The star system was known to the humans as Theta Mu Lambda, and to the asari as a name that meant, roughly, The Gate of Mysterious Anticipation. The star here was of an unremarkable type. It had attracted no followers and to anyone's knowledge the entire system consisted of only that star and a whole lot of nothing. Why the protheans had seen fit to waste a precious relay here, no one knew. The relay led to the Citadel, as so many did, and this system was sometimes used as a staging area. As it was now.
A small contingent from the 63rd Scout had halted their patrol here: two wolf-packs of frigates, the cruiser Vladivostok, and a friendly survey vessel. There in space they waited with the stoic patience expected of them, though in the intervening time the marines of the Bannockburn had developed a crush on the survey vessel's comm officer, and begged their captain to hail the James Cook again.
When the Normandy blurred through the relay, a cheer went up through the command centers of the small patrol. The frigates immediately fell into formation and streamed by in a configuration of importance, but one of them slipped away from the others and came up for a closer look of its half-turian sibling.
The Normandy responded with a playful roll and then shot forward in a burst of speed. The Bannockburn rotated its thrusters. The race was on.
"--and, in any case, that is, I, oof!" Liara fell as they were filing into the airlock. Alenko, fortunately, caught her and put her right. "Oh, I have stepped on your foot, I am so sorry," she went on, lamely, feeling lame, in fact, as she tagged along with all the important and powerful-looking marines. "I was just hoping that you would, ah, that you would consider my offer and well I wouldn't take up any room at all, I promise I would bring my own food and, and--" Oh, goodness, they looked so forbidding with all their visors down, you couldn't see their faces at all! "--and well, if not, that's all right, I understand, I suppose, but perhaps I could message you and you could send pictures! I of course would answer any questions you have--"
"You remember what I said," the commander's voice came out thickly from the faceplate. "I'll decide on the Citadel. It's in your best interest to cooperate with C-Sec. Tell them everything."
"Well of course," Liara said. "I, well, I suppose this might be goodbye, then, if you change your mind, so, well, I am sorry for everything that happened on Eden Prime, and you, Williams, for your unit. You are such a brave man.. "
An annoyed sound came out of the white armor. "I'm a woman."
Liara almost whimpered. "I'm sorry, I can't tell," she said. "Er, about humans. I'm still learning. But thank you, ah, for rescuing me, and remember, if you have any questions.. "
One of the marines reached out suddenly and squeezed her hand, one of the younger ones she supposed, they had always been so nice to her, those young men. Garrus was making a sound of turian amusement.
"Commander, contacted the James Cook," Joker's voice came over the airlock's system. "Going to start airlock procedures. Link-up in five, boarding in ten."
He added, "Hey Alenko, you have to let me know what their captain looks like. Daaaaamn."
"All right," Shepard grunted. Only his eyes could be seen with the full faceplate on. His every breath hissed through the internal oxygen filter. "Vakarian, Liara, Alenko, good luck. Remember the rule of three and stick together, I don't care what C-Sec says. Don't let Liara out of your sight. Liara, don't go with anyone alone. If anything happens out there, don't try to get back to the docks. They'll expect you to do that and that elevator's a choke point anyway. Get out and go through the Wards instead, try to get to a safe place. Vakarian knows his way around. Stick together."
Garrus nodded firmly.
"Aye, commander," came Alenko's voice from his bizarre tech faceplate. So many little lights were fixed to it. He looked like some sort of wise insect.
"Ladies, gentlemen. Ladies mistaken for gentlemen. Pair up and prepare to get very cozy with your new friend. Breathe easy, don't panic. Don't freak out and keep your friend from freaking out. As for you, Poopsuit.. " The tone of his voice thawed out just so, and he clapped a hand on the quarian's shoulder. "You're with me. It'll be just like old times for you."
*******
It was barely the first hour of his shift and Yeshek Ortalna was ready to die. Formerly, when discouraged, dejected, or outright humiliated, he had often wished that the floor would swallow him whole, or that the keepers would pick him up and scurry him away who knows where.
Today, feeling particularly sorry for himself, he entertained the histrionic notions of ritual suicide, the kind you saw in turian period dramas-- the robes, the perfunctory death song, the calling and naming of the ancestors. Lo, my fathers, it is I, Yeshek Ortalna, and I have finally had enough of this shit..
At the moment he was standing behind his workstation, like everyone else, and he was enduring a blustering rant from his supervisor about the importance of today-- or tomorrow, or whenever the Normandy came in-- and how nobody better fuck it all up.
