A/N: And here we are. The Jingo updated Chasing Yesterday all those months ago, and we have finally fulfilled our end of the bargain. (Mostly because of how long it took Magery to get around to editing this beast. Ssh. Don't tell anyone).
For those panicky few—you'll know the section when you read it—no, a little exploration doesn't confirm a ship. You know who we are. We have other plans.
As always, enjoy, and tell us what you think.
Pendragon
Holy Britannian Empire
Earth, Sol System, Carcerem Cluster
October 7th, 2166 [9 AH]
"We're about to arrive, Ambassador."
Idrissa Artenis turned her head slightly from her view out the window of her aircar, just enough to acknowledge her driver, before returning back to her thoughts.
When she had chosen to become a member of the diplomatic corps after almost a century and a half of soldiering, she'd known that she was exchanging one battlefield for another. As a commando, she could solve most of her problems with the right application of firepower, but the game of diplomacy required a far more comprehensive arsenal—which was part of the reason she'd decided to get into it. There were only so many times you could do the same thing to deal with the same set of issues before it became staid and boring.
However, if her younger self had known that her skillsets (and, if she was really honest, her expendability) would eventually land her the job as the Council's Ambassador to the Britannian Empire, she would have likely chosen to remain a commando. There was no way she could have known—when she retired, humanity as a whole was a decade and a half from even being heard of—but the point remained.
If humanity was a troublesome species as a whole, however, then the Britannians were the stuff of frustrated nightmares. Ever since their secession from the Systems Alliance, the Turians (and to a lesser extent, the Council) had had their hands full trying to both contain and make sense of the unique brand of madness that the Britannians seemed to ascribe to.
At the heart of that madness was the man who had summoned her this evening—Prince Schneizel el Britannia.
As her aircar came to a stop, she took a moment to gather herself while the door was opened for her. This would be only the third time she would be personally meeting with the man, usually having to deal with his proxies, or more often than not, his majordomo. Each time had felt more steeped in tension than the last, and she always left them convinced she'd lost some sort of exchange she didn't remember fighting.
Idrissa stepped out of the aircar, studying the massive stone edifice of the Clare li Britannia Opera House. Striding forward, she noted the security detail that had already been in position for her—at the centre of the formation was the gatekeeper to the one she'd been summoned to meet.
If you took away the ostentatious clothing and title, Kanon Maldini could easily blend into whatever and wherever he pleased. He was so good at being plain that she sometimes found it hard to remember that this was Schneizel's pet monster—despite a century of training to fight (and fighting alongside) monsters of her very own. A former assassin, this was the man the STG believed was responsible for not only killing the ruling family, but also Perenelle and Odysseus eu Britannia. How Schneizel had acquired his services was still unknown, though there was a belief that the two were lovers.
"Ambassador Artenis, if you will follow me, Prince Schneizel is waiting in the Royal Box."
There wasn't much more to be said; she merely acknowledged it with a serene nod of the head and followed after him. It wasn't long until she found herself in what was colloquially referred to as the "Regent's Box", the second most valuable box in the opera house after the Emperor's Box.
Without a second glance from Maldini, he left, leaving her alone with the man who, by all rights, was the Emperor of Britannia. No matter what he officially claimed otherwise.
"Please, sit down, Ambassador," was Schneizel's request, though to her trained ears it came across more as a subtle command. His voice had the sort of accidental gravity you found in most matriarchs—or old Krogan. She'd met a few Turians and one particularly spectacular Salarian who could compare, but never another human.
She finished sitting down almost before she noticed she'd started. Schneizel was yet to look at her, instead intent on the opera. Then he spoke again.
"I am to understand that the Systems Alliance has been granted colonization rights to the Attican Traverse, Ambassador."
How did he know? she thought to herself, years of experience the only thing keeping her from showing any reaction to the declaration. She had just received the notification an hour ago in an emergency communique from fact that Britannia already knew the ruling before it had been made public was worrisome—it suggested that their communications were compromised.
"The announcement will be made tomorrow," she finally replied, knowing that there was no point in obfuscating the truth. Now was for damage control. With the Attican Traverse opened to the the Systems Alliance, the Britannian Empire would find itself falling behind.
That was, after all, the point. The Turians were seeking to prevent the Britannians from expanding, hopefully setting the stage for it to wither and die economically to a point where it could be reabsorbed back into the Systems Alliance. It wouldn't work, of course—it would be a cold day in hell before the Britannians relented and rejoined the fold of their own will. But they'd be weakened; perhaps over time so weakened that it would practically be the Alliance (and the Hierarchy's) duty to save them from themselves.
Schneizel didn't react to her statement. Instead, she was met with silence, broken only by the booming baritone of the lead reverberating through the opera house.
"I've always had a respect for the arts, Ambassador," Schneizel eventually said, still refraining from looking to her, "art, music, literature, each has a unique story to tell or a lesson to be learned. If there is one thing Charles zi Britannia taught any of us, it was that without culture, there is no difference between that vaunted concept of humanity and a base animal."
"I see."
His head turned slightly, taking a moment to look at her, before returning back to stare out onto the stage. It was as if he was saying that he didn't believe that she could.
"Take Don Giovanni for example—a comedic, yet cautionary tale of excess and arrogance. Despite being four hundred years old, it has as much bearing today as it did back then, and likely will another four hundred years into the future."
This time, he looked directly at her.
"Especially in regards to the Citadel Council."
It took a moment for her to register what he had just accused the political entity that maintained the peace in the known galaxy of being. This was not how diplomacy usually went—not in general, and certainly not with Schneizel. When it did register, however, she was quick to respond.
"While I can understand how your perception of the Citadel Council may be colored by the history that exists between itself and the Empire, you have perhaps misconstrued the intent of the Council. The Council has the best interests of its client races at heart."
It was a simplistic overview of what the Council provided, but that was the party line.
"Is it truly altruism if one is to benefit from it more than the recipient of said altruism, Ambassador? For almost a decade, the Council has made it a priority to contain humanity as punishment for supposed crimes it was not even aware of committing in a conflict instigated by the Turian Hierarchy. What has suddenly changed that they would abandon such policy?"
His lips twisted into a wintry grin.
"There's a saying our race has when investigating policy decisions, Ambassador: follow the money. I imagine you have your own equivalent. It's crude, in this case, but effective. What benefit do the Council Races gain from opening the Attican Traverse to the Systems Alliance to settle?"
His index finger uncurled.
"First, we have the Turian Hierarchy. The quasi-annexation of humanity hasn't been as profitable as the Primarchs have wanted, as the report that General Arterius will be submitting next week will show. In fact, it has instead been operating at a loss since Britannia seceded, between our lost potential revenue and the extra resources required to make sure we're behaving now that we've proven politically hostile. With the Traverse being opened to human exploitation, they can legitimately claim that the Systems Alliance has been reformed in the eyes of the Council, and thus draw back a significant amount of their forces."
A second finger.
