Time … what is time to an Immortal? To a Reaper? Is it like money to a billionaire? A way to keep score? Is it anything more than an abstract concept?
Among all the paths my research has led me, the best insight I have on this subject is from my dearest ... friend… Serena, the former Council Ambassador to the Alliance. As an asari, her lifespan will exceed mine by a good two centuries at least; she has witnessed at least four centuries before I was born. Or so I surmise; it is poor manners to ask a lady her age, after all.
According to Serena, the asari perceive time as just another resource, a series of experiences not yet known. Days or weeks are to be cherished, but not mourned. Years and decades are spent carefully, but not in a miserly fashion, although I can see how one could adopt that approach.
The concept of time is essential for a true understanding of history. As an example, the Reaper War can be said to have begun on Eden Prime. A sneak attack, if you will, on an unsuspecting target. This is a completely true statement, but the man seen as the face of the War was not born in that time. He fell into that situation fully trained, intelligent, and prepared for war like no human before him.
His story begins earlier, just after the attack on a colony world known as Mindoir. That attack waspart and parcelof the late portions of the Hegemony conflict, before the problems we all know occurred. The story could be told in two parts, if kept as simple as possible. Sometimes, less is more.
Notes from Dr. Pavenmeyer's logs
~Project Ragnarök Files
December 7, 2171
Arcturus Station
N7 Reserve Center
Tablets lined the counter; colored, transparent rectangles that encapsulated a man's life. All the achievements of a young man's life, reduced to a single row of data strips.
Behind the counter, a stretch of highly expensive glass separated the interior of the Arcturus station from the cold guaranteed death of deep space. Normally, space stations never had windows, except for small sections less than three feet across. The Arcturus station, however, was more than a station; it was a symbol of the Alliance, a demonstration of the industrial, financial and military strength of humanity.
If the colonies and homeworld planets of the Alliance were gems of a crown, Arcturus was the centerpiece. Its deep red supergiant was late in its lifespan, but still functional for a long time to come, likely long after the Alliance ceased to exist.
Four Relays, two primary and two secondary, circled that star, ensuring a steady stream of traffic from the far edges of human space. Cargo haulers bringing payloads through the system, en route to others, passenger cruisers dedicated to touring the civilized portions of the galaxy, and enormous quantities of civilian traffic all mixed together in a gloriously choreographed dance.
Anderson gazed out the VI-assisted window, marveling as always at the beautiful complexity disguised as simple inter-stellar travel. As he watched the first Primary Relay, nicknamed Solomon by the denizens of the Arcturus Station, flared into brilliance. The window automatically adjusted, bringing the distant Relay into focus.
He checked his wrist-watch, something he wore only when at home, or what he considered to be his home. That will be the Fleet, passing through. Mmm, right on time.
The vanguard vessels of the Seventh Heavy Fleet flashed into being, moving at a stately pace deeper into the system. The first ships were always frigates, the smallest and most maneuverable of most military ships. Next came a mix of cruisers and destroyers, fanning out to clear the way for the mighty battleships. A standard tour like this didn't necessitate a full complement, but the Armageddon class Super Battleships were in full attendance. Depending on whom you asked, these behemoths were equal to or larger than dreadnoughts, and they'd be right … or wrong. Depending on how it was asked.
The burning question in Anderson's mind however, had little to do with ships, beautiful though the sight was. The matter of a young man's life rested in the hands of others, a decision he'd fully supported when it had been explained to him.
"I'd always wanted to see what Shepard's boy could do," he said to the man across the table. "But, not like this!"
The other man stroked his beard thoughtfully. "It's been a year. Much can have changed; perhaps he doesn't even wish to join anymore."
The idea gave Anderson a moment of cynical levity. "He's good, professor. Better than most Alliance soldiers. His father was my equal, if not better … the brass won't let him go so easily."
"You still feel guilt?" Professor Duerf questioned. "All this time later?"
"John Shepard was a good man. A good friend," Anderson insisted. "If I'd been faster by just a day …" He shook his head. "Never mind. Some wounds, they never fully heal." His mind unwillingly traveled back, remembering the day a little of himself had died.
June 22, 2170
SSV Calcutta, Carrier
Fifth Fleet
Carriers were the largest ships of any fleet. The only vessel that came close to matching them for sheer mass were the Dreadnought class vessels. Battleships came as a close second, but only the Alliance possessed those. Turians had responded enthusiastically to what they viewed as a heavy dreadnought, but were bogged down in negotiations over the Treaty of Farinex.