Residual instinct from his time in the service had Yeshek Ortalna braced with military bearing, but as the ranting, threats, and overtures to turian honor went on-- and on-- his leg started to ache. Three months ago he had been a dashing Patrol officer, or at least had seen himself that way, until his involvement in a nasty crash that left him with a compound fracture and the tedium of desk assignments.
When the unit head had run out of invective, threats, and backhanded appeals to cultural shame, Yeshek Ortalna sighed with relief.
Sinking back into his chair, he stared at his inbox, which coincidentally refreshed with yet another wave of messages clamoring for attention. At least five of them along the lines of "[all divisions] SECURITY MEASURES UPDATE!!!!" and one of them, "???how is my babby????" with an all too familiar sent-from line. Mother, please. I'm an officer in C-Sec now. Have been for years. A C-Sec officer..
Yeshek hooked a claw into his desk drawer and pulled just so. In this drawer he kept the two most important tools of his trade: his Haliat Armory pistol in Nathak Crimson... and a bottle of antacid.
He took this bottle now and, unnerved by its silence and light weight, he popped the top and turned it over his desk. Only a trace amount of gritty powder came out. Oh, not you too. Feeling betrayed, Yeshek took the bottle, glanced at the rubbish container by Votho's desk, aimed, and threw.
"Must you?" the salarian whined. "Not only did you miss, but I remind you, again, that these are perfectly recyclable."
Yeshek Ortalna sighed. If his mandibles could flex any wider, they would break off. "Sorry, Votho."
"As you undoubtedly saw in the memo that went around, the waste situation on the Citadel is not to be taken lightly, and if we all just tossed our garbage around as we pleased, we would be living in a giant trash heap in space, and furthermore, it is our duty as C-Sec officers to set a good example.. "
Ortalna eyed the other item in his open desk drawer.
At that moment, Avala Tanar stuck her head in the doorway and yelled, "Ho ho, we got one!"
Yeshek's inbox refreshed again. A message from Tela appeared, subject line, "re: about last night.. "
Fuck.
"I'm going on break," Yeshek announced to no one in particular. He took the pistol and strapped it on.
Despite the cramp in his thigh, he was still able to catch up with Avala Tanar, who had two cups of something in her hands. She was an on-again, off-again lab technician, pleasant, eager to help, bright but slightly scatterbrained. Whenever the C-Sec environment became too stifling for her, she tended to disappear for a couple of years on some tangent or another. Yeshek almost envied the asari their ability to just get away from it all for decades without repercussion. Almost. Each person has certain responsibilities.
"Heyyyy, Yeshi, did you hear?" she said, holding open the elevator with her rear end, of all things. Whatever happened to the natural asari dignity? It was his opinion that Avala was spending way too much time with the humans.
"You only yelled it into the whole room," he said. Once inside the confinement of the elevator it became impossible to mistake the identity of Avala's drinks. Ugh. Way too much time with the humans.
"I'm going down to see Kap Joru now, he probably has all the inside poop."
"I hate that smell."
Avala blinked. "What, poop?"
"Coffee," Yeshek growled, and the asari beamed a huge smile at him, like oh-ho, silly me.
"Anyway, he's a tech guy, a turian, he used to be part of Saren's team. I think he's turned himself in."
"Is that it?"
"Like I said, I'm going to go find out more. I was getting coffee when I heard about it. Ya know me, in the lab all day.. they don't tell us anything."
Yeshek sighed. "Probably a trap," he muttered.
Her expression softened. She reached out and touched a warm coffee cup to his shoulder. "Hey. Is everything all right?"
"Of course. Nightclub shootout. First human Spectre. Saren's spies everywhere. Asari commandos on the loose."
"Did Tela tell you that line about wanting to see other people?"
"Let's try this again. Asari commandos on the loose-- "
Avala cut in with, "She's a bitch, Yeshi. We all told you." Then she added, almost an afterthought, "I wouldn't worry about asari commandos. That rumor pops up everytime it gets wild here on the Citadel."
"Oh. So Saren Arterius can defy the best and brightest of quarian civilization at its zenith by controlling the geth, but it's just a little too out-there to think that Matriarch Benezia could still command the loyalty of her soldiers? Just crazy talk, right?"
Avala rolled her eyes. "Geth are robots, Yeshi. Asari are people with individual lives and thoughts. She may have been a matriarch, but she's completely trashed all of her teachings by acting out like this. Everybody knows now. The Council denounced her. She can't just make asari follow her with the snap of her fingers. We're not drones."
"Yes, but you also have the tendency to get sucked into irrational religious cults."
