Chapter Ten

This is my research. This is my goddamn research!

My mood had already been soured courtesy of Therum's atmosphere, and the ascent here. This discovery was the final straw.

Though I'd landed my ship by an overhang of rock, in the shade, I was still met by a blistering heat. Which wasn't helped by my deliberately circuitous route towards the facility, making sure the perimeter was clear. Up and over hills, I went, trying not to attract a coat of fine, red dust. Followed by a steep slope, on which I lost my footing - and nearly my temper - too many times to recall, before extending over the faux-mining facility's dull metal catwalks and down into the body of a large mound of rock. Inside had offered no respite either, with none of the conditioning systems left online after it was deserted. The lower I went, the hotter it had become until even breathing became hard.

For a moment, I'd found myself wishing Cerberus had picked more idyllic locations for top secret bases. Prothean ruins be damned. I was most certainly frazzled. I don't get frazzled. Thoughts of a hot shower and a bed I'd never find without risking a second visit to Nova Yekaterinburg, only served to torment me further.

Now, as I stood in a control room deep underground, staring at the copied data on my omni-tool, my blood was close to boiling.

During my time on the Lazarus Project, I had prototyped a few possible control chip designs for use in Shepard's rebuilt body. Given his previous run-ins with Cerberus, we had no guarantee he'd work with us, and I was loathe to see two years of work, and millions of credits, go to waste.

I'd been exploring all possible methods for interfacing with the synapses - which is no easy task - and came across journals mentioning nanites. Each one would be able to react to a control signal in vastly different ways but with a larger, unified result. Due to the extent of the reconstruction and the already existing application of nanites, I had considered incorporating this other type of model throughout the nervous system. Of course, with Shepard, there was no try, so I'd spent weeks running all the scenarios, conducting tests; everything I could to ensure it would be perfectly safe and viable.

I remember that private part of me expecting the Illusive Man to be proud; possibly going so far as to offer direct praise. Even if we weren't able to influence Shepard via manipulation of his senses and muscles, it could allow for a complete physical 'shutdown' if things got out of hand.

The disappointment - the embarrassment - when it was dismissed almost immediately as I'd presented it still lingered in the back of my mind. "Another failure, Miranda. Walk it off," had been my sentiment at the time. I was never any good at comforting even myself.

Though I'd had my doubts, the Illusive Man had made a good call. After seeing Shepard in action, I was convinced it had been a foolish idea. Technically, it was sound. Ethically? Not so much. I had treated Shepard more like a tool than a brilliant human being.

My heart sinks. Had I ever told him this? He'd seemed so distant when we last spoke and I wasn't exactly open with him. Instead I'd created this space between us. That's one more thing I need to 'rectify'. Another item on the list...

And though I'd left Cerberus, I couldn't help feeling responsible for this new development. Had my work led to this? Everything I'd contributed was being perverted. "We've made great progress, Miranda, and I know you'd love to see it," the Illusive Man had said. Little had I known my father must have been involved. Smart money says the Illusive Man was preparing to hand me over to him. Dead or alive.

After all those reports I'd sent - avenues for expansion, political schemes, suggestions on areas to infiltrate - and all those assets we'd secured, I was shorn of any gratitude. The only souvenir, a mind that knows too much and a million ways to tell it. Almost makes the base on Sanctum a fitting grave. One hell of a 'legacy' that is.

Once I know Oriana is away from harm, I have a lot of cleaning up to do.

In search of more information, I take an exit off into a connecting passage. The cavernous walls are close and oppressive, further emphasised by the relative darkness surrounding me. Every movement is echoed loudly, reducing the chance of a surprise attack, but my SMG's out, weaponlight already attached, just in case.

The whole facility possesses a disinfectant smell I recognise from before. Death had visited this place too. That much was certain.

After a while combing the place, I spy a datapad wedged under one of the walkways, between rock and steel; having fallen and been missed by the clean-up, I presume. Bringing my omni-tool's torch in for a better look, I access it and sift through the messages and notes.

Dr. Pace,

Rest assured, Dr. Armstrong has simply been transferred directly to the Phoenix Project's head site. Cerberus hopes you will remain committed to the same end and the Illusive Man thanks you for your continued efforts. We are on the cusp of something truly magnificent.

