"I have met many a mysterious person during my travels from world to world. People of many colors. Many perspectives. Some who had deciphered the meaning to their lives and how they fit into the grand machinations of the galaxy around them. Some who had not but were still searching for the void in which they could be placed. And some who simply did not care. I soon realized that an intricate understanding of one's self does not imply a coexistence with morality. Sometimes the opposite occurs. I've found my interactions with such people to be quite fascinating.
There was one person who saw all the choices he could ever make as stark binary decisions. Black or white, with no gray in the middle. His way or the way of others. No third decisions. He took work for hire, often posing as a bounty hunter, an occupation for which a lack of morality would act as a benefit. He was a principled character, but his mistake was taking every decision too personally. As if every single action that did not conform to his own lifepath was an affront to his very existence. Such hubris… and such a mistaken assumption. I could not abide letting such a creature live—while he was sleeping, I slit his throat and watched him bleed into the night, the long cut in his neck slowly whistling in his final, futile gasps of air.
There was another such individual who was more mendicant with regards to his purpose. An impressive specimen, massive in size and strength, and apparently immune to such creature comforts like food, drink, and sleep. Tales on the world of which he now resided had whispered of him, of his past and purpose. They mentioned unspeakable acts he had committed against children and of his supposed supernatural nature, for his memory had been around the area longer than most of the residents had ever been alive. The stories of him haunted me, dug deep into my core. I found the man in a bar one day and sat next to him. He noticed my presence, set aside his drink, and looked back at me. We both stared at one another, not speaking for a time. As soon as he reached for his pistol did I spring into action. I threw myself at him and dug my fingers into the corners of his mouth so hard until I felt his flesh rip. My hands turned warm and slippery. He did not scream, not even when I grabbed a nearby stein and began beating his face with it until his skull finally caved in, leaving a blackened hole full of blood and brain matter. When I was done, I looked up at the bar's occupants. Their fear of the man had not at all waned. It had simply transferred to another, taken on a dissimilar shape."
Final Monograph: Transcriptions of an Augury
Unknown Author, (pg. 52)
Reprinted by permission of Purdue University
Atoll Stoa
Iythmeir Ocean
Vanderpol
"—the title itself was not bereft of responsibility, I'll have you know. The department of agriculture on Titavan was in consistently in flux—additional lieutenant consuls had to be appointed to handle all of the colonization protocols. I suppose you don't have any idea how much effort it takes to get a single planetary colony running, do you? The devotion of resources to run even a small colony is a constant effort: four solar year supply runs to transport 50 million cubic meters of topsoil, 200 billion liters of ionized water, triple all of that for a livable supply of O2, not to mention negotiating with the prefab companies to supply the necessary domiciles. And if the world lacks a breathable atmosphere? You'd better hope we can find a third-party that has access to a terraforming unit that we could get on the cheap. Better to buy in bulk—large planets require at least three. And that's after the colonists have gotten all the necessary permits to colonize. Whether they've determined if the interstellar object contains enough nitrogen, phosphorous, and potassium to be viable. If they have the facts and figures of earnings potential; resources that can be quantified, sold. Materials and information—people will always pay. They need it, even when they don't think that they might."
Christ, James thought as he stared blankly at the man across from him who was currently espousing his obviously practiced spiel. Gun. In mouth. Pull trigger.
It was taking all of James' might to not turn over to look over at Jack and pull a long face as they listened to this bureaucrat, a turian, continue to drone on and on. They were sitting in a plush vinyl booth, the two humans on one side with the turian on the other, in perhaps the most luxurious of the restaurants on board the Atoll Stoa, where a political cavalcade of sorts was proceeding in a rather muted display. Several people in business attire were ambling about, seated at tables, or speaking animatedly at the bar. A parade of legislators, all conversing in their partisan doublespeak, milling in their safe areas so that they could be insulated from the outside galaxy—all that existed outside this ship.
"A wankfest of electorates," had been Jack's way of putting it. She certainly was not wrong.
The place reminded James of pictures he had seen of traditional Chinese restaurants, only this one was far more upscale than any images he had seen on the extranet. The maroon floor was thickly carpeted to the point where his feet sunk half an inch in the floor with every step—this did have a soundproofing effect on the acoustics as the surrounding chatter never got above a low simmer. There were wallpapered round columns interspaced around the room that only pretended to be load bearing, brass candelabras that looked a whole lot more expensive than they actually were, and the occasional assortment of fake fronds that provided a burst of dark green color to the otherwise scab-colored chamber. The bar at the far side of the room was backlit with an electric blue light, illuminating the bottles of liquid arranged on top of crystal shelves, where a female human was merrily polishing an endless array of spotted glassware behind the counter, flashing the customers million-dollar-smiles three times a minute.