"Are you still whining about the office Christmas party? I thought it was cute.. "
"Not you you." Yeshek waved his hand. "I meant asari in general." That sounded bad. He put a hand to his eye ridge. "Have been known. There have been cases where asari get tangled up in weird cults and won't abandon their leader. I'm saying that Benezia could still command followers who believed she had a higher cause.. whatever it is."
Avala waved the coffee in her right hand. "All right, let's pretend. Benezia has a squad of soldiers who not only are among the most trained and dedicated in Council space.. they also decided to go all evil. For no apparent reason. Or no, for Saren's dumb reason. Hating the humies with their nasty biotic child soldiers and office Christmas parties... "
"Now that's not fair," Yeshek started, but Avala raised her coffee in a gesture that meant she wasn't finished.
"Soo.. the Citadel is crawling with evil asari commandos. Oh no. What to do?" Avala shrugged. "We have at least three Biotic Response Teams on standby, and we can call up more if needed. Asari commandos work best in stealth. The element of surprise. And in case you haven't noticed.. the Citadel isn't exactly the best place to hide. We've got cameras everywhere. Even if Benezia snuck a couple of henchmen in here, there'd be a full team of salarians in Comm all zoomed in on an asari commando picking her nose."
"They'll find a way."
"Take it easy." She smiled gently. "You can't let the stress get to you."
Their eyes met and Yeshek saw warmth in them. Old eyes, older than you would think from her quirky, energetic personality. He also noticed something else, and asked, "Did you draw on eyebrows?"
She bit her lip. "Do you like them?"
"You look.. surprised."
Avala took it in stride. "I'm still working on getting them right," she said. "I'm going to ask Eddie for help. His always look interesting. They move up and down when he talks."
"What's next? A loincloth? A spear?"
"Why do you have to be so stuck-up, Yeshi," Avala said. "Humans are so sweet, so affectionate. Little love monkeys. They're so fun."
"I didn't say they weren't any fun," Yeshek replied. It probably depended on your definition of fun, though he had to admit he enjoyed his and Cunningham's conversations from time to time. It happened that they both had worked in the same field while in military service. "I'm just saying that it seems silly to try and emulate them. You always buy into fads."
"Come now, Yeshi.. one of the best parts of being an asari is buying into the silly fads. I still embarrass my mother with pictures of her from centuries ago, when that dopy quarian robe-and-bangles thing was in style. It was awful. Just looking at that stuff makes me kind of understand how the geth worked themselves up into it.. "
At times Yeshek wondered how Avala Tanar earned a degree in forensics. Now was one of those times. He hoped the elevator would open soon and release him from this conversation. "You know, Avala, you're right," he said. "What's the point of worrying your way through life. I think I'll cut loose.. go wild. Paint myself a little pointy mustache. Hells, no-- I'll get some hair and glue it on."
"A perfect disguise!" Avala raised one of her coffee cups in a cheer. "You can bring down Saren's ring from the inside!"
"Oh boy. They'll make a Spectre out of me yet," Yeshek drawled.
The elevator dinged.
"Here's my stop," Avala said. "I'm going to go ply Kap Joru with coffee. He'll tell me everything." She smiled and leaned in to press her head against the turian's shoulder. Despite his low mood, Yeshek found himself laying a hand on her head, touching the ridges.
She said softly, "Hey, I know there's a lot of pressure right now, but times have been worse than these. I remember them. I'm an old lady, Yeshek." She pressed her head back against his hand, winked, and stepped grinning back out of the elevator. "Trust me. Nothing's going to happen to Shepard. We'll protect him."
"Well.. he's got Garrus now, doesn't he?" Yeshek felt vindicated when he saw Avala's oh-dear expression.
"His poor father," she laughed.
*******
C-Sec Officer Misha Cunningham stood for the last hour just within earshot of an Earth reporter. The woman had chosen to position herself in front of a statue on the half-level below, and was rehearsing her spiel, over and over, in between princessy bouts of bitching at her cameraman. She had that fake plastic look of too many cosmetic surgeries, gorgeous, yes, but Misha had seen greater natural beauty in the muddy, sweaty, tired faces of her sisters in arms back when she was in the Navy.
She was growing tired of the reporter's sing-songy voice, as it once again piped up to fray her nerves.
"Mindoir. Fifteen years ago. In one night the colonial dream shattered. Fire and smoke. In one night a boy became a man.. "
Oh, for Christ's sake.
