfectly wise to what's really going on - well, let me tell you something. You're their puppet, nothing more. As soon as you stop being useful, they're going to come after you with everything they've got. And you know what? They're not going to bat an eye about it. No regrets, no second thoughts. That's how they really are."
"So if you're such an expert on Cerberus, why the deliberate nastiness to their hand-picked informant?"
"Because it doesn't matter what she thinks of us. Kiss up to a predator and you're just going to get eaten last. Ask a pyjak. Better to let them know what you really think. That way, when you die, you'll know you stood for something."
Shepard grinned and stroked her chin, admiring the perspicuity of the Normandy's newest recruit. "You know, Jack, I'm actually beginning to like you."
"Like I care."
"If you would only knock it off with the stupid nicknames, then..."
"Not gonna happen, Cap'n. It's kind of hilarious to see you get so touchy about them. No way you'll get me to stop entertaining myself on this boring ship. Nothing personal, really." She smirked as she somersaulted onto the thin ledge of metal she had impulsively decided to use as a bed.
"There's a reason I'm touchy about people giving me nicknames. Desist or I throw you out of the airlock. Final warning." If, by sheer blind chance, she ever calls me Apex...boy, is she is in for it.
"You're bluffing." Jack turned her back toward the commander and fetched a well-worn copy of King Arthur And His Knights from underneath her bunk. The gesture must have had the desired effect of provoking Shepard, since the words "Wanna bet?" had barely escaped her lips before she decided to take violent action. Exercising a surprisingly strong hold, Shepard seized Jack by the ear, dragging her off the metal ledge and up the stairs, deaf to the volley of profane yells that ensued. She only released her vise-grip when Jack offered detailed terms of capitulation.
Jack dusted herself off, cursing profusely upon discovering a fresh tear in her fatigues. "Fine, fine! Fuck it already! The gigantic stick up your ass has been duly acknowledged. Just leave me alone...and keep the Cerberus cheerleader off me."
Shepard smiled smugly. "Looks like we have an understanding. I'll let you know when you're needed for an assignment." With that, she turned on her heel and exited the basement.
"Aw, thanks. I feel so appreciated." Jack picked up her book, examining it for damage not already present from its long and illustrious tenure in backwater spaceports. She fumbled through the dog-eared pages, attempting to find her place in the story as she comforted herself with several creative options for payback.
Still in the stairwell, Shepard overheard the familiar sound of Engineers Donnelly and Daniels exchanging banter. They appeared to be discussing the new arrival to their floor...or were they, now? The temptation to eavesdrop became too compelling: Shepard darted over to the door and pressed a furtive ear to the cold metal.
"So, Ken, did you know we've got a crazy woman downstairs?"
"What?! You'd better not have let her near any of our equipment. Can you possibly imagine how long recalibrating everything would take? What am I talking about – of course you can. We've done it. Stupid Garrus and his Thanix obsession..."
"I'm afraid I saw her prowling around the drive core at around 0 dark 30. Looks like she installed some new T6-FBA couplings. I tried to thank her in person but the elevator wouldn't go all the way up to the loft."
"...Dammit, girl, Commander Shepard had better not be right outside. Och, you'd be asking for it then."
Shepard let out a long sigh as she sidled away from the door and punched the elevator controls. Quite frankly, she was too worn out for much of anything else.
It turned out that the assignment for which Shepard had anticipated needing Jack took precedence much sooner than she had expected. At his insistence, Mordin had accompanied the two women intending to witness the effectiveness of his countermeasure, and so the three of them had blithely set out for the formerly tranquil human colony of Horizon.
Horizon.
The word tolled like a death knell through Shepard's overwrought cranium.
Never would have guessed Williams would've turned her back on me quite like that...
She stared at the bundle of paperwork in front of her. In the unconvincing guise of a helpful XO, Lawson had brought it to the comm room directly after Shepard's disastrous debriefing with the Illusive Man. Casualty reports, descriptions of findings, non-disclosure agreements...it was all in a day's work after such a significant operation. Resting her head on her elbows, Shepard leafed through the leaning tower of bureaucratic nonsense with a listless hand.
It's 2185, for fuck's sake. Is Cerberus incapable of making electronic copies of its essential files?
Almost without thinking it through, she removed the top page from the ungainly jumble of papers and, with a precise flick of her left wrist, set it on fire with her omni-tool. The remnants of the document crinkled and turned a wonderfully entropic shade of brown, leaving faint burn marks on the conference table as they did so. Feeling slightly more invigorated, Shepard proceeded to apply the identical treatment to a good third of the stack before sustaining an interruption in the form of Mordin. Shepard acknowledged him with a faint smile and nod, while the professor could only survey the devastation in distress.
"Hey, Mordin – you did good today."
Mordin jolted out of his contemplative state, instantly focusing his attention back to the commander. "Ah. The seeker-swarm countermeasure. Glad to have been of assistance." Slowly, carefully, as if attempting to dismantle an active nuclear warhead, he approached Shepard and laid a mollifying hand on her shoulder. "...Morrigan, have to ask: regard this as appropriate response to Ashley Williams's overreaction on Horizon? Newton's third law applicable to standard physics, not human interaction." Noting the tentative, self-deprecating chuckle that arose as a result of his crack at a joke, he continued. "Chamomile tea often effective as palliative. Can bring some here if you like."
"All right, sure." Mordin left the comm room while Shepard made an effort to clear away the morass of burnt paper. After a trifling matter of minutes, he returned with a small glass teapot and a single china mug. Shepard was impressed and flattered to observe that he had used top-quality loose-leaf tea instead of the sawdust in bags to which she was accustomed. She moved to pour herself some, but Mordin indicated that she should wait until it had finished steeping.
