Tales from the Citadel

Chapter 10: Shepard versus the Challenge

Huerta Memorial Hospital was on lockdown. I swear I had nothing to do with it.

Dalatrass Siravai had finished some trade talks on Earth and was heading back to Sur'Kesh. At least, that was the plan when things suddenly went horribly wrong. One moment, her ship was en route to the Sol relay, the next it was making a U-turn and bee-lining to the Citadel. Apparently, the dalatrass was in some kind of distress and needed medical assistance. By the time the ship docked, Siravai was unconscious.

Now this might've been nothing more than an unexpected, albeit serious, incident. Except for the fact that once Siravai had been admitted to Huerta Memorial, about a dozen members of her diplomatic staff went straight to the asari embassy, the human embassy or the turian embassy. Once there, all of them sought asylum. What's more, they claimed that Dalatrass Siravai wasn't suffering from a bad case of oysters. According to the staff, she'd been poisoned.

Of course, this raised a few questions. First, why didn't they go to the salarian embassy? They were salarian, weren't they? Second, why did they go to embassies belonging to the other Citadel Council races, as opposed to, say, the elcor or the hanar or any other Citadel associate member? Did they somehow feel unsafe at their own embassy? Third, why were they so sure it was poison as opposed to, say, a heart attack? Fourth, was it a coincidence that Siravai had been a vocal opponent of one Dalatrass Linron (at least, before her health took a sudden nosedive)?

Maybe there was a reasonable explanation. I'd like to think so. Then again, I'd had dealings with Linron in the past. Crankypants, as I liked to call her, firmly believed that developing the genophage and practically sterilizing the krogan was a good thing. She was so determined to keep that status quo that she would rather give Cerberus access to the salarian homeworld—specifically, the STG base housing the last fertile krogan females—and let the Reapers kill or harvest us all, rather than entertain the possibility of curing the genophage. She also tried to secretly bribe me to sabotage the genophage cure, when it looked like it might actually work. And, most recently, she had been under investigation for her actions during the Reaper War… before the independent lead investigator was replaced by an anti-krogan, pro-Crankypants toady.

Do I need to mention how bad this could be? Intergalactic relations weren't exactly as harmonious as they were when the Reapers were on the verge of successfully slaughtering or enslaving us all. The implications of an attempted assassination against a political leader left me very, very worried.

As if I didn't have enough on my mind, Alliance Prime Minister—sorry, Acting Prime Minister—Thibault was still getting a lot of heat for awarding the Unity Group a nine billion credit contract to handle galactic relief efforts. When news first broke out, there were some questions as to why it was given directly to the Unity Group, instead of having multiple charities bid for the contract. Then there were questions over Thibault's ties to the Unity Group, namely that he'd been a guest speaker at some of their events and his husband ran one of their extranet podcast series. That was then.

Now? Now a certain reporter of my acquaintance had uncovered more information. It seemed his sister and his mother had also been guest speakers at Unity Group functions in the past. That's right: Thibault, his husband, his sister and his mother all had ties to Unity. What's more, Thibault's mother had been paid for at least one of her appearances. So it wasn't like this was a mere coincidence. This was a family thing, in all the worst ways.

Which meant it was very curious when Emily Wong found out that Thibault had not recused himself from any of the discussions surrounding the Unity Group and the nine billion credit contract, despite the fact that he had a very clear history with the charity and the whole thing screamed conflict of interest.

When asked about his family's history and the fact that he was present for all those talks, Thibault refused to answer directly. Instead, he insisted that those decisions were made in the best interest of the Alliance and the galaxy. Then he went on to imply that the reporters—and, by extension, the public—should be thanking him for thinking about all the people who were in dire need of this kind of assistance and could benefit from the contract. He also suggested that anyone who was trying to ask these kinds of awkward questions instead of praising his virtues like a sycophantic opinion columnist should be ashamed of themselves.

Emily was too professional to respond to that absurdity. But you could tell by the way she narrowed her eyes that she was going to double down and uncover more dirt. 'Cuz you knew it was there somewhere.

At this point, I really didn't want to think about the state of the galaxy. I mean, I was supposed to be on R&R, for crying out loud. I just needed something—or someone—who could keep it real. Thankfully, an e-mail had just what I was looking for:

Subject: Got something to show you

From: James Vega

Hey, next time you're in that sweet new apartment with time to kill, give me a call. Got something I'd like to show you.

James must've have been checking his e-mail when I replied, because he showed up within the hour. I was watering the plants on the second floor, so I buzzed him in while I finished. "James," I greeted him from the railing.