"The Salarians gain additional funding for their STG to keep an eye upon humanity now that the Turians have mostly withdrawn. We are quite primitive, by your standards—they'll get more than they need, and spend less than they thought. That frees up budget room elsewhere, which is always a good thing."
Finally, his third finger uncurled.
"Then there is the Asari. On the surface, it appears they gain nothing from convincing the Salarians to side with the Turians. That is, until you realize that this choice only affirms their self-entitled role as the only important vote on the Citadel. It helps reinforce the—rightful, if we're honest—image that if you really want to get something done politically, you go to the Asari first. But even deeper than that, the Republics amass more of what they want: power. Humanity now owes the Asari for the Traverse, and while you will not be blatant about it, you'll make sure that the Systems Alliance is reminded of that when necessary.
"Oh. There is also the added benefit that this decision will inflame the Batarian Hegemony. The Attican Traverse has always been their backyard, in their minds at least, and the Citadel handing it to a race of two-eyes is certainly going to refocus part of their ire away from the Citadel races and toward us, relieving pressure on all three governments over the Batarian issue. And if the Traverse becomes successful, well, it only means additional wealth and prestige for the Council races through their inevitable investments in the region. This, at least, is a benefit to even humanity—except Britannia, who will be slowly strangled into economic and then actual submission. It's quite elegant, really. I'd have done much the same myself.
"The point, however, Ambassador, is this: with this in mind, is it truly altruism that the Council has decided to grant the Systems Alliance exploitation rights to the Attican Traverse, or is it self-serving policy?"
Throughout his entire speech, not once did his voice waver or change. It was always the same cool, calculating tone that could only be characterized solely as Schneizel's. His control was fascinating.
"I would think," she paused, searching for the words, hating the fact that she was caught completely on her back foot, having been unable to prepare for such a grilling, "that you are reading too much into this, Your Highness. While there may have been some considerations included in the decision outside of those that will be made public, none involved the malicious intent that you are ascribing."
It was a weak parry, of course—they both knew she was lying—but to be silent would be even worse. Again, she cursed her lack of preparation. The announcement was't going public for weeks. Months, even. She should have had time to prepare, but that was plainly not the case.
Instead of retorting like she expected, the Prime Minister merely turned back to watching the opera. For a split second, she thought it was a dismissal, until he spoke again.
"Kanon, if you would."
Idrissa noticed the man coming, but it was a near thing; if not for the faintest kiss of his boots on the carpet and the shallow thrill of tension slithering across her spine, the Prince's Majordomo would have seemingly appeared out of nowhere beside Schneizel, a manila folder in his hands. Why the Prince would be dealing in something as archaic as paper, she could only wonder.
Schneizel took the folder, and proceeded to hold it out to her. Hesitating only for a moment, she took it into her own hands, a question readily evident upon her face.
"You will find, Ambassador, on the issue of the Britannian Empire, that malicious intent is all the Council can spare for my people," he said.
A few minutes later, with trembling hands, she placed the folder down on the armrest of her chair. She couldn't believe it—not that the subject being discussed was the assassination of the former Britannian Empress, it was a theory that she could find no fault in, but that she'd been looking at transcripts. Not written missives, but actual conversations between figures in multiple governments, transcribed as if they were wiretapped. From when the discussion began to the final order to execute the assassination of Empress Marianne vi Britannia, all approved by members of the Citadel Council.
If this was true, and there was no doubt in her mind that it was—Schneizel was in no position to bluff the whole galaxy and get away with it—then the consequences for Citadel Council would be catastrophic. To order the murder of a sovereign leader of a nation that was nominally a part of the Citadel was inconceivable, and it would only lead to other races asking too many questions that the Citadel would not want to answer. First and second among them were why? and are we next?
"H—how did you get ahold of this?" She had to ask, both for own benefit as much as the superiors she reported to. If the Britannians were reading Citadel communications, then such a security leak would have to be fixed.
"There are others who share our resentment with the current status quo, Ambassador. They are patriots who realize that waiting for scraps from the Council will achieve nothing—that they have to take."
The Quarians, she realized almost immediately.
It made sense—when it came to disenfranchised races that were disgusted with the Council, only one would go so far as to tap the Citadel and far more uniquely have the means to do it would be the Quarians. With their specialty in technology, the access it could grant them to the various systems of the Citadel, and a recent racial history as itinerant vagabonds who found themselves practically anywhere doing practically anything on their Pilgrimages, it would be comparatively easy for them to infiltrate the communications security.
But that didn't help her right here and now. She had to respond to this immediately. There was a reason that Prince Schneizel was showing this to her instead of going public with it: Britannia wanted something in return for their continued silence.
"If these communications were to be verified, Prime Minister," she spoke as levelly as possible, despite the enormity of what was being discussed, "what would ensure your silence on these matters?"
"We would require that the Attican Traverse be fully opened to Britannian exploitation as well."
"That's it?" Idrissa couldn't keep the incredulity from her tone. Britannia had in their hands information that could tie up the Council for decades in a constant fight to un-smear their name, and all they wanted for it were mining and colonization rights? It wasn't so much that those rights were a small thing—they most certainly weren't—but that Schneizel could have asked for, say, right of first refusal on the colonisations and future mining efforts and he'd probably get it. He could have forced the Alliance to colonise and expand only on Britannia's leftovers. Or something else of even greater magnitude.
This time, Schneizel actually looked at her, violet eyes shining in the light as Don Giovanni was dragged into hell on the stage below. It was this moment, caught both in his gaze and the symbology below, that cemented her belief that Schneizel el Britannia was far more dangerous than anyone, even herself during this conversation, had truly believed. There was no doubt in her mind that this was the turning point in the relationship between Britannia and the Council.
"Contrary to what the known galaxy believes," he said, his voice as smooth as silk, "I, nor the Britannian Empire, wish to see the Citadel Council or our fellow races destroyed. Despite many of the poor policy choices that have originated from the Citadel, it still remains the best option for stability in the galaxy. What we ask for is for a fair chance to succeed."
With that, he rose—Idrissa found herself unable to match his gesture, her mind still coming to grips with the information laid upon her.
"Good evening, Ambassador."
With that, he left.
TIE
Carhaix
Holy Britannian Empire
Dinas Carhaix, Arcturus Stream, Carcerem Cluster
April 14th, 2167 [10 AH]
A soft tone echoed through the room, drawing no reaction at first. It was only as the second chime sounded that there was any movement—something writhed under the blankets that dominated the bed they were upon. Finally, on the third ring, a man groaned, his hand reaching out from beneath the sheets and tapping the stub of the alarm before flopping down over the side of the bed.
It was another moment before one half of those sheets were drawn away to reveal the nude figure of a redhead—the same act dragged the rest far enough down for a shock of indigo hair to peek out under the covers on the other side. With a yawn, the man turned himself enough to allow his feet to touch down onto the carpet, rubbing the sleep from his bleary blue eyes.