Phoenix Project? Is that was this whole enterprise is called? Another symbolic name - Cerberus was always fond of those - but it doesn't really tell me much about its purpose. And there's no mistaking the sinister implications. People aren't mysteriously transferred unless something is up.

As it happens, a shorter message, dated a couple of weeks ago, provides more insight and the possibility of a better lead.

Did you know about this? I got all excited when I heard Lawson was visiting. Turned out to be some grey-haired old man. Guess I should be glad we weren't chosen after all.

Sounds as if my father has been here, possibly cherry-picking or promoting some of the scientists. With the log of IFFs I've recovered from Sanctum and here, I can determine which ship was his and attempt to trace where it headed. The other possibility - and it's a long shot - is reaching an active facility and seeing if there's some way I can bring him to me. Even if I don't confront him, I could get a tracer on his shuttle and follow him right to Oriana.

Frankly, I'd take any excuse not to spend another second in this hell hole, and this is more than sufficient. I tuck the found datapad into my belt as I go.

As I emerge from the tunnel, I see a figure stood halfway across the bridge, blocking my path. Weapon raised, my eyes quickly adjust to the brighter environment. The featureless silhouette morphs into a shadow of a different kind: my Alliance one, known as 'John', a pistol held at his left hip like a rank amateur.

"You're in my way," I remark, coldly, my voice barely raised. A faint echo carries it the rest of the way.

"If I knew where you were headed it'd make that particular situation easier to avoid." Judging by his confidence, he thinks he has me trapped.

"Surely you're smart enough to guess on this occasion," I mock.

At this distance I can make out his amused smile, sitting handsomely. "Oh, Miss Lawson, I don't need to. I know exactly where you're going. And I'll be making sure you get there myself."

With teeth clenched, I issue my warning, "Not if I send you there first."

He laughs, at ease. "Expecting a death sentence so soon? Speaks volumes about your guilt, wouldn't you say? No, I'm bringing you in."

"We've gone over this..."

"True. I don't know how you eluded me before. I'd actually considered keeping you on a short leash, see where that took me, but it's pretty clear that you're too dangerous, too destructive. You have a nasty habit of erasing evidence."

And that says it all. I suspect he believes I was involved in the Citadel attack, and I can guess what he found on Sanctum: a pile of rubble. Cerberus must have detonated the base by remote, yet he thinks I'm the one performing some sort of scorched earth-type clean-up operation.

I'd rather not get Alliance blood on my hands, but I don't suppose I can talk my way out of this. Then again, that option was never on the table originally...

My shot is all lined up, ready. "You have no idea how wrong you are." If I can't talk my way out, perhaps I can talk him down.

"This is your final warning, Miss Lawson. Drop the weapon." He lifts his free hand and motions left and right with his finger. "I have a team of N7 marines in the hills surrounding us. Come peacefully or we will be forced to kill you." Figures. He has to be telling the truth, even he's not stupid enough to do this alone. There goes that plan.

As much as I loathe the idea, the next best option would be to take him hostage.

I slightly readjust my grip on the SMG while allowing myself a quick glance around at the landscape. I can't detect any lurking threats. Assuming this isn't a bluff, the idiot had left quite a distance between him and his men. No one's waiting at the other end of the walkway.

"I can still take you down first. Don't think I won't." My cynical mind pipes up, "Unless that's exactly what he's expecting me to try. Killed while resisting arrest..."

A red spot appears, wavering on my outstretched arm before leaping onto my chest. Without thinking, I twist and back away. The sniper's bullet smacks against the side of the bridge in a resounding thud.

As I turn, I catch the crimson glint of another laser sight stretching from a distant slope. I'm already diving to the floor, though it becomes clear that this one is not directed at me.

The shot strikes John in the back, sending him tumbling to the ground, his weapon falling from his grasp.

By now I'm backed in against the solid surface of the guardrail; my only form of cover. Inches overhead I can see two more red dots roaming along the wall, seeking out their quarry. These may not be the most proficient snipers but with that number I need to limit the amount I expose myself. No taking chances, not when another life depends on me.

The Alliance agent is face down on the floor, groaning his frustration. At least he's still breathing. That's a good sign.

