Chapter 11 — Acids and Bases

Detective T'Reon wasn't in a position to realise it at the time, but it was an unnerving scene that was in the process of repeating itself throughout asari space: the harassed sergeant in charge of her Ready Reserve unit had barely registered her report of having her arrest preëmpted by a Spectre, instead hustling her onto yet another ropey old issue shuttle to arrest another bewildered scientist on the other side of the planet, and now she sat across the table from the girl — pretty thing if you liked the intellectual type — and her lawyer. Busy day, but basically business as usual, except that the door had just opened.

"Do you mind?" T'Reon said to the newcomer with no little asperity. Long serving cops weren't conscious of seeing the signs reading 'DO NOT ENTER INTERVIEW ROOM WHEN LIGHT IS ON,' but they didn't need to be: they still followed the rule.

"My name is Eilat. I am a justicar." The newcomer spoke evenly and kept her face expressionless — Do they get lessons in doing that? T'Reon wondered — taking up station against the wall of the interview room, not leaning on it in an attitude of relaxation, or leaning forward in eagerness, just… standing there. "Carry on," she added as everyone else in the room paused and stared at her.

"Fine," T'Reon thought. She wasn't above finding the odd way to gold-plate her pension, but she'd learned the secret centuries before: you don't have to be bent all the time. In fact, having someone else in the room to unnerve the suspect for her was just fine. She gave the hapless nerd a big smile, and led off with an open-ended question, just like the textbook called for:

"Right, doctor: would you please describe the nature of your current research, in your own words?"

Halina held her hands in the small of her back and walked down the front of the line of students, doing her best Instructor Face as they went through their drills and she inspected their form minutely. She paused, wordlessly making a minute adjustment to the angle of a student's arm, then — since he seemed to be a nervous type — giving the lad a reassuring nod and the ghost of a grin as he got the movement right. She remembered standing in similar ranks, both as a budding martial artist and as a midshipman, and she let the grin get a little wider as she did what she knew full well was the most unnerving part, walking down the back of the line. How am I doing, sergeant-major? The grin died a-borning as the thought of the Villa crossed her mind: it was too soon, she scolded herself firmly, to conclude that it had all been for nothing.

The sound of the door opening provided a welcome distraction from that particular line of thought. Halina kept a critical eye on her students: she would be ashamed to call herself even an ex-Infiltrator if she needed to look to count how many people were entering the gym. She recognised the tread of Coach in his bare feet, and six or seven strangers, presumably new students. She looked up and watched him settle the newcomers into the seats down the side wall, and faded back as he took over the class. They shared a nod as he tried his very best to find one or two flaws she might have missed, and failed.

"OK, folks, relax." The students tried not to show how heavily they needed to breathe; Nobody so much as thought of leaning forward. "As you can see, we have visitors: these fine folks are thinking of joining us, so if some of you can stick around and tell them this is the best school in the world, that would be great. If you can't, that's fine, but I'd like to point out that I do know where you live."

The students gave a dutiful laugh, and Coach beckoned Halina over to join him talking to the newcomers. On the way over she sized them up. Two were kids, and since Coach took that class, she paid them no more mind. The other two were both men: one was white-haired and stocky, likely in his nineties, but moving freely, with sallow skin and a seemingly permanent smile, and the other was a lanky twenty-something walking what he evidently thought was the walk. I'm guessing a lifer taking up a new style and Mr. I-Wanna-Be-A-Badass, but let's see, she thought.

"Guys, this is Halina Stark." The older man's eyes seemed to light up as Coach pronounced her first name, "my assistant instructor. She's rated 6th dan, so get in quick before she goes and starts her own school! Halina, meet Mickey and Miles."

The younger man made a sour face and opened his mouth to speak, but the older one, who was now positively grinning, spoke over him, and his accent was achingly familiar.

"Well, you can sign me up right now, if I can learn from a fellow Pole!" Halina smiled back at him as she noticed that her translator was idle: he might be a Pole, but he clearly spoke fluent English. "I only go by 'Mickey' because nobody seems to be able to pronounce 'Mickiewicz'."

Scenting a sales opportunity, Coach added some more inducement: "And didn't you say you were a Marine, Mickey? Halina's an Academy graduate; in fact she's just come home from the Corps."

Halina rolled her eyes, feeling an irresistible urge to moderate the flow of marketing: "Just got home from quitting the Corps."

"Hey, this is America, lieutenant?" He made the rank a question, and Halina nodded. "Don't you say 'there are no former Marines' here?"

"And Halina was Special Forces, too," Coach insisted, giving her a look that clearly warned her that she could bloody well keep her modesty out of his business." Didn't you say Sergeant-Major Williams" — he stressed the name — "made you a hand-to-hand instructor?" She made a gesture that was half-nod, half-shrug.