The screen in Misha's tech visor showed, among other things, the current time; she had 45 minutes remaining in her shift. So far, so good, anyway. Better to be bored out here than to have anything happen.
Misha's task was to stand watch and to provide additional security to a checkpoint some distance ahead. She was set on one of the picturesque bridges in the Presidium, where, it was thought, she could control foot traffic. She thought she could also use the bridge railing for cover if it came to that.
The reporter went on again. Live now, maybe. Misha didn't see the point. So many other networks were locked into wall-to-wall coverage of a whole lot of nothing, so how could this one reporter hope to even be heard? She had nothing new to say. None of them did. The selection of the first human Spectre was as sudden as it was secretive. The Alliance Navy put out a brief Public Affairs notice and that was that. The rest was speculation, rumor, and innuendo. Reactions and complaints. The Chora's Den debacle was still fresh in people's minds, especially here on the Citadel, and it made good press.
Out of all the servicemen, they had to pick that one? She had long believed that Special Tactics could use a human, but she knew it would have to be someone with tact, respect for alien species, and discipline. An upstanding human C-Sec Officer, for instance. Not someone best known for reckless destruction and ruthless behavior. Not someone who got his guys killed. And not a biotic.
Looking ahead, she saw a problem materializing at the checkpoint. One of the skycars had descended from normal traffic and was attempting to come low through the Presidium. Officer Gorot Januk hailed the vehicle and as it came up to a stop, Misha saw it could be trouble. It was a small freighter-transport truck, small enough to comfortably truck a small Grizzly or a number of crates. It could be holding explosives.
Gorot Januk commed her and she left her post and annoying reporter behind. A turian friend and colleague had always told her that in a stop like this, the first few moments were critical. Be firm but don't be too aggressive. Be vigilant. Don't let them move their hands out of sight. They know their vehicle better than you do, if they've got anything hidden.
The driver was a black man in his forties or fifties, his expression open and friendly, his billowy shirt in bright colors. He came clambering down in easy cooperation, and Misha saw him pressing a hand to the small of his back-- a concealed weapon?-- but then, more reasonably, a bad back, judging now from his walk. Gorot Januk was watching his every move, but a loud thump snapped his attention away.
A passenger was coming down clunkily from the other side, a goofy young man with Mediterranean looks, a little hefty, probably college age and dressed in professional attire. He appeared very nervous and Misha saw his hands wringing and fluttering. Were they hiding something? Or was he just apprehensive about the stop?
The salarian officer began to question them. What's up? Jan isn't usually this bad..
Her Lancer swinging on her hip, Misha walked a circle around the vehicle. Misha's hardsuit readout identified the vehicle as belonging to a human transport company, one she saw now and again on the Citadel. They contracted out to human governments when they needed something moved.
"You speak to him," Gorot Januk told her, nodding to the driver. "My translator isn't picking him up very well." With this the salarian sidled away and began to make his own quick inspections of the vehicle.
Under her suspicious glare, the passenger blurted out that he was from AGeS and they were taking a shipment in from the James Cook. He had the manifest and everything. Don't shoot him. He was going to move his hands to bring up the omnitool. He had a message direct from the captain--
Here the driver laughed a deep and musical laugh, and the instant he opened his mouth, Misha understood why the salarian's translator was not making sense of his speech. Their identification showed them to be:
David Thailogg, 49, citizen Barbados, employed ALLITRAX Freight Company / Alliance Geological Services, with up-to-date licensing and a prior speeding violation dating back two years (resolved).
Robert Dupree-Uthman, 22, citizen Turkey and Canada, currently on student internship to Alliance Geological Services.
Misha's concerns melted away, though Gorot Januk insisted on inspecting every loose speck of dust in the back of the vehicle. Misha was left talking with the two humans, the uptight geology intern who flinched visibly every time he heard Gorot Januk bang or knock on the crates, and the kindly driver, "everyone calls me Davy," who gently assured her that he appreciated what they were doing, since such bad men were running around, and she must be so brave, "just look at you", a lovely looking woman, how could it possibly be she wasn't married, and somehow Misha was talked into taking off her visor-- just for a second-- so he could see her eyes.
By the time Gorot Januk came grumping back, Misha actually started to feel a little annoyed that the salarian had stopped these two, that kind man and that poor boy, who hadn't even done anything wrong. Gorot Januk was forced to let them go on their way, though it clearly pained him to do so. The young intern heaved a sigh of relief and just about jumped in through the window, but the driver took off his cap, thanked Gorot Januk, and then grabbed Misha's hands in his big paws and wished her well and God bless.