The chime sounded again, and he frowned. A displeased sigh came from behind him. He reached out and picked up a small headset from the bedside table, slipping it on his ear.
"I'll call you back in a minute, Kallen. Just let me wake up first." With that, he tapped the earpiece, ending the call.
"Doesn't that girl realize what time it is?" moaned the other occupant of the bed. It was obviously a woman's voice.
Naoto Statdfeld smiled, fond and tired.
"You know how Kallen can get when she's excited by something," he turned, pulling the sheets back to reveal sharp features and a pair of rainy-blue eyes registering the fact that they were no longer covered. Pressing a kiss to the woman's lips, he continued, "kinda like a certain someone I know."
She pouted defensively. "I do not."
Chuckling slightly at his fiancee's protest, he leaned in and kissed her again, soft and short. "Big brother duties call. Don't wait for me, Cecile."
Cecile Croomy groaned and rolled over, muttering loud enough for him to hear, "Such a siscon."
Naoto laughed, getting off the bed on his side and grabbing a pair of sweatpants, drawing tight the string and tying it to protect his modesty. He reached over and picked up the wristband that was his omnitool, slipping it on before getting to his feet, his destination the kitchen.
For Naoto Stadtfeld, heir to the Stadtfeld Consortium, life could not get much better. At twenty-four years of age, he had almost everything he could ask for. He was already turning heads in the field of weaponized particle physics, so much so that his father was quite proud of his achievements, and if he could complete the project he had embarked on, there was no doubt he'd have earned the right to succeed the man—as tradition dictated.
Naoto was also engaged to a beautiful and vivacious woman in the form of Miss Cecile Croomy, a fellow scientist who he had met while attending the Imperial Colchester Institute for his Master's. They had hit it off almost immediately with their shared passion for discovery and pushing the boundaries of what was believed possible. It also helped that Cecile had provided a role model for his sister, the impressionable Kallen Stadtfeld.
So it was no surprise to anyone involved that he had proposed and she accepted after their graduation, with a wedding tentatively planned for June of next year. The date might change, though, if the success on his project was as close as he had a feeling that it was.
That had been one of the conditions of being his father's heir. Like his father, and his father before him, for generations it had been the role of the successor to prove their worth by doing something to further the family or company. It could be developing a technology, or maybe finding another large source of income. For example, it had been through his father that the Orbital Defense Fortress concept had been revived—and while only two had been hastily completed before the Turians had arrived to conquer Earth, they proven their worth in blood and broken battleships before finally succumbing. Progress had suffered a setback with the end of the war, but the concept had survived and thrived to where every Britannian owned world had at least two of the massive constructs, earning the Stadtfelds billions in wealth and prestige.
If his project succeeded—if it worked as intended—then they'd get more than just wealth and prestige: they'd have revolutionized warfare completely.
Reaching the kitchen, he pressed the activation button on his espresso machine, intending to get some caffeine into him before sitting down at the counter and tapping the communications terminal, connecting it to the call that he had waiting.
Almost immediately, the display lit up and he found himself smiling into the image of his younger sister. Kallen had always been the family's little princess. She had been an unexpected—yet very much not unwanted—blessing for the family. After the difficulty of his pregnancy, their parents had been told that the chance of another child was incredibly slim.
Now, at fifteen years of age, Kallen was entering the stage in which the coltish awkwardness of being a teen was on the cusp of being shed from the adult that lived beneath. He had a feeling that both his father and himself would have their hands full beating back prospective suitors in a few years' time.
But right now, she looked distraught over something
"Hey Spitfire," he teased. To say that his sister was the antithesis of the prim and proper noble daughter would be like saying water was wet. Opinionated, stubborn, and unrestrained with her emotions, she forged her own path. He wouldn't have her any other way.
"Naoto," her voice cracked, eyes threatening to spill barely held back tears. Instead, she sniffled before rubbing her nose. Okay. Maybe teasing was the wrong approach.
"What's wrong, Kallen?"
"It's Jane. She's moving away!"
"Oh," he murmured, his early-morning cobwebs quickly clearing away at the import of that statement.
Being nobility, even if peerage was more laissez faire than hereditary nowadays outside of the old families, made it difficult to actually accrue any true friends. Sure, you had 'friends', but they were more often than not mired in the dynamics of what the two of you could gain from the friendship than anything else.
Sometimes, however, there were exceptions.
One of them was Jane Shepard, the daughter of Viscount Johnathan Shepard II. She may as well have been be Kallen's sister (the good kind, that was) given how inseparable the two were. He had lost count over the years how many times he found them getting into some sort of mischief. The less said about the sleepovers the better, as they ended up being ordeals he had to chaperone.
"I'm sorry, Kallen. But it's not like you can't see her again."
That seemed to be the wrong thing to say—the tears that she had been holding back finally broke loose, trailing down her cheeks as she sniffled out an, "She's moving to Emrys."
Oh, Naoto thought silently to himself. It was a bigger problem than Kallen knew.
Seven months ago, it had been announced that the Attican Traverse would be opened to the Britannian Empire after it had previously only been available to the Systems' Alliance. The resulting rush by Britannia to quickly claim up as many colonies as they could had been the stuff of dreams (or nightmares depending upon who you asked).
Emrys, however, was a rather special case, and critical for the future of Britannia. Officially, it was just another colony world set in the Attican Traverse. However, to those in the know—and it was only because the fact the Stadfeld Consortium been contracted for the project that his father, and thus Naoto, knew—Emrys, as it was currently called, was the next Britannian planet in line to earn the 'Dinas' or 'Fortress' designation. What made that so special, however, was that Emrys would be the first Dinas in the Attican Traverse, providing Britannian military projection into their latest territory once it was completed without having to rely on Turian-administered relays.
Of course, the less Britannia's enemies knew of that eventuality, the better—Britannia didn't want anyone to know until it was far too late to do anything about it. Politically or otherwise, militarizing the Attican Traverse at this critical juncture would be taken rather poorly. And that was ignoring the Batarian belief that the Traverse belonged to them in the first place.
However, none of that helped Naoto explain to his sister why she shouldn't be crying—or help him believe those explanations.
"Hey, you can still talk to her, Kallen," he said, not sure of what exactly he could offer to stop the waterworks, "and it's not like that changes either of your plans to apply to the Academy in a few years."
"That's not the same, Naoto, and you know that," she replied, sniffling.
No, it really wasn't, but he wasn't going to just say that. The distance between Carhaix and Dinas Emrys would be a strain upon their friendship. They would no longer be attending the same school, be able to videocall on a whim. No, everything would be left to text-based messages back and forth between the two until Dinas Emrys was properly colonised—developing infrastructure was the excuse, but in truth it was for security—and for two people so at home in the physical world, a friendship reduced back to not even hearing one another's voices might be a friendship irreversibly damaged.
"What about seeing if she can stay here on Carhaix?"
Kallen shook her head.