As he sat at the table with Jack, still listening to this turian go on and on, he was ever more convinced that this sort of crap was certainly not his forte.
From here, he had a good view of where Cirae was, who was currently stuffed into a corner near the restrooms, talking in a clustered circle of other well-dressed politicians. His and Jack's involvement had been the asari's idea from the very start—no way would James have ever willingly come up with such a plan on his own. According to Cirae, the United Synod frequented rented out this restaurant on the ship to gather in a more casual setting and become more informal among like-minded peers. A perfect opportunity to, in her words, "Do a little reconnaissance." Obviously, the prospect had not sat well with James, but then he remembered why he was here in the first place and tried to clamp down on his dark mood so as not to seem too ungrateful in the face of the asari's logic.
James and Jack had quickly decided to stick together—no doubt that if they were left alone with these people that one of them would quickly snap and end up throwing some poor sap through the air as a result of either being bored to tears or enraged at the blind nonchalance that he now discovered was a politician's hallmark. As guests on the Atoll Stoa, they were free to integrate themselves into the crowd, despite the fact that their muted military wear made them stand out in amongst the participants. Cirae had suggested that they court members of the Synod's innermost council, to gauge their stances and assess the general mood amongst the lawmakers on the ship towards the state of the war and of the future of galactic affairs. Such accumulated information about the inhabitants here could be used to their advantage, was the reasoning for all this. Seemed like a good idea, in theory.
In reality, seeing such a plan to fruition was a whole lot more mind-numbing than either James or Jack could predict.
One of the problems was that it was impossible for James to tell which of the people in the restaurant were members of the Synod's high council, even though Cirae had assured him they were here, somewhere. It was not like there was a directory for them to access or that everyone was wearing name tags to distinguish themselves. To get the information they needed, they were going to have to go around and talk to people. Not one of James' greater strengths, talking. Compounding the problem was the fact that no one seemed to be exactly forthcoming of such information, almost as if all the politicians here were playing dumb to there being such echelons of governance or that they all held such inflated opinions of themselves that they were jealously guarding the names of their co-legislators in order to give themselves the appearance of seeming important.
Before today, James had cemented the admittedly unhealthy opinion in his head that damn near every politician he had met was nothing but a self-conceited imbecile that was fixated on their own rise to stardom rather than the duty of the office to which they had been elected. Now he realized that the ones he had met in the past were charismatic saints compared to this lot.
Everyone here simply talked and talked about nothing. Talking just to hear the sound of their own voice. About issues that were too esoteric and banal for even James to feign interest: union-busting at port cities, managing pharmaceutical kickbacks to promote healthy R&D, courting foreign companies to build useless factories in rural areas to give the appearance of creating jobs, and now all this crap about colonization equipment. The turian was still droning.
The politician soon paused in his sermonizing to flag down a passing waiter. He ordered beef ribs with a currant gelato. James used this lull in the conversation as his excuse to leave. Fuck this shit, was clearly expressed on his face as if he tattooed it on his forehead for Jack to read. The biotic picked up on the memo immediately and similarly scooted out of the booth after they had both mumbled something paltry to the turian as they departed.
"That was a waste of time," Jack fumed as they put distance between them and their previous conversationalist.
"Whole day's been a waste of time," James sourly agreed. "Everyone we talk to doesn't want to discuss the war. Just their resume. Like we're providing interviews. Son of a…"
They both headed to the bar. James had to push through the well-donned throng to reach the counter. The bartender was busy with several clients already. Instead, James leaned over the counter and spied an already opened bottle of scotch. Laphroaig 30 Year, it read. He was not in a picky mood, so he grabbed it surreptitiously, along with a couple of glasses. He poured two drams as he walked and gave one to Jack.
"To your sanity," he raised his glass in a mock toast.
"Not your health?" Jack smirked.
"I'm not in danger of losing my health right now."
They drank their scotch as they maneuvered about the room. Little liquid courage to soothe the mind. Eventually, they were right back at their work, embedding themselves into random conversations with various political talking heads. One such asari, a particularly jumpy one, appeared so nervous as she scythed her gaze between James and Jack, as if she did not know which one she should be looking at as she talked.
"My opinion?" she stammered. "Well… goddess… I'm not sure, no one's ever asked me such a thing before. I mean, I was only comptroller of Thessia's thirty-fourth district. Largest city had only a million people at its peak. I was assigned to protect the district's financial systems against gross abuses and to set up safeguards against gaming. Why would I ever be asked to provide commentary on a war? Software and numbers—that's my specialty. I've never sent people off to die for a cause I don't want. I just… all I want is this to end. I want it to be over, plain and simple."