I've got to act fast. Take command.

I shout instructions at John, memories of Shepard on Lazarus Station entering and exit my head in an instant, "Get into the wall on your right!"

Remaining prone, he struggles to drag himself over, using just his right arm while the other hangs limp. Evidently, the bullet got his left shoulder.

He's panicked and shouting at his team over the comm channel but I can tell he's not hearing a response, repeating himself a few times to no avail. The Cerberus hit squad, my other shadow, must have seized control of the ambush. I feel a pang of guilt for considering whether or not this could work in my favour.

Keeping low, I skitter over to John, holstering my gun and replacing it with a canister of medi-gel as I approach. I'm not exactly carrying these in abundance, he'd better appreciate that.

"Either you've brought the most inept squad of marines I've ever witnessed or Cerberus are on us."

"Us?" He closes his eyes, moaning in pain. "This is your doing."

I ignore his accusation and begin treating the wound, allowing the occasional check for any enemies who might be advancing on us. He holds his tongue for the moment; the only sound his wincing when I tilt him on his side to better inspect the harm done. While I don't miss his arrogant verbalising, it does nothing for my nerves.

Thankfully, the damage doesn't look too severe. It's not hit any major arteries or organs, or ricocheted and torn up his insides; the bullet travelled straight through. Given proper medical aid, he should make a full recovery. Getting him that would be the tricky part, of course.

In preparation for the next course of action, I fetch his dropped pistol and tuck it into my belt.

"I'm going to prop you up now, OK?" It was less a question, more a warning. Lifting him, even carefully, causes a round of agonised groaning and short, sharp breaths. Eventually, he's up, sitting uneasily. His staring eyes aren't exactly full of thanks. "Good. That's good. I've got to drag for you this next bit. Get ready to move."

I bring myself into a crouch and loop my left arm under his right one; not the most comfortable position but I'd like to avoid reaching around his whole chest, near that left shoulder. Arming my other hand, I begin the retreat while keeping one eye on that narrow approach. Those invisible swords could be moving in to finish the job.

Doing my best to ignore the pained cursing from John, the slog goes fairly smoothly. No more snipers announce their presence, and no one's daring to step foot on the bridge.

Back in the relative safety of the tunnel, I lean John against the wall and kneel down to his level, addressing him earnestly. "Look, you're going to have to trust me on this one. I'm not working with Cerberus. If anything, I'm against them. But I need space to operate or we wind up in situations like this. How's the arm now?" Feebly, he manages to bring it back up. Another good sign. Even better than I hoped. "Stay here, and call for back-up. I'll draw them off. Try and limit your movement until help arrives."

His face has gone pale, sweat beading his forehead. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."

He starts making an effort to get on his feet, but the weight and tension it adds onto his injured arm and shoulder becomes too much, causing him to collapse backwards, panting and huffing as he slides down the wall.

"You don't have a choice. You'll compromise me, and you'll get yourself killed." I reiterate more sternly, "Stay here, and call for back-up."

"You're going to walk out of here and blow the place sky-high. With me in it."

It's a good point. Well, observation. It probably wouldn't help to tell him that I have no control over that outcome.

"As much as I dislike you, that's not in my best interests. Besides, the blast might not reach you up here."

He smiles weakly, "That's reassuring." His dry humour has resurfaced, though not without a heavy dose of bitterness.

"I could knock you out and dump you down below if you'd prefer." Though I'd spoken lightly, his expression tells me any kind of banter is long past welcome. The bullet had shattered his cool if not his shoulder. "Can you hold a gun?"

Studying his hand as if unprompted, he opens and closes it a couple of times, his fingers slow and awkward. I pull his weapon from my belt and gently place it into his good palm.

He looks about as surprised as I expected. "Why-"

"Grip it with both hands, this time." I stand and talk down at him. "Here's what's happening: I'm going out there to keep them distracted until your Alliance buddies get here. And I'm trusting you not to shoot me in the back. Even if it's because we both know you might need those bullets. Frankly, in your condition I'd be surprised if you're able to reload."