"Hey, Loco," he beamed. He took a few steps in and nodded approvingly. "Have I told you what a nice place this is?"

"Probably," I chuckled.

"Might not look so nice after throwing that party you were talking about."

The party? Oh! Right! The one Joker had suggested. The one Glyph had provided discretionary funds for. The one EDI, Steve, Traynor, Liara and James had already been invited to. The one I hadn't given any thought about whatsoever. "You do realize this is Anderson's place, right? I'm just house-sitting. You wouldn't trash Admiral Anderson's apartment, would you, James?"

"Me?" he asked innocently. "No. Never."

I rolled my eyes.

He trotted up the stairs and joined me. "Nice view," he said approvingly. "But this place? It's just so… not what I'm used to."

"Which is?" Privately, I wondered whether he meant some cramped room with just enough room for bunk beds and a few foot lockers, rather than a luxury two-story suite. Military-issue blankets instead of silk sheets.

"I grew up on the beach on the Pacific. So, you know: water, sand… real air."

"You miss it?" I guessed.

"Yeah," he sighed. "And the people."

"I get that," I said sympathetically. "It's tough being away from home."

"Yeah." He turned towards me. "How do you make it work?"

"Honestly? I grew up in places like this."

James raised an eyebrow, spread his arms and gestured around him.

"Not this," I laughed. "Though when you get dragged out to enough formal functions, you realize that not every place looks like the mess hall. No, what I meant was… I was born on a space station. I spent my childhood going from starship to space station to starship again. So things like filtered water, glass and steel walls, recycled air… that's what I grew up in. That's my normal. Hell, if my mom didn't pry the vid-games from my fingers and drag my ass planetside, I might've never seen real trees or breathe real air… 'till I enlisted, of course."

"Of course. Well, glad your mom took the time to give you a taste of Mother Nature. Most would just give you an omni-tool, sit you in front of the vid-screen, and call it a day."

"No doubt. What about you?" I asked. "Did your family make sure you got out of the house?"

"Mom did. Before she passed away."

I winced. "Sorry."

"It's okay. It was a long time ago. But, uh… Dad took it hard. Started using red sand to cope. If it wasn't for my uncle, he might've dragged me down with him."

"Well, your uncle sounds like a good man," I tried.

"Oh, he is. Was. I dunno. Uncle Emilio promised my mom he'd look out for me, and he did. He's the one who encouraged me to enlist. I tried to see if he was okay during the war—he and my dad—but Citadel authorities couldn't contact him."

I had the feeling that there was a bit more to the story than that, but I didn't want to pry. Seemed like family was a tricky issue. Couldn't blame him: I mean, look at my family. "Haven't been able to reach them after the war?" I asked instead.

"Not yet."

"Look," I said, "if you're missing water and sand and real air, why don't you take a shuttle down to Earth? Take a day trip planetside. Hell, take a couple days. See if you can track your family down. We are on shore leave, after all."

"No time. N1 training starts in two days."

Oh yeah! I'd forgotten about that. It was just after Cerberus attacked the Citadel in an attempt to overthrow the Council. James had been debating whether to accept an invitation to the Interplanetary Combatives Academy—also known as 'N-School' because it offered a series of special forces training culminating in the highly coveted designation of N7. Eventually, he decided to accept.

"I was wondering what I can expect. All I know is that we'll be flying down to Rio de Janeiro."

"All right." I paused a moment to recall everything I could. "Well, it's been over a decade since I attended the Academy, so things might've changed."

"Anything's better than nothing, Loco."

"True. Okay, since it's your first time at 'the villa'—that's another informal name for the Academy—you can probably expect a variety of combat scenarios. We're talking twenty-plus hour missions that could start at any time, day or night. You'll have to fight your way through hostile terrain, manoeuvre through all sorts of obstacles, with little sleep or food."

"What kind of terrain, exactly?"

"Soldiers are expected to operate in just about any environment. The Academy knows that, so they'll transport you all over Earth so you can run scenarios in a wide variety of conditions. You'll probably get at least one urban mission and a jungle mission—it is based in Brazil, after all—but the order varies from year to year. When I did it, I started with an urban mission, then a jungle run, followed by a desert mission and a high-altitude mountain scenario. That's in the first week alone. The following year went Arctic, jungle, urban, underwater—again, all in the first week. So you'll never know for sure, but be prepared for anything."