"Halina takes a lot of our classes for adults," Coach explained, turning to address the kids and their parents as well, "so why don't you go guys go with her for your trial session, while I show you fine folks what you're letting yourselves in for!" He gave a semi-maniacal grin and eye-waggle that earned a nervous laugh from at least some of the kids. Halina could remember taking him pretty much literally at their age, but clearly it worked for him.

"All right," she said. "If you'll just step over here, Mickey and… Miles, was it?"

"Call me Kaufman."

"Rana, Rana… Do you realise where we are?" The words tumbled out of Therrin in a breathless flood.

Rana closed her eyes for a beat, then answered, speaking slowly: "Yes, Therrin, we are on the Normandy, the ship Councillor Shepard commanded during the war…"

"No, that's not what I mean." Therrin had started making a gesture she had learned to interpret as salarian impatience as soon as she pronounced the word 'Normandy.' "This is the medical bay." He stared at her and looked impatient as it became clear that the significance escaped her. "Mordin Solus worked here! The cure for the krogan genophage was developed here!"

Rana started to smile at his enthusiasm, but she was distracted and for a moment her face bore a ludicrous expression born of indecision as EDI appeared on a console at the edge of her vision.

"Excuse me for interrupting, doctor, but Captain Martis would like to speak with you in the conference room."

"You… you're EDI!" Therrin spluttered.

"Yes, I am."

"Not now, Therrin," Rana told him. "Please tell the captain we'll be right there."

"I'm still not sure I approve of this… ruse," the abbess said. "But our order has an amicable relationship with the Justicar Order," she went on forthrightly, before taking on an inward expression suddenly. She quirked her lips ruefully, before taking on an inward expression suddenly. She quirked her lips ruefully, continuing: "…and under the gimlet eye of a certain justicar we both know, I find myself agreeing to many things I'm not sure I approve of."

Neela pretended not to notice the abbess' discomfiture as she evidently regretted saying so much. She concentrated on looking appropriately demure and respectful, which was difficult as the abbess' parlour reminded her of nothing so much as the headmistress' office, and if she'd been demure and respectful at school she wouldn't remember it well enough to make the comparison.

The abbess gave her a look. "Do you understand that within these walls only you and I know you are anything other than an ordinary postulant? To everyone from the prioress on down you are simply Sister Neela, and will be required to observe all the traditions of the Order's Rule: obedience, temperance and moderation in speech." Suddenly the corners of her mouth twitched, and her tone of voice suddently lost a great deal of its severity. "Since speaking at great length, and making a disobedient, intemperate nuisance of yourself seems to be how you get your living, I thought I'd better ask."

"No problem, my lady… uh, Mother."

The abbess smiled at the uncertain way Neela spoke the unfamiliar title. "Good," she told her. "See the sub-prioress. She'll get you settled in."

"What was your rating?"

Kaufman had obviously been brooding over something: Halina had seen him looking her up and down doubtfully every time she passed in front of the two prospective students as they drilled. Now that he'd hatched it, she was glad it turned out to be curiosity about her career, at least compared to the come-on she'd feared. Still, Coach was busy with the kids, so there was no need to be too obligiing.

"Watch the arm," she told him, keeping an eye on it until he tightened up the move that had been getting sloppy, then answering the question: "N4."

"What happened? You wash out?"

Halina felt like kicking herself; sure, she remembered she was supposed to be on a covert assignment but only after he'd seen her desire to tell him where to go written all over her face. She squelched it, shrugged, and replied in character: "I was RTU'ed, sure. But if I hadn't been, I'd have quit anyway." She remembered her overt job, and spoke with purpose. "All right, you can stop." She smiled as winningly as possible, mainly at Mickey. "And that's pretty much how our classes go. When Coach is done he'll take you through the paperwork if you're interested." She nodded firmly and walked off, but not too far: she stayed in the gym and busied herself ostentatiously tidying up. She made sure not to look up, but… yes, there it was: she heard Kaufman walking over to her. He was either trying to recruit her, or just clueless and incapable of taking a hint.

"Seriously: how come you quit?"

She looked up as though she was surprised, and looked down again, addressing her answer to the crash mats as she stacked them: "I guess it just wasn't what I thought it would be." She paused, and just before he could prompt her to go on, she elaborated: "You know the Alliance doesn't train against turian tactics any more? I mean, OK, maybe we can't ask the turians themselves to play OpFor: that's politics, but we don't even run exercises where our own people play turian. They're our Council allies." She fairly spat the word 'Council' out, "as it is, was — at least as long as any politician can remember — and ever shall be. Amen."

"From the look of things," Kaufman observed in a surprisingly mild tone, "maybe we ought to be exercising against asari tactics."

"Heh," Halina grunted. "That'd be right." She paused, looked up appraisingly as though she suspected Kaufman might harbour hidden depths, and favoured him with a winning smile all to himself — privately wishing it were possible to choose between being winning as a spy and as a woman. "Well, what do you say? Will we be seeing you back for weekly lessons?"