"Jane already tried. But her father refuses to change his mind. He told her she needed a bit of roughing it she wanted to attend academy. Which is bullshit; he never had John do it. Stupid bastard just wants to split us up because he walked in—" she cut herself off, face flushed with guilt.
"Walked in on what?" he asked, then paused. If Kallen believed that someone like Viscount Johnathan Shepard II, a man known for his careful, deliberate decision-making, had decided to uproot his daughter like this when she very well could have stayed on Carhaix—even with them, if necessary—then it was likely something big.
Kallen hesitated, ducking her head. She sniffled again, muttering something that the feed didn't pick up.
"What?"
"He walked in on us kissing," she snapped, cheeks flaming.
Naoto sat there for what felt like an eternity, staring at her image in mute shock. There had been a myriad of possibilities that he had considered, but he would be perfectly honest if he said he hadn't expected that.
He'd have sworn neither of them liked each other that way—maybe he was just getting blind in his old age. At school he'd been able to pick crushes among his friends sometimes before they knew about them.
Thankfully, though, Kallen took his silence for something other than surprise and an oddly wounded ego.
"Sophie had been boasting about kissing and how she had already had a girlfriend and everything, and Jane and I were talking and Jane kinda wondered what kissing another girl would feel like. Then well…"
"Stop," he waved his hands, "just stop, Kallen. I was a teenager once, so I get it. I don't need the gory details. I'd rather not think of my sister like that. So, Jane is going to Emrys, and there's no stopping it. Let me guess—you're worried that the distance will affect your friendship?"
There was still some hesitation. Kallen looked like she was trying to switch gears. Like she hadn't quite finished explaining everything that she and Jane had gotten up to before he'd interrupted. Good thing he had, then. Maybe if he believed hard enough, Kallen would return to being sweet and innocent, not luckier with girls than he'd been at her age.
"Yes," she finally said.
A hand brushed against his shoulder—Cecile had woken up properly and was handing him a cup of coffee. She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, shifting up to whisper in his ear.
"Have her get Jane something. Something practical, that will make Jane think of her whenever she uses it."
She stepped away, looking into the feed, and offered a wave. "Hey Kallen."
"Hey, Cecile."
Pleasantries observed, Cecile stepped past Naoto, heading to the refrigerator—tantalizing him with the flutter of his shirt at the tips of her thighs—and opening it up while he considered her words.
What would be something Kallen could get for Jane that would be a reminder of their friendship? Something that Jane would use often…
Oh. Of course. It was easily doable, considering who they were.
"Well, if you can't change it, Kallen, why not get her a going away gift? Something that she can remember you by. Don't you both enjoy shooting and hunting? And Emrys is pretty much still a wilderness. Right?"
"Yeah?"
"Well then, there's your answer. Why don't you custom-order her one of our rifles? Have it personalized with something so that every time she takes it out, she knows in a way, you're still with her."
He knew immediately he had come up with the right idea as he watched her face light up in delight.
"Naoto. You're a genius!"
"No, I'm just working on my doctorate. Genius is next year," he quipped.
It was good to hear Kallen laugh. With his work consuming much of his time, it was difficult to find the chance to see his family nowadays. Hopefully once he completed the project, he would have the time to be there for Kallen, at least.
Speaking of which.
"How is your sch—"
Unfortunately, that was as far as he got.
Both the door to his condominium and windows all burst open; Naoto only had enough time to turn to the windows in confusion before several shadowy figures came through the openings.
He didn't even register the sounds, just the impacts. Everything disappeared in white-hot agony. Lightning sparked through his body and he jerked and flailed, nerves misfiring as he collapsed to the floor. A too-slow thought, like somebody had shaken his brain a couple of steps out of sync with the rest of him, was impressed with the way he missed the counter on the way down. That would have taken out a few of his teeth.
Distantly, he could hear Kallen screaming his name. A foot appeared in his dimming vision. Short, clipped orders were exchanged by whoever his attackers were, and he was suddenly picked up. He couldn't feel where they held him. As he was lugged over the shoulder of one of the men, he caught sight of Cecile being turned face up and left where she lay.
He couldn't tell if she was breathing.
Kallen screamed his name one last time before they decided to cut the link.
TIE
Spectre Saemaw Baeluse was perplexed—a feeling he was both unaccustomed to and loathed in general. To be perplexed meant that something had worked against his expectations. In his business, that got people killed. And that wasn't even most of why he hated it.
Yet, despite his disdain for it, he was, without a doubt, perplexed.
In any other situation, he'd have discarded the reason why as nothing but overanalysis of an already-illogical situation.
But he couldn't. Not over something like this. Thus, he reviewed what he knew, and researched what he didn't. Every hour drove him from perplexed to wary and then to warier—it wasn't that the information didn't fit what he knew because it was illogical or unfinished.
It was because it was wrong.
He was a Salarian who prided himself on making sure that everything was right. To have something, anything, wrong was a complete failure of professionalism.
So that left him contacting the only person who might be able to right the wrong he felt was about to take place.
"Councilor Tevos," he greeted the hologram that appeared before him, "thank you for taking the time to meet with me."
If there was one Councilor who epitomized the balance the Citadel Council strove to stand for, it was Seyelnia Tevos. The Asari representative to the Citadel Council, she had gained a reputation as the heart of the Council, serving largely as the swing vote that determined the true course of galactic policy. Fair, yet with a mind that was unquestionably keen, she had been privately outspoken about to the current status quo in regards to the treatment of humanity.
"Unfortunately, time is a precious commodity that I am currently limited upon, Operative," came her response, "and if you hadn't informed me of the subject matter, I would not be talking with you."
"Of course. I'll get straight to the point then, Councilor. After reviewing all the relevant data in regards to the Stadtfeld case, I have determined there is a high probability that we are mistaken in our conclusions."
Although the hologram connection was not the best, there was no mistaking Tevos' expression—she was not happy with his observation. Then again, she had every right to be incensed.
Since the arrest of Naoto Stadtfeld, Britannia has been inundating the Council with demands for the return of the man, claiming that the charges were false; that they were made up in an effort to harm the Stadtfeld Consortium, and by extension Britannian interests. As it drew closer to the start of the actual tribunal, they had only become more vociferous.
"Explain," came the terse demand. Normally her voice was never anything but smooth.
"During the latest interrogation, Stadtfeld was able to discern the interrogation subject—bomb-pumped laser design." Tevos started to narrow her eyes, and Saemaw sped up. "He became agitated. Cited bomb-pumped laser concept as inefficient. Power and equipment requirements for sufficient electromagnetic bottling outstrips cost-benefit ratios for practical use or miniaturization. Dead end concept."
"That's damning evidence, Spectre. It shows he's done, or at least knows about, research on using nuclear detonations to fuel an enhanced laser system."
"Truth. However, Stadtfeld's words resulted in deeper problem. Comparison between thesis paper upon concentrated microwave energy and military applications thereof. Nowhere in Master's thesis mention of bomb-enhancement."