"Care to retire to your cabin after this? Seem to recall that you wished to hear me sing. Would enjoy listening to you as well, if circumstances would allow it."
"Maybe some other time. Gunnery Chief Williams – Ashley – was the one responsible for retrieving my viola from the SR-1 crash site. I'm not sure if I could even look at it at the moment. She was the closest thing to a friend I had since Hamon, and now..."
Mordin's omni-tool flickered into active mode, informing him of an incoming call. He deactivated it in irritation, checked the tea, and poured a cup for Shepard as he sat down.
"Understood. Personal stake vital in achieving meaningful results during wartime. Not to be underestimated. Thinking of entire galaxy while fighting for its sake...counterproductive. Mortal minds never meant to encompass quantities of such magnitude."
Shepard encircled the mug with her hands, savoring the mild, astringent scent and the warmth of the porcelain. "Mortal minds? So you believe in God?"
"Not religious as you would understand it, Morrigan. Was referencing common salarian belief in immortal souls and minds. Similar to process of reincarnation in human Hinduism. Life after life, learning new things in perpetuity." Mordin's gaze suddenly drifted sideways, and Shepard could have sworn that he looked almost rueful. "Can't say I mind the concept."
Shepard clapped him on the forearm, guessing the root of his malaise. "Relax. I'm sure you've discovered more in your short lifetime than most salarians do in two or three anyway."
Mordin's abrupt speech pattern became even more serrate. "Am thirty-one, Shepard! Only considered short lifetime by asari standards. Still, do appreciate and will attempt to live up to your compliment. For sake of immediate mission, if nothing else."
"Hey, I'm also thirty-one and all I've ever accomplished of note was the systematic wreckage of human-Council relations for the foreseeable future. I'd say you're doing just fine in comparison."
"Useless to compete with others. Competing with self is enough." Softly clasping his hands together, Mordin stared disconsolately into the distance. Despite the so-called empathy deficit that the crew habitually liked to pin on Shepard, she knew she must do something to pull Mordin out of his glum interlude.
"...You know, I'm really glad to have you on my team, Mordin. And not just because your countermeasure saved our collective bacon on Horizon, in case you were wondering."
Mordin offered Shepard a genuine if wistful smile. "Likewise, gratified to have opportunity to innovate, make difference. Meet engaging people. Discuss finer things in life for a change."
His omni-tool activated itself once again, this time emitting a blinking glint of infrared light just above his wrist. With more consternation than annoyance this time, Mordin pulled up a translucent orange screen and began reading the brief contents of a message delivered, for security purposes, in obsolete salarian heiroglyphs. His eyes widened in burgeoning shock, sweat forming pearls on his temple. Shepard leaned in, attempting in vain to make sense of whatever it was that was upsetting her colleague so much.
"Oh my..."
Shepard eyed Mordin with palpable concern. "What's going on, Mordin?"
"Urgent missive from Rentola. Former STG colleague. My assistant, my...student...Maelon...no, no, no..."
"What happened?"
Mordin sprang out of his chair as if electrified. "No time to explain. Would urgently request diversion of Normandy to Tuchanka. Still small chance he might be alive. Must not delay if we are to change course." He cleared his throat, proceeding with care. "Would regard as...immense personal favor."
Shepard nodded earnestly, pressing a quick series of buttons on her omni-tool and sweeping two purposeful digits up to her ear. "Moreau, what's our status?"
Joker's affable voice, peppered lightly with bits of static, filled the anxious hush of the comm room. "We're approaching the Iera relay. ETA: 90 minutes, as long as EDI keeps its navigational presets to itself."
"Chart a course for the Aralakh system. Stat."
"Wanting to take our cute lil' tank baby out for a stroll, huh?"
"Something like that."
Joker paused, making sure to do so just long enough to broadcast precisely how he felt about being left in the dark. "Quite forthcoming today, aren't we, Commander?"
"Just get the damn ship to Tuchanka, Moreau," Shepard snarled. "Don't make me pull rank. Over and out."
Shepard lowered her hand and grinned at Mordin. "Don't worry, we'll find the kid. Least we can do for you."
"Thank you, Shepard. Will never forget this." Without warning, Mordin pulled Shepard into a spindly hug. To her horror, Shepard found that she was grappling instinctively for the pistol holstered to her hip. Scolding herself for her indiscriminate paranoia, she forced herself to relax and, eventually, to return the gesture. At ease, Shepard. Back to condition yellow: we've established that Mordin's not a threat. On the contrary, he was warm and comforting and smelled ever so vaguely of lemongrass. Or is that the tea? Man oh man, this is some bad voodoo you've got going, Doctor. If any of the crew were to see me like this, so laid back...
Shepard's awkward premonition fulfilled itself when Jacob Taylor entered the room. She quickly disengaged from the professor, who nodded to her in parting before walking smartly back to the lab, and rounded on the hapless operative.
"Just what do you think you're looking at?"
"Sorry, Commander."
"You're damn lucky I haven't figured out how to make my drone launch hellfire missiles, Taylor. Out." Shepard pointed in no uncertain terms toward the door from which he had entered.
"Yes, ma'am." Jacob fairly ran back to the armory, shaking his head in bewilderment.
Utterly spent, Shepard collapsed into the nearest chair. So, looks like I've gained a friend and lost the last vestiges of my crew's respect in the process. She stared into the dregs of her tea for a long moment, daring them to give her any sort of enlightenment. Once satisfied that they wouldn't, she downed them in one gulp. Yet despite this irreverence toward the old human superstition, she found herself increasingly reconsidering her predicament the closer she wafted toward fitful sleep. You never know, Apex: sometimes you've got to lose a battle in order to win the war...