There was something about the twinkling eyes and magical voice that made her smile for a full thirty seconds until the vehicle disappeared.
Gorot Januk said, in his most grouchy tone, "I got a blip. I got a blip when the freighter flew down here."
Misha turned to look at him. Her momentary fit of idiocy was starting to dissolve. She should have been smarter than that, but no harm done. She wasn't convinced of Jan's latest foray into paranoia. Saren would never use humans anyway, and those two didn't look like mercs. "Are you sure it was from that vehicle?"
"Almost. That's why I requested it to stop here. And from the look of it. Could have been full of geth, or krogan. I've been seeing more krogan around here, you know. Krogan."
"Or explosives," Misha said. "I didn't get any blips when I went around it. Not one."
"That's because your combat scanner isn't as good as mine." Gorot Januk blinked. "I ordered mine out of pocket. It's custom."
Misha considered. "You didn't find anything when you went in there?"
"No. I opened two of the crates. Just packing material and rocks."
"Well. That boy was from the geological service."
Gorot Januk seemed agitated, disappointed, as though an explosion would have made him feel better about things. "I don't like it."
Misha smirked. "You don't like anything," she said.
*******
"It's not funny," Robert Uthman insisted. "This is important. Important business." He was leaning on the window, looking out of the vehicle, making sure. He had to make sure they weren't followed. Sweat was tickling the back of his neck. His forehead. He brushed the back of his hand over thick brows and frowned at the driver, who was smiling to himself.
Davy shook his head. "I was a young man once myself, believe it or not. You get yourself too excited. You have to be cool, my friend. A calm attitude will take you far in life."
Robert was afraid he might give it all away. Or maybe he had already. Maybe they knew. "I'm just a little stressed, all right?" Oh, God. That woman officer knew. Was it all right if she did? The salarian. You couldn't trust them..
Davy leaned back in his seat, piloting their freighter with one hand. You'd think he was on the beach with a cold drink. The man hadn't flinched with an assault rifle pointed his way. Or a jittery alien cop convinced they were up to something. "Look at you," he said. "What were they going to do? Take away your rocks? They're just rocks, nothing more. You've done no wrong, so why sweat like it, friend?"
"They're not just rocks," Robert blurted, and then he caught himself. "They're important specimens," he said softly, in a more measured tone. "Our probes find them and we study them to learn more about terrestrial worlds. For new colonies, maybe." So many people out here today. Another krogan. That makes two I've seen.. which looked just like that last one. The same one?
"Is that what interests you?" Davy asked, then. His deep voice was gentle now, calming, even. "Building the colonies? Or is it exploring?" Robert couldn't help but like the Caribbean accent. He didn't know much about Barbados, only that it had been held by the British, there were lots of coral reefs there, and everybody was crazy about cricket.
"A little of both," Robert answered. His chest felt tight, and he glanced back out the window again. "I, uh, I want to work in the field someday. After I graduate. I'd like to see the colonies, yeah. I mean. The future of the human race. Taking to the stars, all that."
"You must have worked hard to come here," Davy said, "with all the competition. It takes a special person to come all the way out here into space."
Robert shrugged. He thought of his father's disappointment, his mother's objections. "Yeah, well," he said. "No life. You know. Well.. " He began to drum his fingers on the dashboard. "It's what I wanted to do, and.."
Somehow, the young intern found himself roped into a conversation about life, the universe, and everything; twenty minutes went by and he had only thought about the cargo once, but it was soon enough put out of mind when he was asked to explain the commercial uses of the James Cook findings. Though the driver said little of himself, Robert was left with the impression of a kind man with a varied life experience. He was nodding when Robert digressed into remarks on the soil composition at the splinter colony on Yandoa, but the driver had been there once, laughed about the mud that will slurp a pair of boots right off your feet.
The freight truck reached the geological office before Robert knew it, and he realized, with relief, that they were all home free. Saren's henchmen hadn't jumped out and shot up the vehicle. C-Sec officers hadn't impounded them. Worse: Saren's C-Sec moles hadn't got ahold of them. Robert Dupree-Uthman was only riding escort with cargo from the James Cook, and that was that. If there were soldiers hanging around the AGeS HQ here on the Citadel, well then, that was because security was jumped up everywhere these days.
It looked like the driver was going to stick around for the fun. Heh. Was he going to be surprised.
Two of the soldiers were coming up now, and Davy triggered the hatch release in the back. AGeS personnel were appearing now, and old Dr. Rossi was starting to realize they were going to need more room in the cramped back-office delivery bay. Robert's fellow intern Becky was eating lunch out of a paper tray, some asari bread thing from the vendor down the way. While she chewed she raised her eyebrows up in an excited expression.