"I heard I might have to lead a unit in these scenarios. Honestly… I think that's what really worries me."

Right. The last time he was in charge, it was because the Collectors had abducted the majority of civvies and soldiers on Fehl Prime—including his CO. By the time the dust settled, most of the colonists and his squad were dead.

"When I was there, the Academy had us commanding squads of rookies fresh out of Basic. Most of the N1 trainees complained that while it might have been a good test of our leadership skills, it wasn't very realistic. Normally, special ops missions would be run by teams of special ops soldiers, not a mix of elites and newbies."

"Guess the brass never planned on fighting Reapers," James said dryly.

"To be fair, no one did," I replied. "Still, they finally listened. About five or six years, they changed things so the N1 trainees would be grouped into small fire-teams. Within each fire-team, one person would be selected as team leader for each scenario. If that's still the case, you'll probably be in command, but it won't be all the time."

"Okay. That's good."

He still had doubts, I could tell. "James, they won't pass or fail you solely on whichever training mission has you in charge. The whole point is to make things as difficult as possible, then see how you fare. And it's not like you're going in this blind. You have your experiences being led by your CO on Fehl Prime and your experiences when you were in command. You've seen how Miranda operates as team leader—and Kaidan, too. And you've seen how I run things as squad leader."

"That's true."

"Take some time to compare all those different leadership styles and see what works for you. And don't worry about trying to craft some master plan."

"'Cuz no plan survives first contact with the enemy?"

"Something like that."

James took a deep breath. Guess he was really worried about doing well. Mind you, there was no shame in failing any of the 'N' courses. The fact that he was invited for advanced training with the Interplanetary Combatives Academy was a significant accolade in and of itself, one that would earn him a great deal of well-deserved respect. But the fact that he was worried showed how seriously he was taking this. All things considered, that was the right mindset to have.

"So… was there anything else you wanted to talk about? Or show me?" I added, thinking about the e-mail James had sent me.

"Oh, shit. Right." James shook his head. "I wanted to show you something, didn't I?" He walked past me and…

…

…took his shirt off?

Just as I was wondering how this turned into a Chippendales show, I saw the tattoo. Nothing fancy, really. It was a kind of arrowhead made of vertical lines, planted right between the shoulder blades. But the key item was the centrepiece, located right in the middle of the arrow: the N7 logo.

"I seem to recall some batarian giving you a tattoo in one of the refugee camps," I said. "Is that it?"

"Sure is. Meant to show you earlier, but everything went crazy. Then you were in rehab and everything and… well, better late than never. What do you think?"

"Looks good," I approved, "and you've earned it. Now the real work begins, right?"

"Exactly," he nodded. "I remember what you said before and I'm in. Cien por ciento."

"Glad to hear it."

"Anyway… that's it."

"That's it?" I echoed.

"Yeah. Just wanted to show you that bad boy."

Okay. So this whole thing was about James showing off his new N7 tattoo? Seemed a bit anti-climactic. Then again, James didn't strike me as the kind of guy who'd get tattoos lightly. Getting this latest piece of ink might have been a commitment to himself, as was showing it to me.

"Cool," I said. "So what are your plans for the rest of the day?" I asked.

"Eh, just gonna wander around for a bit. See what the Citadel has to offer—only got to see so much during the war, you know. Then… I dunno. Maybe hit the bars, have some fun."

"That's what shore leave's all about," I said. "Come on. I'll walk you out."

We were almost at the door when something caught his eye. "What the hell? No way."

James took an abrupt left towards the guest bedroom and made a bee-line to the punching bag. "You've been holding out on me, Shepard!"

"Not really," I said. "This was here when Anderson gave me the keys, so to speak. I take it you approve."

"Oh, man. This is sweet."

That would be a yes.

"Come on! Let me just use it for a bit."

"What happened to exploring the Citadel?" I laughed.

"Eh, it's not going anywhere. So, can I? I mean, you get to do this all the time! Just let me have some fun."

"All right," I relented. "Knock yourself out."

James immediately started punching the… well, the punching bag. You should've seen the look on his face. Like a kid in a candy store. I thought about telling him that he should get out more but, hey, who am I to judge?

"Man, this is high-quality stuff!"

Okay. Maybe I could judge a little.

"Look, I'm not going to tell you how to spend your R&R," I said. "Spend it here, spend it on Earth. Try to find your family, sit back and relax. You do you. But is this really how you want to spend the last couple days before you start N1? Holed up in an apartment hitting a punching bag?"