Kaufman smirked. "Maybe."

"Dr. Viridon, Dr. Therrin, thank you for coming so promptly." To Garrus' great private amusement, Coranin's voice was as gentle in its expression of the courtesies as he had ever heard it, and he spared no more than a glance for Therrin, his eyes holding Rana's as she spoke. Rana, for her part, seemed to accept the attention as no more than her due. Asari, Garrus thought, and tried not to shake his head. Coranin gestured the two scientists to their seats and went on speaking:

"First things first: how are you settling in? The one thing we're not short of is living space, but do you have everything you need to continue your research?"

"We do," Rana confirmed, and Therrin nodded.

"Good." Coranin looked down as he chose his words for the next question: "ah, can you give me an idea of how much progress you've made… How long it will be until…"

"Those police officers stole our data…" Therrin began in a tone of infinite indignation, but Rana interrupted him: "…but we had a lot of it on our omni-tools, and for the rest, well…" she cut her eyes left at Therrin, and smiled: "…salarians do have photographic memories." The two turians nodded, and Rana let the smile fade as she phrased her answer to Coranin's question: "As for our progress, I'm confident we're on the right track, but this isn't exactly the sort of thing you can schedule. We might have a treatment ready for in vivo trials inside a week, or we might know it's going to be at least another year by then. It depends, not just on finding answers, but on finding the right questions."

"But you are sure, or at least fairly sure, that you're on the right track?"

Rana and Therrin looked at each other, visibly decided that they couldn't give a detailed answer to anyone without the right advanced degree, and settled for a simple "Yes."

"Very good." Coranin nodded, taking their word for it. "That opens up some options for our next move. You see, I've received some reports that mean we may know where the asari government is keeping the original research you're trying to re-create. Guarded by a sizeable chunk of the Republics' navy, I might add; Mr. Vakarian and I were just going over ways we might run a raid to secure the data. Against those odds… let's just say I'm glad you're here."

"On that point, captain: can you tell me exactly what you plan to do with the data, assuming we manage to re-create it?"

There was a challenge in Rana's eyes as she looked straight into Coranin's, and the captain lifted his chin in a very turian gesture of respect as he answered:

"I have been persuaded," he began, grimacing oddly, "that our only chance of peace lies in making the data public. That's my mission," he went on, holding Rana's gaze and letting his voice drop to an urgent near-whisper. "That's the mission of every Spectre: preserving the galactic peace."

Rana shared a look with Therrin, and nodded their satisfaction with the arrangements. Seeing their acquiescence, Coranin went on in a lighter tone:

"And since we can hope to have the data available to make public in the near future, all we have to do to preserve the peace in the meantime is keep anyone else from making the kind of raid we were thinking of, since anyone but a Spectre doing it might well start a war."

There was a palpable silence in the room as everyone absorbed the full implications of what he had said: if the data was guarded by the fleet, then anyone raiding it would surely need a fleet of their own… Rather than confront the prospect head-on, Rana opened her mouth to raise an all-too-relevant side issue:

"Er, captain, you do realise neither of us is a medical doctor? I know some first aid, but it's mostly asari first aid…"

"And I'm the closest thing you have to a chief engineer," Garrus pointed out airily so that Rana wouldn't be alone in her discomfiture.

"Quite: we have a frigate that people called 'cutting-edge'… fifty years ago, a crew of five, only two of whom have any military training, and only four of whom have, erm, bodies." He eyed EDI's interface with a moment's embarrassment, but she made no comment, and he carefully did not add …and if anyone protests what we do to the Council my career as a Spectre is over, as like as not. "But," he went on brightly, "we will achieve great things in spite of our difficulties by keeping a positive attitude. EDI, would you bring up the display of the Vernio system? Thank you. Now, if anyone has any suggestions as to what we can accomplish here," he flicked a casual talon at the holographic display, with its flashing icons representing the two dozen fleet units that Liara's reports had referred to. "The floor is open."

"Excuse me?" Halina's heart leapt and her saucy grin got even wider as she looked up into the man's eyes and saw that he was completely taken aback. She'd been right, she thought smugly. "Mind telling me what you're following me for?" She added, making his consternation complete. The fact that he was a foot taller than her and wider by about as much through the shoulders bothered her not at all.

"Heh." A mirthless snort was the first intimation that anyone was standing in the shadowed doorway. "Not bad, Stark."

"Kaufman," she acknowledged, and as he stepped into the glow of the street-light she heard two sets of purposeful footsteps coming from the way she'd been walking home. She cursed herself for not noticing that he was there, and for letting herself lapse into regular habits just because she was on her home ground, but fought not to show any sign of it as she looked 'round. Two more men, local muscle by the look of them, and not well-trained. She snorted mirthlessly in her turn. "What is this, a dick attack?"