Gun clamped in his hands, he manages to clumsily aim it out at the exit while his head rests against the wall at an awkward angle. Out of interest for my own safety I should be glad that it looks like he couldn't even hit an ocean on Kahje, but, truthfully, I'd hoped he could defend himself. He looks so helpless, slumped there, that I almost pity him.

"There ya go." I encourage him, trying not to sound too patronising if I can help it. "Given the circumstances, you're one lucky son of a bitch. I hope you know that." It's tempting to urge him to remain 'sanguine' but I manage to suppress that thought.

I don't stick around to see if my words meant anything. Though, as I make my way back into the fray, I can hear what sounds like a choked laugh in agreement before he starts requesting those Alliance troops. They'll make for a handy distraction initially, but then I have to make myself scarce.

No sooner have I stepped onto the bridge than I see a shape stalking down towards me, only a shimmer hinting at their presence. Gun held firm, I fire at it as rapidly as I can. The cloaked attacker staggers and loses their rhythm, falling after a few more rounds.

That cements my position for the time being. If they're bold enough to go on a full offensive, I can't abandon John. Not yet anyway.

In preparation for making my escape, I creep close to the other end of the bridge. Everywhere has gone deathly quiet in this windless climate. I brush matted hair away from my eyes and prepare to wait it out. The Alliance can't be too far away, as any Cerberus activity must demand an immediate response by now.

Squinting at what landscape is visible, I still can't spot anyone. Dozens of patches of heat haze pepper the hills, which is especially disconcerting as they so closely resemble the shimmer of the cloaked assassins. I could have done without another tense sprint away from danger...

For the superior stopping power I may need, I swap my SMG for a Carnifex pistol, berating myself for not having the foresight to procure a scope. Even on this sort of terrain, my aim should suffice.

What must have been twenty minutes, but felt like an hour, passes before I hear the fleet of Kodiak shuttles descending upon the area. Faint shouts come from the Cerberus troops all around, they know they're in for a fight and have no intention of backing down.

I look back at John, stuck in that same pose, and nod politely. Off to my left, the distant exchange of gunfire commences.

On that cue, I leap from my shelter and charge out onto the rocky surface and plot a course that takes me towards the battle. At least in that direction the forces will be drawn off, distracted.

A shot whizzes past me, landing in a cloud of dust a few feet ahead. Confident my shields should protect against at least one round, I don't let that affect the tenacity of my sprint.

The Cerberus troops, once concealed, are obvious now. Their paths towards the new aggressors, remaining as trailing streaks in the dirt. Scars all across the wasteland.

Then I reach that steep slope I'd struggled up in getting here, stretching down what must be at least two hundred feet. No use considering it, Miranda, just go.

And so I went, tucking my gun away before throwing myself over the edge. Rocks scrape at my forearms and elbows, as I try to steady my descent. By this point, looking up is futile. If anyone's given chase, I can't defend myself. I'm an easy target.

That knowledge hastens my progress, perhaps too much. About two-thirds of the way down, a tricky adjustment in direction sets me off-kilter. I try to slow my movement but the ground crumbles beneath one of my feet and I slam back against the harsh stone, a jagged edge jamming inbetween my shoulder blades, before tumbling down the rest of the way.

Fortunately, I'm left with nothing but bruises, grazes and an odd sense of freedom. Allowing myself to remain on the floor for a minute as I regain my breath, the conflict feels a million miles away.

I manage to haul my aching body the rest of the way without incident; my head swimming with concerns, John's fate only one of many. Too much had happened, it was a lot to absorb right now

Catching my reflection on the ship, I involuntarily let out a dry, exhausted laugh. My clothes are caked in a fine, red powder, with dark smears across the arms and legs, and grit clings to my hair. Guess I was never going to get away clean...

A/N: This chapter took ages and I rejigged a few critical elements as it went. Hopefully it all slotted together well...

As usual, keep the comments and feedback coming in. It's all useful. Perhaps let me know how you feel about the direction of the story, as that's my main concern. Thanks for reading!

Credit to 'Drussius' for the oceans/Kahje expression. If you're interested, he has his own story, featuring a crew of original characters, with an appearance by a certain goddamn merc. It's sort of Firefly-esque, and set during the beginning of the Reaper invasion, though with a lot of flashbacks and character-building. Just search for 'Mass Effect: Event Horizon' and you should find it.