Granted, Anderson thought to himself, this isn't a super-class carrier. Something that big is too slow for a 'Rapid Response' fleet. The Seventh and Fourth fleets would be a good place for those, if the Admiral ever tries for another posting. The thought prompted a snort; Admiral Steven Hackett was a fighting man, and the Fifth Fleet had undergone the most action of any fleet since the Vengence Fleet had returned years ago.
For a moment, David Anderson pondered his own position; he held the rank of Captain, although he was not currently in charge of any Alliance ship. There had been such postings, and he'd done well … but his first love always had been and would be commanding a ground team.
Although, the scale is more impressive up here. The thought struck him. The last few ground missions have been … limited. Directing from a larger perspective is somehow more enticing now. But not exactly from here.
Anderson looked at himself. He was standing behind the master control station; if he gave the order, the massive vessel would obey. The concept was attractive … but until that day, I have work to do. He scowled at the projection, linking it to the smaller monitor alongside the room's centerpiece galaxy map. Graphs rose and fell across its length, charting movements in precisely measured intervals. Strangely beautiful, in its own way, but terribly alien as well.
"What are they doing?" he growled in an undertone. Simple occupations, troop movements on a terrestrial scale were one thing. But this? He had to shake his head. Crazy. Utterly crazy.
Footsteps sounded on the deck, alerting both himself and the present crew of the Admiral's approach. Subtly, backs straightened, screens brightened. All the little things a crew did when the uppermost ranks made their presence known. It made Anderson smile; he was technically one of the upper echelon, but the crew knew he was one of them at heart.
"Something on your mind, Captain?" The husky voice of Admiral Hackett came from behind his shoulder.
Anderson nodded at the floating logistics. "Can't make head or tails of it, sir. It's greek to me."
The admiral strolled forward, caressing the edges of the table with one hand. "I was confused at first myself. But then I saw a pattern, hidden in the chaos. There's always a pattern, if you know where to look."
"Begging your pardon, sir," a cool voice interrupted. "But the best VI's have analyzed the data and come up with nothing."
Turning, Anderson looked at the speaker. She was a woman of decent height and above average appearance, highly attractive by many standards. She looked at him, eyebrow raised, then addressed the admiral once more. "I ran the systems myself. The most logical answer is that disconnected slaver groups are making raids on our colonies."
Admiral Hackett didn't bother looking at her. "I know what the computers say, Ms. Medea, but I stand by what I have said. The batarians aren't taking our recovery operations lying down; they will respond, soon and violently."
The woman exhaled sharply through her nose. "Begging your pardon, sir, but if we follow your suggestion, we will have an entire fleet doing nothing, while more and more colonies will continue being hit!"
Anderson frowned. It was extremely bad protocol, back-talking an admiral before his staff. Remonstrance was done in private, out of sight of the crew. By the shifting bodies, it was evident the crew was highly uncomfortable.
"Ms. Medea." Hackett finally turned around, looking her in the eye. "As I recall, you have a stellar record with the SAIS. May I presume that your marks come from data analysis?"
The woman stood firm, looking him in the eye. "Indeed. I have the most successful record for data interpretation in the Systems Alliance Intelligence." Her chin took a defiant tilt. "I also hold an excellent record in team management for field operations."
"Good," Hackett nodded approvingly. "Very good. SAIS has a great need of intelligent operatives. But tell me, Ms. Medea, what do you know of the Hegemony modus operandi?"
"Never trust what they say, assume they will do anything that will benefit themselves, whether for the short or long-term," she quoted back at him.
"Exactly." Hackett turned back to the map. "I know just as well as you do that SAIS has found nothing pinning the Hegemony with war-mongering attempts. I believe even Cerberus has found nothing, although they have been somewhat less efficient since Doctor Pavenmeyer died, may he rest in peace."
Anderson bowed his head. He'd never known the near-legendary Cerberus operative, once assumed to be the group's leader, but he had seen the results of his work.
"The logical conclusion, as you put it, is that the Hegemony is not going to make a move on Alliance colonies." Hackett put both hands behind his back. "I agree."
A silent wave of shock ran around the command deck. Admiral Hackett had become infamous for his predictions; this direction was unanticipated.
"Um, sir?" Anderson felt he had to speak up, even if he had only just arrived. "Do you think something else is going on?"