"Things can change from a mere thesis. Perhaps he decided that the usage of microwave energy would not work, and moved onto what he's accused of. It is evident in his own files and notes that he was looking at an alternative and was close to a breakthrough on nuclear enhancements."
She was right. All of the evidence was there in the notes and files they had gleaned from Stadtfeld's personal computer.
"Notes are not those of Stadtfeld," he declared, "notes and research method similar as to appear to be Stadtfeld's, but not exact. Have compared to other documents not related to current project. Certain that project documents tampered with. Unknown reason why. Suspicious, as Stadtfeld is only source of evidence into illegal project."
"Are you certain?"
"Would not be contacting you otherwise. Worse. Reason now to believe that tipoff was likely setup in order for third party to gain access to scientists that Britannia claims we have in our possession. Scientists are missing from all records; STG can't locate."
Which was even more troubling. Not the idea of a third party, as there were always outside actors who looked to take advantage of situations like this. The idea of a third party that was able to infiltrate and manipulate both Britannia and the Citadel Council. That was unconscionable. Yet the evidence—more than Saemaw could summarise in such a brief meeting—indicated that it may have happened.
Just because it hadn't happened before this didn't mean that it was impossible. Nothing was impossible, as the wisest knew—all that was required were the necessary resources and a will to see it through.
"Spectre Baeluse," Tevos finally spoke, "you will continue your investigation on these matters. If someone has compromised our systems, then I want to know immediately. All other considerations or missions are now secondary to this. Am I understood?"
"Certainly, Councilor. What of Stadtfeld?"
"Nothing can be done, unfortunately," she answered finally after a long moment, "even if he is innocent, the politics of the situation has gotten out of hand. Until we have concrete proof, he is nothing more than another unfortunate victim of the circumstances—and not one we can save at the expense of saving far more than just he by catching whoever made him that victim. Only then can we act to restore the course of justice, Spectre."
That was what he was worried about. Even with Tevos on his side, there was no way that Salarians or the Turians would let Stadtfeld go free. The Consortium was beginning to encroach into Citadel space with their products. This was a way to bar them entry through a massive PR hit and also leave the Consortium in flux with the loss of Elend Stadtfeld's heir. Cut-throat corporate consideration, supported by armies of lobbyists.
And beyond all that, just attempting free the man would reveal their hand.
Success made you sloppy. Perfect success made you sloppy and arrogant. Combine that with the element of surprise, and Saemaw was quite sure his so-far shadowy opponent would be in for a rude awakening one of these days—at his hands, preferably.
"As you wish, Councilor."
TIE
"The Wilderness"
Holy Britannian Empire
Emrys, Cambrian Nebula, Attican Traverse
March 5th, 2170 [13 AH]
Krathan Balak bit back a curse as he trudged through the underbrush, his weapon trained ahead of him while he scanned for threats. To say that he was angry would be an understatement—he was furious.
This operation was supposed to be executed quickly. The raid upon Emrys was intended to confirm the belief that the Britannian Empire was planning on turning the planet into one of their so-called fortress worlds, but also to send a message to the two-eyes that the Hegemony would not continue to allow their transgressions.
As it was with every raiding operation, priority targets had been identified for capture and enslavement. The precise minutiae of the list would change from operation to operation, but the general policy usually remained the same—a mixture of interesting prizes for the more discerning buyers and healthy stock for the rest.
However, Emrys was quite different to many of the worlds they had raided before. Usually Britannia was cautious with its nobility; most anyone of import remained on Earth, with spare heirs and those otherwise ineligible for succession leading the colonisation efforts. Presumably that would change once the colonies were established—Krathan knew enough of the Britannian system to expect there'd be a bunch of newly-minted Viceroys coming along if the Hierarchy failed to kick them out of the Traverse alongside the Alliance. Emrys, though? It had an entire noble House.
(Well, it had the patriarch and one of his children, with a wife estranged and a son somewhere in the military. But when you put it like that, it sounded less impressive to the clients).
With Viscount Johnathan Shepard and his daughter on the colony, a unique opportunity presented itself—both for actionable intelligence and financial compensation. There were plenty of significant members of the Hegemony who would pay top credit for a chance at a Britannian noble. Enough for Balak's captain, Balak himself, and quite a few of his crew to live their own small life of luxury.
Unfortunately, everything had quickly fallen apart the moment they'd landed on the planet—the Viscount had killed himself before they'd breached his panic room, and scrubbed all the high-level data regarded future plans for Emrys through the very same console he'd splattered his head over right afterward.
So now they were on damage control. They only had a small window of opportunity before the Britannians figured out a way around the debris they had arranged in front of the Mass Relay to prevent any forces jumping to Emrys' aid and surviving. The shattered wrecks of a first-response patrol group and the lack of any follow-up stood testament to how wise they'd been to set the trap in the first place, but it wouldn't last. At the moment, their job was simply to grab as many slaves as they could and get out before the law, so to speak, caught up with them.
The Viscount's fate had made him angry.
The Viscount's daughter's fate had made him furious.
It was supposed to be a simple operation—they'd identified her out in the forests of the planet. Their information indicated she spent a lot more time out in the wilderness hunting than she did in the city, and that had paid off. One squad had been dispatched to collect her so they'd at least get something out of this.
Six veteran Batarian slavers. One soft two-eyed noble girl.
Easy.
That been two cycles ago—since then, she'd done her level best to kill Krathan with a aneurysm. The first squad sent had simply disappeared without a word, which should have been the first warning for Captain Harsa, the commander of this expedition. A second squad deployed had encountered nothing—except whatever had killed one of their members on their way back.
That wasn't the worst of it. One of their processing sites had been hit soon after, leaving three men dead and over a dozen slaves lost, fled into the wilderness that surrounded Cadair Emrys, the capital city. The one survivor who did get a look at their attacker had noted that it was a single, short human with red hair. There was only one person Krathan cared about that fit that description.
No prizes for guessing who it was.
An enraged Harsa had demanded that Krathan fix the problem, retrieve the slaves, and capture the girl. As if it was somehow his fault in the first place. And he only had the window of a single cycle to do it.
Thus, here he was, storming into the woods, tracking the girl's last known movements before she had disappeared completely. After referring to a topography map, and then looking over the movements of their troops in going into the forest, he figured he had a rough estimate of where she was likely holed up. Every engagement she'd fought had been within a particular radius of where she'd been when they'd arrived.
The soft growl of the Varren beside him shook him from his thoughts, and he cursed the rain that been falling since they'd entered the forest. It shouldn't have taken nearly this long for their trackers to pick up her scent.
It was only a matter of time now, he thought viciously, before he'd get to pay back the little two-eyed chit for what she'd done. Switching his helmet's visor to thermal, he signaled to his men to start converging on his position.
It was time for the real hunt to begin.
TIE
Unknown to Krathan, the real hunt was already over.