The driver had climbed down from the vehicle in the mean time, and when Robert saw him start to move old cargo to make room, the intern figured he had better say something. After some hesitation, he rounded the vehicle, stepped out of a soldier's way, and said, "Dr. Rossi, um, we're not going to open them now, right? They can wait, right?" He glanced at the driver, who was chatting with one of the soldiers. "You know, til we get the truck back out of here?" The driver had seemed so nice, but still. This serious stuff. You had to keep quiet who knew about it. Secret stuff-- N-class stuff.
"Hum malady node," Becky said, smugly, her mouth full of pita. Wha?
"He already knows," Dr. Rossi whispered.
Robert absorbed this a minute. "About the.. you know?"
"He knoooows." Dr. Rossi raised up his big black eyebrows. They were the dominant features of his long, thin face.
"Then why are we whispering?"
"I don't know. Because it is exciting." Dr. Rossi flashed a smile, and then he went stern. "Now what, don't you have things to move?"
With the assistance of a power loader, some of the crates were brought down out of the vehicle. Only the crates that were stacked on top of the others, Robert noted. These top crates contained exactly what he told C-Sec they contained. Rock samples and lots of padding. The crates on the bottom were much more interesting.
Robert glanced over to meet the driver's eye. So he knew the whole time. The easy humor had left the man's expression, and his face seemed much more closed. But when he saw Robert, he winked back at him before he punched out a sequence on his omnitool.
The crates responded with movement in the outer locking mechanisms. Popping, twisting sounds. Then the inner plates depressed and one of the soldiers removed the lids. After a moment or two, with everyone looking on in anticipation, the crates hatched out their unusual cargo.
Robert had to give them credit. Even though they had just spent some time cramped up in cargo crates, sucking suit oxygen, the Normandy marines came out of there like they meant business. With the full plates up, Robert couldn't make out any faces. The full-black hardsuits instantly assessed the situation, found their fellow soldiers, and stood ready. One of them stood out in scuffed white armor with pink detail, but somehow even that looked cool and deadly.
Then the last crate hatched out, and for a second, Robert nearly had a heart attack. Not from the sight of the Onyx armor of the First Human Spectre, but of the geth crammed in there with him. Others had the same reaction, weapons coming up, but a deep voice spoke with clear authority and a neutral, North American accdent: "Easy now, she's a quarian." The change in that voice made Robert look away from the marines, and he was shocked to see "Davy" in the process of unbuttoning his baggy, billowy outer shirt, which had hidden the firepower he wore on his body.
"Hey cap'n, what's with that big jolt back there," came the voice of the Spectre through the hissing respirator. "You hit a pedestrian or something? Tali's dad is gonna kill me as it is. My hand on the Bible, I had her in here for the jamming signal.."
The flashlight-headed thing clapped its hands over its flashlight.
With obvious relief, the Normandy squad started to disable their breathers and take off their helmets. The one in white stayed put, breathing steadily, as if half-expecting one of the other soldiers to start shooting. "Good work, everyone," David Anderson said, then. That David Anderson. If you melted down all his medals, you could pour him his own statue.
"Thank you, Robert," Captain Anderson told him kindly and specifically, like he even meant a speck of dust in this whole scheme of things, though the young intern was still too surprised to speak, "and you, Dr. Rossi, for allowing us to use your cargo and facility. I'm afraid our embassy is too obvious for this point in time. Men, the AGeS staff have been very gracious to us. Don't wear on their hospitality and be helpful if they need someone to move something. And Shepard.. " A note of humor crept into his deep firm voice. "Don't touch anything."
"They'll never even know we're here," the Onyx hardsuit said, with a hint of a smug asshole tone through the breather mask. "Cept for all the guns, grenades, and my chicken-leg alien."
*******
With the traditional words the Council adjourned for this cycle. All further arguments, deliberations, flatteries, requests, and sundry other demands would have to wait until the three again convened in the tower.
She was tired, the asari, as was he, the turian, though their amphibian compatriot was prepared to continue for so long as he desired. The salarians did not sleep. She sometimes envied the salarian ability to live in all the hours of the night, but she had seen them come and go across the decades. They lived so short a time. This morning, her mind in a fog, she had mistakenly called the salarian councillor by the name of his predecessor.