Hackett gave him a look that made Anderson feel two inches tall. "In short, yes. I do."
Ms. Medea followed up on Anderson's question, "Then what do you think is happening?"
Oops.Anderson shot the admiral an apologetic look, once his head was turned away from the Medea woman. By phrasing the question, he'd given the woman legitimate standing in the eyes of the crew, and nigh forced the admiral to respond as if she were as knowledgeable as he was. He was relieved when the admiral gave him a slight nod, acknowledging the apology.
"What I think, Ms. Medea, is of two tenets of human history. The first is from the sayings of Sun Tzu: 'If your enemy is near, make him think you are far. If he is far, make him believe you are near.'" Hackett gestured at the projection. "I would say the Hegemony military has given us an excellent showing of how far it is from us. Many of our people, including the best minds in our analysis program," he indicated Ms. Medea with one hand, "believe they are distant. Therefore, they are near."
"I also remember the Prussian general Von Clausewitz, " He went on, before the reddening Ms. Medea could interrupt. "His most famous statement, perhaps, is this: 'War, is politics, in another field.'"
He gave her a long look. "After the years of recovery efforts I have overseen, in addition to those I have not seen, I would say the Hegemony is very upset with us. Politically, we stomped their collective faces in the mud, forced them to kneel to our wishes and bound them by the very words they spoke. They expected us to buy our people back, to exchange nanotechnology for colonists." Hackett leaned forward slightly. "Can you tell me what we did do?"
Somewhat surprised, Anderson realized the analyst was younger than he'd assumed. Her confident attitude was typical of an older woman … bringing into question her actual age … he refocused on his mission. This wasn't the time, nor the place for such activities.
She didn't retreat, despite the put-down. "A series of raids, emphasizing special operations on known locations. Public executions of slave traders. I believe the turians approved, but they were the only vocal supporters." She smirked proudly. "I led two teams on multiple rescue missions myself. No losses."
Anderson's eyebrows twitched. Very capable for so young. Who is she, and why haven't I heard of her yet? He resolved to keep a closer eye on the woman.
"Exactly," Hackett nodded sagely. "By taking what they had often boasted to be heart and soul of their culture, we hurt them both politically and physically. We have hurt the Hegemony economically by denying them slaves; the resources they have expended to obtain human slaves were not recompensed." His scarred face leered at the map knowingly. "When you consider how the Hegemony has circumvented Council law for centuries … the answer is self-evident. Which brings us to Captain Anderson." He turned to the dark-skinned soldier. "I believe you have a report for me?"
Anderson stepped forward. "Yessir."
"Good." Hackett rolled his shoulders. "In my rooms, please."
The captain didn't miss the hunter-like gaze of Ms. Medea, nor how it was almost instantly concealed behind a thin veneer of professional interest. She didn't ask to accompany them, but it was obvious she wanted to know what was going on with an almost desperate strength.
The two moved higher in the ship, taking a slow-moving elevator to the upper levels. Outside of an emergency, mass transit was limited to either the cargo elevators, or in the largest ships, the transit tubes. Elevators were the preferred method for local traffic, although journeys to opposite ends of a near-kilometer long battleship were usually made by the pneumatic pipes. It was rougher, but certainly faster.
The Admiral's cabin was sufficiently removed from the ship's captain quarters to allow privacy for both. High-ranking visitors would be as much of a trouble for the captain as the day-to-day operations visitors would be to the admiral. Fortunately, the largest vessels had dual quarters for such a situation, far enough apart to at least pretend at minimal interaction.
Anderson and Hackett reached the quarters in a few minutes walk. The polished corridors were clean, if plain, facilitating easy passage. Quarian ships … Anderson shuddered at the memory, supplies piled everywhere. Neat piles, but …. No. Just … No. I couldn't live a ship like that.
Hackett closed the door behind them, activating its privacy seals. He gave Anderson a look.
In response, Anderson activated his omni-tool, carefully scanning the room. It took nearly ten minutes, even with the reduced cabin-space ships for which space travel was infamous.
"Clean." He said tersely when the scan finished.
The admiral moved to the computer console. While most technology had adapted to Council-style projector systems, Alliance hardware still exceeded its neighbors for raw processing power. Salarians still desired micro-processors; highly efficient models of minimal power requirements, but not comparable to the power-heavy Alliance models. Alliance personnel could afford the higher energy usage however, as Hawking engines produced more energy than the Council FTL-drive equivalent, even if they were more expensive in the short run.