That smirk was starting to get on her nerves. After a beat, Kaufman looked one of the heavies in the eye: "You can go," he told them, and when the least stupid among them hesitated, he spoke impatiently: "You'll get paid: go to the usual place. Now piss off." He turned back to Halina as the toughs slouched away and brusquely told her "Come with me."

"Why should I?" was her robust rejoinder.

"All right, don't. 'S'no skin off my ass, but a friend of mine wants to meet you. Job offer. Someone with your background who's got no time for aliens."

You're not making this easy, Halina thought. Halina the highly unofficial infiltration agent ought to jump at an approach like that, but Halina the disgruntled veteran, or any Halina who wasn't on a mission for that matter, ought to tell him where he could stick his friend and their job offer, and if she didn't she was sure she'd look like an obvious coat-trailer. Still, here went nothing: "Lead the way," she told him as sarcastically as she could manage.

"Disengage the stealth systems," Coranin ordered, climbing out of the helmsman's seat so he could address himself to any communications like a captain. He was grimly amused at the way EDI immediately complied with his order: he suspected that any human officer would have questioned it, and he knew one or two turian officers who would, though none of them had lasted long under his command. In this circumstance, he would have grudgingly admitted that it was only natural: the Normandy had shadowed the salarian merchant ship as it had limped into the system, showing obvious — perhaps too obvious? — signs of damage, and monitored its message traffic as it parleyed with the asari fleet units, making ingenious excuses why it had to dock with the research station, rather than accept aid from any of the warships or their train. By now they were in amongst the asari task force, and the asari admiral would have to either grant the salarians' request or… not. EDI had managed their emissions so perfectly that he was reasonably sure no-one had any idea they were there, so Coranin had to admit that cutting stealth under ordinary circumstances would be the last order any officer would expect.

"Multiple IFF challenges received and answered, captain." EDI paused. "All ships have identified us as friendly." And with friends like these… Coranin thought. "The asari flagship is hailing us." EDI informed him.

"Put her on."

"Who the bloody hell are you, sir?" The lines that seamed the asari admiral's face were deepened by a pugnacious frown.

"Captain Coranin Martis, Citadel Special Tactics and Reconnaissance. And you, admiral…?"

"Hassanen. Matriarch Hassanen, N.A.R." As it dawned on the asari that Coranin, as a Spectre, was entitled to be in the system, if that was what he wanted, she abandoned pugnacity in favour of a tone of heavy irony: "May one enquire as to what brings you to the Vernio system, Captain Martis?"

"Council business," Coranin lied.

Lady Hassanen smiled tightly. "That's as polite a way of saying 'no' as any I've ever heard." When Coranin made no further remark, she made to dismiss him mentally and verbally. "Well, captain, I have a ship in distress to see to, so unless you need anything from me…"

"Yes, so I saw," Coranin agreed genially. "Is it one of Admiral Luchen's colliers?"

The admiral's gaze snapped back around to her screen: "Admiral who?"

"Admiral Luchen," Coranin repeated as though he were certain Lady Hassanen had simply misheard. "The C.O. of the salarian squadron on station… well, just outside your sensor range, now that I think about it."

"By the Goddess!" Lady Hassanen snapped, and turned to her staff: "Bring the task force to full battle readiness!"

"Quite right," Coranin's expression radiated approval. "Never lose an opportunity to keep the crew sharp, that's what I say." He paused as the asari admiral eyed him furiously, her face turning purple with all the things it would be highly imprudent for her to say. He couldn't resist twisting her tail just a little more: "I'd be glad to serve as umpire for your exercise, if you'd like."

And so it proved. The STG infiltration ship, robbed of its fleet support's element of surprise and faced with the prospect of having their every move observed by a representative of the Council, swiftly decided that the asari fleet train might well be able to effect the repairs it 'needed' after all, and made a discreet exit as soon as they were done lest the Spectre in-system take it into his head to board them. Coranin meanwhile carried an invitation from Lady Hassanen, who had accepted his suggestion to save face, to Admiral Luchen, and settled in to referee several days of zestful and spirited, but above all simulated warfare between the two forces, seeing fair play not only in space, but at the dinners and courtesy visits to which the officers of both navies were invited, but determinedly missing all opportunities to invite anyone aboard the Normandy, or to give his crew a change of scene.

Kaufman's friend was visibly getting on in years, but still startlingly good-looking, Halina couldn't keep herself from noticing. It took no prodigies of imagination to lift the cobwebbing of fine wrinkles from the pale skin of her face, and unthread the silver from the mahogany hair that contrasted with it so vividly, and so determine that in her prime she must have been downright stunning, even if she had wanted for personality, which the appraising glint in her violet eyes rather suggested that she did not. She held out a hand.

"Miranda Lawson," she introduced herself. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Stark."