The councillor's entourage joined her in the unmarked shuttle that would take her home. They knew her well after all this time, and so, having read her face, they kept their conversation light and allowed her to retreat into her thoughts. Her mood was heavy and gazing out the viewport, she was unmoved by the sparkling beauty and sophistication of the Presidium below.
She was no stranger to the unpleasantry of Citadel business, and certainly no shrinking flower. She had seen the same problems again and again in the long centuries of her life: the same squabbles, the same disputes, only different faces, different races. Sometimes, when Ambassador Udina spoke, the years flew backward and she saw the old batarian ambassador in his stead, whose self-serving ways were nearly identical to his human counterpart.
But these were weird times, different times.
The councillor knew from time to time that a colony would fall, or it would fail, either in a dramatic end by pirates or hostiles or by disease or disinterest infecting its settlers.
She knew as well that Spectres could not live forever. Many died in the line of duty. Sometimes heroic, like the quarian Spectre Tanas'Ta, who made his last stand on the red moon of Khedradan, his great sacrifice now largely forgotten. Sometimes they died mundane, like the salarian Spectre Gol Nush Talla, claimed by an allergic reaction. Sometimes, though, sometimes they lived into retirement, like Ielran Rakeen, the old turian scout.
But to lose a colony to an agent of the Council? To lose a colony to machines?
To lose two Spectres at once, Nihlus and Saren, and at such a time when every one was needed? And even worse-- the potential to lose a third, and so soon after his induction?
And the discovery of a prothean beacon, long dormant, whose true message none of them would ever know. Even if she touched Shepard's mind, would she understand what she saw there? How could he even claim to understand? Even after millennia of day-to-day use of their artifacts, their mass relays, their Citadel, the best and brightest engineers had not progressed much further in understanding than the morning of the first discovery. The protheans were different. They were alien.
The councillor was sorry for Shepard, and she was a little afraid. Throughout history only a few could withstand the images from the prothean beacons. Many paid the price for the great asari discoveries. The great explorer Jumatha, about whom so many poems and songs were sung, who found a beacon deep in a cave. In an instant her vibrant personality was snuffed out, and she lived out two centuries wandering arcaded gardens, whimpering, crying, gently cared for by hushed servants, until she flung herself from the cliffs above white beaches. It was as though her spirit remained in that cave, deep in the hollows, forced from her body by whatever horrors she had seen in that beacon.
Privately, the Council had been assured by experts that while madness and derangement were common in those who interfaced with the beacons, the effect was usually instantaneous. Shepard seemed more or less his usual self. He was possessed of unusually strong will, though, was that not why Nihlus recommended him so highly?
Oh.. if only things had gone differently. Oh, Saren. How could you let your foolish hate consume you? Personal failings, vendettas, grudges-- those too were not new to her, in all the centuries of her life. But all of this together, all of these events were converging now in times more dangerous than she could remember. The situation was very delicate. A wrong move now could upset the balance.
Though painful, it was best to wait and see, and go with caution.
I cannot believe the geth have returned.
"We have arrived, my lady," came the rough voice of her driver. He was a turian, like most of her security detail. She found them exceedingly brave and loyal, though now they had cause to amuse her. As she was led gently down from the craft, one of them noticed that furniture had been moved on the rooftop garden below the landing pad.
"Anarinda's come home to us," the councillor said. "No need to worry. I doubt Saren's agents would find it necessary to sneak in and rearrange my little garden. Though if so-- I like what they've done with it."
Unsatisfied, or perhaps yearning for action, the turian security chief advanced to the doorway, positioned himself and his men, and went in. They returned in the presence of Anarinda, who walked an unhurried walk onto the courtyard with a paper lantern hanging from her hands.
"Mistress," she said softly.
The security chief grunted. "Can never be too sure," he said.
"Thought I smelled varren," one of the younger turians remarked. "That varren smell. Unmistakeable."
"That's just you," one of the others said. "Come on, then."
"Thank you, my friends," she said. They made respectful gestures to the councillor and returned to their duties. Anarinda was in the process of hanging the lantern now from the thin arm of an ornamental tree. She tapped its orb to make it light, and then stood erect, her hands folded just so.
The councillor smiled as she strode forth to meet her young aide. "You've only been back for twelve hours, and look at the little excitement you've caused."
Anarinda bowed her head. She had always been a quiet one, meek and reserved, though very intelligent. Always a good judge of character. She was dressed as usual in very modest clothing, earth-toned, with billowy sleeves down to her wrists and a skirt that rested on lightly slippered feet.