Other individuals were slightly more colorful, including one heavily bearded human who was equally as girthy around his waist. His uniform appeared to have an embroidered flavor of a red, white, and blue flag plastered everywhere about himself, including a rather odd illustration about a coiled snake on a yellow background. He was even sporting a glistening parade of medals and a splash of campaign ribbons—though James could see off the bat that many of the ribbons were fake.
"You kidding?" he was exclaiming in a boastful manner to James. "Earned my stripes on the shores of Io, my friend. It's like all this was molded to my ultimate purpose. I've got the complete trust of the citizens from Casper to Missoula. Had a little side business running a private police force for a time, heading off rival rustlers—you know there are outfits out there that steal only livestock for the big corporations? Like it's the Wild West back over there. Earned me a pretty credit in guarding the wire fence boarders, keeping everyone's stock in place. Currency in flesh, the way it ought to be. None of this electronic obfuscation crap—that was wealth that people could actually see with their own eyes. Methods as old as time still have their uses. Physical ledgers, time stamps, legal tender. Way it ought to be…"
The overall mood was grim when James and Jack could no longer take any more of this. They quickly exited the restaurant to come back out into the empty and altogether sparse hallways of the ex-cruise ship. They still had their scotch glasses—Jack threw her empty one into the nearest wastebasket. There was a light shattering noise.
"All things considered," Jack said, "assaulting the Collector base wasn't as stressful. Headache's starting crop up, now."
James stayed silent as they wandered further down the long and thinly carpeted corridors until he was certain that they were well out of earshot of anyone else. He withdrew a packet of prescription-level anti-inflams and handed it to Jack. The woman greedily swiped the packet and popped two pills like they were pieces of candy. They were now walking alongside blank walls that reminded them of convention center anterooms, two lonely subjects within a wide and open gulley.
"Notice anything back there?" James asked after he was handed back the packet.
"Apart from that being the most egotistical spectacle of idiots I've ever seen? Some of those freaks had their heads so far up their ass they could see the daylight out of their mouth."
James tilted his head so they could walk closer to the bare wall. They passed by another large window that glimpsed out into the ocean deep.
"The people in there?" he jerked his head back. "They weren't real politicians." Jack looked confused, so he continued. "Oh sure, many of them had taken public office and faced elections… at the local level. There wasn't anyone in that room who had ever tasted the responsibilities a politician on the Citadel would've. Come to think of it, Cirae was perhaps the most experienced one of the whole bunch."
"Fuck, you're right," Jack breathed. "And we're placing all our hopes on these morons?"
"A promenade of utter fools, cowards, and warmongers. We know their positions. We chatted them up, for god's sake. Half of them want to lie down and crawl away with a scant piece of the pie. The other half want to flame out in glorious combat for which they're hilariously untrained for. And yet… they have the manpower. They have the resources to make all this work. They represent the last vestiges of the free people in this galaxy. Like it or not, we need them."
Jack's face scrunched up. "Right… but they don't need us."
The path ahead of them started to curve to the right. No doubt they had reached one corner of the ship as they treaded in their laborious orbit.
"We can't promise these disparate groups exactly what they want to hear—to take up different stances—just to unify them," James said. "That charade will fall apart before we will ever get a chance to leave the planet."
"I could always threaten them to get in line," Jack sarcastically suggested, violet wisps beginning to vine within her eyes for good measure.
James wryly chuckled. "As amusing as that would be to see, it might produce the opposite effect of what we're going for."
"We're worrying about our own effects," Jack sneered. "These people have the chance to do probably the last decent thing in this universe and they're spending all this time worrying about their own self-interests. It's fucking disgusting, is what it is. You want to talk about effects? We should show them the cost of their own indifference. Shock them into taking action."
"If the Monolith couldn't do that," James blithely shook his head. "What will?"
It did not escape James that the only times when he felt truly worthless as both a human being and as an actual person was when he was surrounded by the electorate. On the battlefield, at least he had enough control to dictate his own life. When he was in a stuffy boardroom or one of these much-detested networking moments, he would be surrounded by people who could theoretically claim that their own efforts in politicking had ended up saving as many lives as he did, all without the effort of picking up the rifle and taking up a position. It was as if his own efforts were utterly meaningless to those who had never faced combat before. It was a fate that Shepard had made an effort to avoid before. Inwardly, he winced as he thought of his old commander. Just thinking about him could not stop his own cloud of contemplation from imagining that he was failing the man's memory.