"I had a quarian technician I know look over my systems." Hackett keyed in a complex password. "He found three cases of malware. Tracking software, very high-quality work."
Anderson shrugged. "You'll get that. I have to run scans daily, and I keep one omni-tool completely off all networks. Updated solely by memory stick transfer, and that's after a complete scan of the stick-drive."
He watched the projection flash to life, showing an exact copy of the main viewer down on the Command deck. The mass of information was just as puzzling in miniature as it had been full sized, bringing the frown back to his face.
"These were disguised as Alliance updates," Hackett said ominously. "Using the correct SAIS protocols."
Anderson pondered the statement. On autopilot, he called up his own omni-tool, running a scan on the more recent updates. He took a deep breath as the results began spooling across the screen. "Those sneaky, underhanded swine …" he set the scrubbing program to work, mumbling under his breath. "How did they get—"
The admiral interrupted him. "I don't know who it is, or rather, who they are. What I do know, is there are only a few people I can trust." He gave a slow smile. "Those I can trust are very capable however. But enough of this. What did you bring me?"
The Captain pulled out a memory stick. "I did as you asked. Went in under cover, picked up the slave market futures and as much financial data possible." He held the miniature data-container out. "Also tied up a few loose ends; you remember the Hegemony prince we captured a while back? The one that wanted vengeance on everyone and his brother's dog to wreck the slavery system?"
"Vaguely."
"Well," Anderson coughed lightly. "That attempt failed. There was too much pushback from the Hegemony elite; the idea for a Free Hegemony died out almost as quickly as the Resistance movement."
Spotting the Admiral wince, he continued. "I had a few allies getting close to the official storage depots. Made it easier for me to get armed with local weaponry for the Terminus assignments." He turned a sidelong look on Hackett. "Not that I had any to mention."
"Of course," Hackett waved off the faux pau.
"Anyway, they asked for assistance getting out of there. Since I was in the neighborhood …" Anderson let his tone trail off suggestively.
"Ah. Excellent. Although we might need them in the coming days." Hackett started scanning the updated information. "Although I certainly understand their desire. Hegemony space is not kind to traitors." A dark expression crossed his face. "A pity the asari were not disposed to help us convince them diplomatically. One would almost think—" he stopped. "Never mind. A fool's plan."
"What government likes traitors?" Anderson ignored the partial drift off topic and started thinking again. "They brought us a large supply of Hegemony sidearms as an offering. Kishock rifles, Grall spikethrowers. Even a couple dozen Blood Pack Executioner pistols. Good for a few years, if we keep them maintained."
Ironically, his thoughts took a left turn. "Incidentally, who is that new liaison from SAIS? I don't recognize her."
Hackett called up two additional screens, comparing data files. "Miss Helen Medea. She was a graduate from the Special Operations training program. Her instructors tell me she survived the Trident run, over in the Hoplos System. Less than three days."
"Remarkable." Anderson whistled. I set the record years ago. But," he gave the admiral a cautious look, "I remember going through the SAIS recruits listings last year. There was no Medea there."
"One of the many mysteries about her." Hackett paused, eyes peering into the depths of something Anderson couldn't decipher. "She has very powerful allies; the head of the SAIS sent me a strongly worded letter, encouraging me to cooperate with her."
"He didn't." Anderson's eyebrows shot up. "He wants to put Intelligence in charge of a Navy operation?"
"He was very careful to not say that," Hackett said wryly. "But it amounted to the same thing. She's a ghost in the system, but one that has every step of her training very well documented. A fascinating little problem." Hackett's face fell. "Oh good Lord …"
The sight of the legendary Admiral Hackett unsettled Anderson. The man was a rock, impervious to anything his foes could throw at him. On the rare occasions when caught flat-footed, Hackett simply absorbed the hit and learned from it. The saying about never repeating mistakes applied to him better than one would think; Hackett learned from the mistakes of others, not just himself.
Anderson squared his shoulders. Something bad was happening, and unlike the Admiral, Anderson had the training to do something physical about it.
"Tell me. What do I do?"
Shaking his head, Admiral Hackett pointed at the screen. The numbers continued their dance, smoother now, but still gyrating in their chaotic fashion. "The market for humans is low. Very low."
"A bit of a change." Anderson shrugged again, still baffled. "Damn squints have been trying to get a good haul for almost a decade now, never made it. Salarian intelligence helped me on that a few times. Had a Huntress on one of the jobs oddly enough."