The councillor brushed her fingertips over the exposed cranial ridges. "You know I tease you," she said. "Let's go inside. You must tell me all about your holiday. I don't want to hear a word of politics. I only want to hear the wild tales of your exploits... "
*******
When the long robes of her office came off, the councillor felt an enormous weight lifted from her body. She leaned on the doorway in order to step out of her clothing, helped by her aide, who carefully drew up the robes to hang over her arm.
"I must admit you have surprised me," she said, standing, looking into the adjoining room of her apartments. Sparse and sleek, as how she liked it. A few plants that Anarinda had not yet come around to water. Usually she was good about the plants and little living things. "When we last spoke, you were still trying to decide whether you wanted to visit the Library Dome or the Meditation Gardens. And you went to the beach instead."
"I had not planned on it," Anarinda replied softly. "It just happened." She was stroking the robes with her fingertips, looking down on them. She swished away to hang them for later laundering.
"I hope you didn't wear that," the councillor said. "You don't look as though you got any sun at all." She held her bare arm close to Anarinda's when she returned, and playfully went to pull back the sleeve to try and compare skin tones.
Anarinda moved her arm away. Self-conscious as usual. "I don't tan," she said.
"As for me, if I even think about the sun, I turn purple all over," the councillor said. "Please tell me you enjoyed your little vacation?" Impishly, she added, "Did you meet anyone? You do realize that the point of a vacation is to have a little fun? At least one of us has to enjoy herself.. "
"I had time to think about things," Anarinda replied, carefully, as she drew her cool fingertips across the councillor's cheek. She moved away, though her hand slid down the councillor's arm to take her hand. "I think sometimes we all need to think about things. Life. To realize what is really important."
The councillor followed her barefoot into the room that held the sink and the tub, which she saw now that Anarinda had filled near to the brim. The councillor had not yet even touched the steaming water and a sigh escaped her lips. Then, she turned slowly to face that dear young one, and to lay her hands on Anarinda's head.
"I don't mean to mock you," she said, softly, then. A slight smile. "Only a little, but in good fun." She tapped her fingers. "What you do on your time is your business. But you know I want you to enjoy yourself."
She was rewarded with a small, faint smile from Anarinda. Sad, almost. "I understand now," Anarinda said. "I feel better."
The councillor lingered a moment, looking into her young aide's face. "Is there something you want to talk about?" she asked, and brushed her thumbs over the other asari's crest.
"No, mistress," Anarinda replied. "Unless you want to hear about pod crabs.. "
"Always!" The councillor held Anarinda's hand as she took a tentative step into the hot bath. "What was it like, then? Golden sands, or pink? Seashells everywhere?"
"Pod crabs, and white sands. Cliffs. And storms gathering far off out to sea.. " Anarinda's eyes were somewhere else, still back there, wherever it was.
The councillor sank dreamily into the water, and stretched her arms along the tub alcove's rim. "And what, anyway, is a pod crab?"
"An inconsequential creature. Doesn't matter." Anarinda stroked her hand across the councillor's forehead, and then all the way back to the end of the ridge.
The councillor captured her hand and held it gently. "You sound so tired, Anarinda," she said. "And so quiet, even for you."
"Everything is fine, mistress."
"I think you should go lie down a little. Your body is still adjusting. The Citadel schedule and these Presidium lights are enough to wear out anyone."
Anarinda persisted. As usual. "Everything's fine," she said.
"No it isn't," the councillor replied, gently. "I am perfectly capable of washing my own back." She smiled. "I am councillor and everything now, after all. After you've had a good long sleep, there will be plenty to talk about." And plenty for the poor girl to go research for her.
Anarinda bowed her head, and then she rose, and the councillor watched her retreating form. Poor thing, the councillor thought. She is such a sensitive soul. She feels too deeply. I am almost afraid to tell her what has been happening here in this last month. Saren. Nihlus. The matriarch! Doubtless she has heard on the news, but she wouldn't know the extent of it, how truly terrible a place we're in. The geth.. the Terminus Systems..
The councillor felt her heavy mood return, almost all at once. What was she to do with Shepard? She shut her eyes and let herself sink deeper into the tub, breathing in the smell of bath oils and clean, hot water.
Some time later, when her worries and the hot water had both dulled into something comfortable, she felt a change in the bath. The gentle waters rose up over her collarbone in a delicate swell. Anticipating something else entirely, the councillor and opened her eyes and started to smile.
Then she saw it.
The varren stood with its front paws in the tub, its ridged back hunched over, its body sleek, green-gray, and powerfuly muscled. Its long tongue curled over the edge of its snout, and then it licked its razor sharp teeth.
*******