"Like I said, this is high-quality stuff," James insisted. Though I could tell he was having second thoughts.

"Come on," I urged. "The punching bag will still be here when you get back from Rio. For now, let's see what we can find."

We spent some time at Armax Arsenal Arena. I hadn't gone back since I went there with Jack—mostly because I didn't want to be fawned over like I was the last time I was there. But James was more than willing to play another game—apparently he'd spent some time there during the Reaper War and was hoping to get back on their 'top 10 highest score' list. And the arena was within walking distance.

After playing a few rounds against simulated geth opponents, we had some dinner at the Silver Coast Casino—he had burgers, I had chicken carbonara. They still hadn't gotten any fish for sashimi—or any other kind of sushi. Some kind of problem with their supplier, I was told. Personally, I thought the universe had found a new way to toy with me.

Gripes with the universe aside, the chicken carbonara was pretty good and I had no problem cleaning my plate. Just as I was about to ask whether James wanted dessert, he flagged down the waiter and whispered some instructions. "James?" I asked as the waiter walked away.

"You'll see," he said cryptically.

The waiter came back with a serving tray full of shot glasses… and a bottle of tequila. "Really, James?" I asked.

"Oh yeah," he grinned. "Time to answer the question of the ages!"

"Who can win a drinking contest?"

"Damn straight!"

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever. Line 'em up, Vega."

"That's what I like to hear." James paused until the waiter unloaded his tray and left. Then he assembled the shot glasses into two rows and filled them with tequila, his hands demonstrating a familiarity borne of long practice. "Rules are simple: I take a shot, you take a shot. Hesitate? Game over."

"This shouldn't take too long," I smirked.

"Uh huh. Awesome superstar new hotness first." James picked up a shot glass and knocked it back. "Sorry-ass old and busted next."

I gamely grabbed a shot glass and emptied its contents. "Don't worry, I'll try and go easy on you."

James laughed. "Oh, I'm gonna enjoy this."

We both had another shot. "That all you got, James?" I teased.

"Oh, I'm just getting started." He immediately emptied a third shot glass. "You know, I expected better from you."

"I'm saving my best moves for later," I replied, seeing his third shot with my own.

"'Best moves'?" he scoffed. "At least if you're drunk, you have an excuse for how you dance."

Why do people keep bringing that up, I wondered. While I tried—and failed—to find an answer to that question, James had his fourth shot. "Boom!" he cheered. "I'm on a roll!"

While he was patting himself on the back, I emptied my fourth shot. "Keep it coming, Lieutenant. I can do this all night."

"You may have to," James grinned.

"On the off chance that I forget to say this—you know, because I'm too busy taking your sorry ass down—I'm glad we had the chance to hang out before you go to the Academy."

"Me too, Loco. Now whaddaya say: you ready for round two?"

"Bring it on."

James was pouring out the next round of shots when someone shoved me. "Hey."

Turning around, I saw a batarian and a vorcha. "My friend doesn't like Alliance types," the batarian said.

"Buddy," James frowned, "we're right in the middle of something."

The batarian shoved me again. "I don't like Alliance types either." DUDE, that conversation never ends well.

"Sorry to hear that," I said.

"You better watch yourself, Alliance," the batarian snarled.

I was tempted to ask if he had a death sentence and, if so, in how many systems. Somehow, though, I didn't think he'd get the reference. "Watch myself. Got it. In the meantime, why don't you and your friend go back to your table and we'll do the same."

"I don't think so." The batarian shoved me one more time. If I hadn't braced myself, I might've found myself flat on the floor. As it was, I had to remind myself that pulling out the closest thing I had to a lightsaber might not be a good idea. The Silver Coast Casino might be many things, but a hive of scum and villainy it was not.

By that point, James had stopped pouring drinks. I think he gathered that the question of the ages had been pre-empted by these belligerent yahoos. "Rain check?" I asked.

"Yeah," he sighed.

"All right, then." I turned to the batarian and his silent vorcha buddy. "Listen, buddy. Here's how it's gonna go down…"

Editorial Note from Dr. Liara T'Soni: Shepard found the encounter with the 'yahoos' eerily reminiscent of a scene in the 1977 vid 'Star Wars'—retroactively titled 'Star Wars: Episode IV—A New Hope'. After his breakdown of the scene in question, I must concede the parallels are quite striking. He then continued to analyze other scenes throughout the vid for my edification, with varying degrees of success. I am not entirely sure if I fully understand the significance of 'Han shooting first,' but I have faith that it was indeed important.