A girl watched from afar, eyes like cut jade staring straight at and through him—much the same way the bullet chambered in her rifle would, if she were to pull the trigger.
For Jane Shepard, not even the cool rain could bring a chill to the fire that burned into her breast. She has been in the colloquially named "Wilderness" when the Batarians had come. The only warning that they were likely to be pursuing her was from her father. Estranged as they were after the decision to move them here, she knew he had still warned her out love.
(It said everything it needed to about Britannian society that this was worthy of note).
Thus, she had been waiting for the Batarians when they sought her out. She killed them to the last. Jane had spent years out here, in this forest, exploring and hunting. She knew it—every nook, every cranny, every last tree—better than anyone alive. In some ways it was more her home than her house. She'd slaughtered the Batarians sideways, from where they couldn't see and when they didn't expect.
In the back of her head, a voice that sounded a lot like Kallen's spoke up. Asymmetric warfare, bitch.
For most, that would be the end of it—she'd survived, now she could run—but not for her. Where someone else may have disappeared into the wilderness until relief would arrive, living off the land they had become intimately familiar with, she had felt nothing more than a need to make the Batarians suffer, and a youth misspent anywhere and anywhen except doing what would be expected of your ordinary teenaged girl had taught her a few things about how to do just that.
It wasn't for nothing that she'd been planning to enlist since she was twelve.
So when the second squad had been sent to hunt her, she made it a point to kill only one of them and strip him off his omnitool and comm gear before ripping off his locator beacon and hiding the body. With those, she took the fight to the enemy, hitting one of the smaller gathering areas and freeing almost a dozen people, placing them safely in one of the various hunting hideouts that she'd amassed over the last few years.
Now it was a matter of luring the Batarians to her and away from her new charges—and then making them bleed.
When the Varren that accompanied her prey perked up, she knew she was on a timetable. Her earpiece erupted in snarling Batarian, the sentiments without a doubt a call to join him.
Placing her rifle away, her finger lightly traced the rose that had been etched into the stock—a reminder of happier times and a dear friend—before she unslung her other weapon.
She would have preferred to use her rifle, but the forecast thunderstorm had yet to manifest, so she would not have the sound to cover her shots. Instead, the task fell to her other weapon—one never intended for this precise purpose, but that had performed admirably enough. Jane shouldn't have been surprised, really. Only the inexorable march of technology had cast it from the battlefield to the hands of hobbyists.
No—while she used her rifle for defense against some of the more nastier fauna on Emrys, her preferred method of hunting was with a heavily customized bow.
She only had three arrows left. Using them against the Batarians had resulted in too much damage to the tips for them to be useful again. She could have restocked a second time, but her closest stash was nearly twenty kilometers away—she'd already used all the arrows stored at the shelter she'd led the prisoners to. She didn't have the time to get there and back. They didn't have the time.
Jane nocked the arrow and waited.
Slowly, her prey moved forward, following the Varren, his weapon trained and scanning in an arc. She had to hand it to him, he was doing a far better job than the others. But his dependence upon the Varren was to be his downfall.
These men were slavers. Soldiers. Not hunters. She couldn't blame them for their ignorance (and if she could, well, she had much better things to blame them for first). They were also fighting where she had the knowledge and advantage. The Varren was a good choice, but it relied on her not being prepared for it.
And prepared for it she was—the animal was leading his master to clothing she had discarded in order to set a trap.
If the Batarian was not alone, she would have been reluctant to engage him, but his arrogance would be his doom. She drew back the arrow, sighting the weapon at the left side of his neck, where the armor he wore was thinnest in order to allow the ability to turn the head.
With barely a whisper, she loosed the arrow, mechanically nocking and drawing another as her eyes tracked the first right into the Batarian's throat. Knowing her first target was now combat ineffective—pretty words for dead—she sighted the second arrow and loosed it, the Varren quickly joining its master in his death throes.
That was when everything went to hell.
She barely had the time to register the threat before pebble-sized tungsten shattered her perch, only her reflexes saving her as she landed on the ground with a pained huff, the air driven from her lungs.
Stupid, she cursed, shield wailing in her earpiece to alert her to its depletion, course some of them would have tactical cloaks.
Scrambling to her feet, she fought for breath, dropping the bow, snatching her rifle up, and ducking behind a tree —just in time to hear several more rounds hissing through where she had been, meatily impacting the tree.
She knew she was on limited time. The other Batarian was likely vectoring his comrades to her position. Jane had maybe minutes until she would be overwhelmed by the rest of whoever had been sent to capture or kill her.
Taking a deep breath, she spun around the tree, sighting her rifle down, only to dart back behind it when another fusillade ripped through her former position. Luckily, she had been able to ascertain his location from his fire. Thunder cracked the silence, echoing off the trees—the rain that had been a mere patter suddenly turned into a downpour.
"Now or never," she murmured, spinning the opposite direction, knowing perfectly well that it would place her at a further disadvantage as she would have to adjust to the difference in angles. But to go the other way would put her right in the cloaked bastard's sights.
Jane immediately flung herself behind another tree, tracking the fire from the corner of her eye as her shields screeched at her in warning again. She sprung out the moment the bullets stooped, aiming where she knew he would be in that moment. Her rifle barked, once, twice, a third time as she pulled the trigger, barely controlling the recoil of the weapon. She'd had it for three years and she still wasn't strong enough to spray and pray.
Not that she ever would in the first place.
She was rewarded with the fizzle of her target's cloak as it failed, the shattering of his shield, and then the wet thud of the last round impacting her victim. She didn't stop, firing twice more, marching each shot up his body until the last splintered his head and helmet both and he crumpled to the ground.
Unfortunately for her, however, that wasn't the end of her problems—the howl of a Varren caught her attention just in time for it to come leaping towards her. As she rolled out of the way, it slammed into the tree, teeth missing her head by inches. If they were releasing their Varren, then she didn't have time to dally. She fired a shot blindly backward, more out of instinct and anger than any hope it'd hit something, and ran.
Her breath came in gasping pants, audible to her even above the roar of the rain. Guided solely by memory, she jumped straight over a pair of roots thrust through the damp earth and rolled behind them, straining to listen to the chatter on her earphone.
There were at least, four, maybe five distinct voices, plus however many Varren they had. Maybe one or two. Likely no more. Varren were notoriously ill-behaved no matter what training was imposed upon them, and hunting Varren did not play well with others of their species because of the need to make them aggressive.
Grimacing slightly, she felt her shoulder, feeling a nasty gash running deep across the top. Looks like she was wrong about the Varren missing her, but she didn't have time to treat it. They weren't going to be as reckless with their trackers now. Even with thermal imaging, the rain would cause resolution issues—the Batarians couldn't afford to lose any more of their Varren, and they had to know it.
Digging her fingers into the loamy earth, she quickly pressed in dirt to staunch the bleeding, hissing through clenched teeth. It was going to be hell to treat later, but she needed to stop the bleeding now, or else she'd end up so weak over the next few hours that she wouldn't need to worry about treating it in the first place.