"No, not that. This!" Admiral Hackett pointed at a row. "I should have seen it before, it's so obvious. Why didn't I get a volus to look at this?"
Anderson was getting irritated now. "Yes, it's bad. It's been bad for years now. What changed … sir?" He added the honorific belatedly.
"A moment, Captain." Hackett keyed the intercom. "Captain Bligh, ready the Calcutta for immediate departure. Signal the Fleet, this is an emergency. I want every ship in the Fifth ready for battle inside the hour."
"Aye, Admiral,"a cultured English voice came back. Yellow lights began flashing; the klaxon muted by the cabin's insulated walls. A booming voice resounded through the corridors outside the cabin, orders from the Captain. "All hands to battle stations. This is not a drill, repeat: All hands to battle stations, stand by for Relay jump."
"Good man," Hackett muttered. His fingers traced over the screen, altering the flow. "Do you see it now, Captain? Why the Hegemony has been keeping themselves so obviously present in every sector?"
Anderson tried to puzzle it out. "They wanted to be seen, is that it?"
The admiral beamed, or would have, if the situation had been less of a problem. "Yes, exactly. They wanted to be seen everywhere." His voice sank almost below hearing, "They are so dependent on visual displays, how did I miss that? It was so obvious! Look here!" He stabbed the screen. "Entertainment revenues go up in the border colonies, the ones near Alliance space. And here," his finger poked at another column, "economic downswing in the same industry by the Terminus."
Connections clicked. "Sailors and soldiers, spending money," Anderson said quietly. "But the slave markets?"
"Anticipating a new supply; an easy deduction for anyone who knows the most basic fundamentals of capitalism." Hackett drew up a map, watching the blue dots showing the Fleet glide into formation. "They place an inordinate amount of emphasis on what you can see; they left their ships under-crewed, undermanned, and out in the open, just to keep us focused on them. So many soldiers moving around wasn't missed by their slavers though, driving down the price of a human slave. Anticipating a new shipment always drives prices down."
A thought struck Anderson. "Wait, they're sending their people, what about their ships? How will they get anywhere?"
The deck shifted slightly as the Calcutta got underway, its heading coming around for the Relay in the next System. The Fifth Fleet had been finishing the outward leg of their tour, leaving them far from the nearest rapid transport.
"Terminus ships, slaver scum from that region." Hackett grew calmer. "But you're right, they don't have the cargo capacity for a full scale assault, which means they must be spreading out, aiming at other races." He turned to the intercom, clicking it under his fingers. "Specialist Medea, as soon as you are able, send a message to the SAIS HQ. Tell them the Hegemony is making their move, also, relay a warning to the Turians. They'll want to be in on this."
He ignored the startled response through the communicator, turning to Anderson. "There's only one colony within easy striking distance, given the capabilities of Terminus supplied ships," he said grimly. "Where did your friend go? The one you tried to get into the N7 corps?"
"Shepard?" Anderson thought back. "He moved to Mindoir, in the …" his dark-toned face blanched. "No …"
With a heavy sigh, Hackett clicked the comm again. "Captain Bligh, set course for Mindoir. It's in the charts for the Core-ward systems."
The older man sat down heavily. "All we can do now is wait and pray for survivors."
"Amen." Anderson nodded soberly. "Amen indeed."
December 7, 2171
Arcturus Station
Sometimes, Anderson wondered what had become of those people, the colonists that had given everything for their home. Most days, he didn't, couldn't think about it. The life under batarian slaver was often too horrible to bear imagining.
Still, humans were rare enough on the slave market that they would be treated well, for the most part. He shook off the morose thoughts.
You are going to watch Karl Shepard, see what he has done with himself. Part of him hoped, perhaps feared, the answer to that. Will he still be sane? Asari have gone insane from losing family members, some of the most powerful intellects in the galaxy! What chance does a eighteen year old kid have compared to that?
He watched the psychologist leave the room, heading towards the section reserved for evaluations. Good luck, Karl. Whatever you decide.
A/N: Hey-ho, good to be back, at least for a little. This is one of two chapters set up for the Interlude, an idea suggested by Matze3. Thanks to everyone for reading, and I hope you enjoy!
Note: I've been working on a collaboration Mass Effect fic with F13D and Andotrota. It's just gone live at: s/11382986/1/Dawn-of-Titans