That done, she took stock of her rifle—it was already missing a quarter of its ammunition. One of the downsides of the gun was that while it fired a larger round in comparison to its peers, it was also hell on tungsten block that served as its ammunition. Normally she would have taken spares from her victims, but there hadn't been the time. Now she would have to be more cautious.
The only other weapon she had was the knife she always kept on her person.
A growl from above. Her head snapped up to see another Varren staring down on her, its slavering jaws only inches from her nose. Without a second thought, she drew and drove her knife into its neck and ripped, a screech escaping from the Varren that turned into a gurgle as its throat was torn open, bathing her in its blood. Her wounded shoulder seemed to scream in sympathy, and she spat a curse even John—her brother—would have been proud of.
The Varren flopped down beside her, and she ripped the knife out only to stab it again through its fish-like eye and into the brain, ocular fluid splashing over her. She had just ripped the knife out when a spray of rounds thudded into the roots she was using as shelter. They shuddered under the impacts, spraying her with soil.
Jane looked around, but quickly realized that there was really nowhere left to go—she was near a clearing in the forest, too large for her to traverse safely without getting gunned down. She could go left, where there were more trees, but that was uphill through muddy earth and rain-slick leaf cover. Too many things could go far too wrong. And the less said about going right the better.
If only she had more time, then it would have been much easier, but now she only had a choice to fight or die. The agony in her shoulder and the bone-deep exhaustion of the fight didn't matter. All she felt was determination.
Taking a deep breath, Jane dived back through the gap under the roots, coming to her feet as she raised her rifle, flicking the selective-fire button to the maximum round size. She pulled the trigger as soon as she acquired the faint silhouette of one of her attackers attempting to flank her from behind. The return fire converged on her position, depleting her shield far faster than she had expected. She dropped to the ground too late—a bullet slammed into her chest. Her clavicle shattered against the force.
She gasped, teeth clicking shut to cut it off so quickly she almost bit her tongue in half. She pulled herself—using her rifle as a crutch—back to her cover, wincing at the agony that was wracking her body. It was only luck that the hole wasn't on the same side as her rifle arm, so she could still fight. For a given value of fight.
It was now only a matter of time, she thought to herself, the crack of thunder booming but not doing enough to take away the comm chatter of the Batarians coming towards her, flush with the knowledge that she'd been hit. She couldn't understand them, of course, but she could hear the triumph in their voices.
Biting back an agonized cry when she tried to move her left arm, she briefly considered turning the rifle on herself, knowing full well what the Batarians would do to her once they got their claws on her. But she quickly discarded the impulse, determined to go down fighting until she had nothing left. She was not going to give them anything.
That meant one last ditch effort.
Willing what little strength she still had in her body, she braced her rifle, the gift from her best friend, against the roots, and rose up with it, using the cover to brace the gun against her good shoulder to aim. They had her dead to rights the moment she emerged—but she'd be damned if she didn't make them work for it.
It was just as she lined up her first—and perhaps last— shot that everything flashed to white, followed by a monumental crack that seemed to shake the whole world. Reflexively, she dropped back behind her cover, the white glare even there behind her closed eyes. Every hair on her body stood up on end.
The lightning that had landed not a hundred feet from her cleaved straight into a tree, igniting wood far older than the collective age of those beneath it. But it had awoken far more than just fire.
There was a reason the forests of Emrys was colloquially known as "The Wilderness". It was a warning to those who would venture out into them unprepared. On Emrys, the Wilderness was a symbol of untapped natural beauty—but it was also home to various predators and creatures of a like best describe as the stuff of nightmares for homo sapiens. Or most anything that wasn't Krogan.
Right now, however, those nightmares were mostly going to be Batarian.
Normally rather docile, what the Emrysian natives called the Drop Bear—the name apparently sourced from Australian folklore—was a creature that you certainly did not want to fuck with under any circumstances. Living in the multitude of trees that dominated the planet around the equator, they generally kept to themselves, chewing on bark, leaves, and the occasional insect. However, if they ever got too hungry, or too angry, they gleefully put the omni in omnivore—they'd launch themselves down from the canopy after anything that moved, all their lazy energy transformed into incredible violence at the hands of the sorts of paws you need to stab your way up trees older than human civilisation… and survive what lived at the top.
It was that unlucky (or lucky, depending upon who you ask) strike of lightning that introduced the Batarians to these shining examples of Emrysian fauna. The bolt sent the tree toppling over and caught it on quickly-extinguished fire to boot, disgorging its 'cuddly' occupants upon their unsuspecting prey, who were scrambling away from the falling tree.
Jane's vision hadn't fully returned by the time she heard the screams—with a start, she brought herself back up to watch as Emrys got its own revenge upon the Batarian invaders. Staring through her scope and watching as a Drop Bear dug its teeth into the neck of one of her Batarian pursuers was rather cathartic, even given the current situation. Sometimes seeing your enemies suffer just felt good.
She couldn't watch for too long, though.
She turned and limped away from the carnage as fast she could, thankful for the reprieve and maybe the opportunity to get to somewhere safe.
TIE
Commander David Anderson looked down with a grimace at the remains of the Batarian at his feet. Despite his disdain for the four-eyed bastards, he wouldn't wish to go out like this one, torn to shreds by a fucking 'drop bear' of all things. There were likely to be jokes about that from his men in the future. A darker part of him hoped they would get back to the Batarians.
When news had broke that Emrys was being attacked by Batarian raiding parties, Britannia had been swift in their response, sending a destroyer group to relieve the beleaguered colony. Unfortunately, the Batarians had been prepared, placing several freighters in the exit path of the Mass Relay in system and scuttling them. It was completely unexpected—the Britannian fleet had been quickly destroyed either through colliding with the ships upon returning to 'realspace', for want of a better word, or being forced to navigate a sometimes-literal minefield of debris, ordinance, and disguised Batarian ships, allowing the nominally outgunned slavers to take them out.
After that, bureaucracy interfered. While he wasn't privy to all of the details of it, the basic gist according to the rumor mill was that the Systems Alliance and Turian Hierarchy would not allow any major Britannian warships—the sort that could simply blow through the minefield and shrug off the Batarian's fire—through the relay network into the Traverse without proper authentication and paperwork. It made sense on the surface; you don't just let an antagonistic faction freely move their armies around if you can help it. The Alliance themselves were nominally held to the same restriction, they just had a much more expedient time getting that authentication.
In this specific situation, however? Every man and his dog knew why the Britannians wanted to move a battlefleet from Earth into the Traverse. Hell, if they had any ounce of, well, he supposed humanity was the wrong word, even the Turians guarding the Sol relay probably wanted to let the Britannians through. If there was one galactic constant, it was that nobody liked the Hegemony. But rules were rules were rules, and the Humiliation stood testament to how strictly the Hierarchy observed and enforced them.
No—it was a shitty situation all round, but that was galactic politics for you. It would have taken a week at the fastest, assuming nobody thought it was a good idea to obstruct the process (and he'd bet his second-best pistol there were slimeballs on every side willing to, probably hoping to make some money out of unstopping the wheels), for the Britannians to be let through. Most Batarian raids didn't last that long.
To no-one's surprise, Prime Minister Schneizel had involved himself personally in the efforts. To everyone's surprise, however, he hadn't lobbied the Hierarchy. He'd lobbied the Alliance, personally contacting Prime Minister Royse and beseeching her to relieve Emrys on humanitarian grounds. It was after that that the Systems Alliance Second Fleet, which had been undergoing exercises elsewhere in the Alliance's Traverse territory—and was thus immune to any restrictions on the relays—was issued with orders to relieve Elysium and render whatever aid they could.
In the three days that it took for Elysium to be relieved, it was immediately evident that they were too late to do anything but search for any survivors. Of the nearly fifty thousand inhabitants that had populated Emrys, less than five thousand remained.
The reason he was out here in the wilderness of the planet instead of back in the capital helping to process the refugees, however, was because of a group of survivors and the story they'd shared of a teenaged girl who had rescued them from a processing camp, hid them out here, and then led the Batarians away.
In any other circumstance, he would have written the nameless saviour off as a lost cause—the idea that a teenager would be able to survive a fight with Batarian irregulars was ludicrous. But his job was to recover any survivors, or at least their remains if possible, and by all accounts whoever they were, teenager or not, had been too heroic to be left to rot in this place. Thus, he had taken his squad and began tracking.
Which had led them to here.
"Boss," a voice called out. He stepped away from the grisly scene and walked over to where Sergeant Ignacio Gomes was standing by a wild tangle of roots.
"What you got, Gomes?" he asked, taking a look at the roots. It was like they'd been run through a mulcher. On the other side was a dead Varren, its carcass almost picked clean.
"Lot of small arms," he indicated, "our girl looks like she was using these roots for cover—fat lot of good it seemed to be doing. Batarians had her pinned down, likely sent Varren to keep her busy while they kept up the fire and worked to flank her."
Grunting in acknowledgement, he looked around, trying to figure out where the woman could have gone. None of this made any sense—the actions they had been able to discern prior to this point by weren't those of a survivor, but a soldier. She'd led them to this area…
"Any idea on where she could have gone?"
"Girl's a hunter," Gomes finally said, rubbing his jaw. "We found her bow and everything, and that's not to mention what she did to the four-eyes. Stalked 'em like deer. She has to have a hole that she could rabbit to if things got dicey. She likely wouldn't venture too far from it—too risky, both with the Bats and the local fauna. What's the local top look like, LT?"
Quickly, David brought up his omnitool and displayed a topographical map, Gomes leaned over to peer at it closely, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Then he brought up his finger and placed it right on a point in the holographic image.
"If I was her, and I was familiar with the area, I'd have a hole right around here. It's nice and defensible, and has a stream nearby. Probably why she put her fight up around here. If shit got hairy, she could disengage and disappear into that hole with them all chasing her the other way. Varren likely fucked that up, though, or one of the bastards with a cloak."
The point indicated was almost a kilometer away—taking one more look at it, David immediately commed in to command to inform them of his intentions.
"Anywhere else she could go?" he asked after he finished his report.
Gomes shook his head. "There are a few other places, but they aren't as good as that one. If your girl is hurt, like I think she must be, the freshwater stream would be good for any first aid she'd need. Even if she doesn't have a camp there, it's a good place to fall back to."
With a solemn nod, David began walking, Gomes falling in behind him along with the rest of his squad. It wasn't that long a journey, but they did have to be cautious—they had no idea what could be out there. The dead Batarians were indication enough that something went on, but there could very well be more, hiding out in a place like this. Let alone the damn fauna.
But soon enough, they arrived at the spot without a hint of trouble.
"Fan out," David commanded, "and keep your wits about you. She likely still believes the Batarians are here, so make sure to identify yourself if you encounter her."
With that said, he chose a direction and began moving, keeping a careful eye out for any sign that the subject of their search was here—or that humans weren't the only ones who'd realised this was a good spot to make a camp.
He was so focused on the search that he almost missed it. It was a soft sound, almost like the wind, yet unmistakable to a man of his experience. Turning to the side, he listened even more intently, tuning out everything except for what he wanted.
As if on demand, he was rewarded again by a soft groan.
David crept forward, noting now how he had almost walked by it. Situated between the shadows of a pair of trees was a canopy of leaves, more than wide and thick enough to protect anything beneath it from the elements, yet arranged in such a way that it was hard to differentiate from the natural underbrush at a cursory glance.
He stowed his rifle and drew his pistol—not ideal to use one-handed, no matter what the movies told you, but better than an Avenger—before slipping into the canopy and slowly drawing it to the side, gun trained on gloom inside.
Bingo. Even in the dim ambient light, he could see her regardless of the dull, dried blood and muck caking her form. Her red hair stood out from where she laid sprawled in the shadows, another moan of pain slipping from her lips. Replacing his pistol on his hip, he quickly strode into the hidey hole, taking in the… well, she was a teenaged girl, more fool him, and noting how one arm was still curled around her rifle—a Britannian Negotiator model if his eyes were not playing tricks. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
It wasn't important right now, regardless. David activated the lights on his helmet and took off a glove, placing the newly naked hand upon her damp forehead. She was burning up, likely from infection and blood loss. There was a nasty wound in her left collarbone. A bullet hole. And now that he looked closer, there were claw marks on the back of that same shoulder.
"Control, I need an immediate medevac upon my position," he commed, turning on his rescue beacon. The girl needed medical attention and she needed it yesterday—far more than what David's squad could provide.
Her eyes suddenly fluttered open, glassy and flinching away from the light as she blinked rapidly. She started struggling to her feet, but he held her down as gently as he could, making sure to avoid her injury.
"Easy. Easy. You're safe," he soothed, and after a moment she began to still, "medical is on its way here. I need you to stay with me. What's your name?"
"Jane," came a raspy voice. She was probably dehydrated too. Good God. Her eyes cleared slightly and the blinking stopped—now he clearly could see that they were a brilliant green.
"Jane. That's a good name. You got any others?"
"Shepard."
He froze, everything clicking together with startling clarity. No wonder he'd thought he'd recognised her. After all, he'd worked with the very woman she shared an uncanny resemblance with during his time upon the Agamemnon.
David didn't hesitate, flicking his omni-tool on and connecting the command line to the St. Helens, flagship of the Second Fleet. Within moments, a new voice filled his headset.
"What is it, David?" came a tired voice on the other line.
"I have a critical case that's going to be transferred to the St. Helens," he said; he could hear shuttle engines in the distance, probably the medevac's by the timbre. "Hannah, I'm pretty sure it's your daughter."