Not only the memory of Shepard, but of Garrus, too. Christ, he had been the one to give the turian the very information about this meeting to begin with! Going back to Garrus with nothing to show for his fruitless attempts would be more than humiliating. It would serve to prove that his entire value as a person would amount to cents on the credit. An absolute failure.
"All right, marine," he felt Jack's elbow dig deep into his ribs, shaking him from his pessimistic train of thought. "Spill it."
"Spill what?" he rubbed at his afflicted side.
"You're easy to read. I can always tell when you're getting into one of your contemplative modes."
"That obvious?"
The face that Jack levelled at him practically screamed, Really?
"You have almost as much in common as the teens that I teach at the Academy," she said. "They always get the same forlorn look in their eyes, sooner or later. It's because they're not good at thinking about more than one thing at once. Want to know what that is?"
"Being a complete fuck-up?" James asked.
"No. Getting laid. Jesus, marine, I thought you'd get that one. I mean, these kids are stuck on a space station, some starting at fourteen years old, and they grow up alongside members of the opposite sex. And you know how teens get when they're in close confines with the other gender, right?"
"I can only imagine."
"Right. And they're hopeless. They're nerve-wracked and driven purely by hormones. Bursts of machismo alternate between introverted periods where they clam up tight, freaked out of their minds. Many of those kids become so scared of even making a move. Like they're running through all the scenarios of them being rejected. And they replay those moments over and over and over again. So, imagine the look those kids have in those moments. That's how you look right now."
James blinked. "Like… a horny teenager?"
Jack's face flattened, as if she was disappointed in him, and she subtly shook her head.
"No. No. Like someone's who's only got tunnel vision on the bad outcomes. You're only thinking of being a failure. The both of you aren't searching for the right things."
James resisted the urge to look up at the ceiling in a moment's prayer of mercy from this woman's interrogative personality. Jesus, she certainly could push!
"Care to give me a hint as to what I should look for?" he asked.
The thin biotic shrugged. "I'm in the same boat as you. Still searching for a direction. But there's something you have yet to consider."
"And that is?"
Jack leaned towards him conspiratorially. "You haven't failed yet. That's the thing. And I know you're too stubborn to quit."
The trajectory of their route ended up taking them almost halfway around the ship—James noticed some of the ship's holographic directions that were indicating their translated change of position. To their left, they saw a double set of sliding doors marked Security. A human guard—part of the ship's crew—was manning the post in front of the pillar that separated the two openings. Curious, both James and Jack wandered over.
They could see the guard stiffen as they approached. "Apologies," he said. "No civilians allowed."
"We're not civilians," Jack said flatly.
"Do you have authorization to enter?"
They did not. James suspected this was one of the restricted areas that they had been warned about upon their arrival.
Jack shook her head. "Only specific ship personnel allowed back there?"
The guard gave a curt nod. "Correct. Staff with the applicable clearance would would have the ability to enter the brig. Unless otherwise noted, access is limited to ship security."
The brig. James filed this part of the ship in his head for later use.
"Ship like this, only full of politicians, I'd probably hazard a guess that you guys don't see all that much excitement," James shrugged by way of conversation.
"You'd be surprised," the guard countered. "Petty theft and other small-time crimes may be nonexistent, but we do have at least two captives that will soon be prepped for sentencing. What they were accused of and the actual nature of their crimes aren't in my place to reveal. The ensuing tribunal will be the place for such things to be made public. Now, kindly exit the premises, please. There really isn't anything for you, here."
The two were left to continue their irregular orbit in their own solitude once more. James had his hands shoved in his pockets as he left the brig in his wake, not sparing it a second glance as it slowly disappeared from behind a shallow corner. Jack easily kept pace with the marine's lanky stride, looking up at him all the while.
As they slowly came under the blue-green slit of an artistic forked skylight beyond which fizzled a barrage of bubbles, James finally was able to perceive Jack's gaze, as though he just realized that he had been under her scrutiny for almost five minutes.
"What?" he asked her.
The biotic just smiled and gently grasped at the hem of his shirt, drawing them closer.
"Just that you're not attractive when you're so despondent," she said.
She then rose up on her tiptoes to kiss him.
A whole slew of things only now began to make sense for James. He had been building barriers for his own mind's eye to contain itself within ever since he was a child, knowing full well that they would be blinders for him down the line. He had been prepared to take the risk—they were what helped him push through the tumultuous years of youth, to break free of the yoke his own father exerted and to fall under the magnanimous tutelage of his uncle. To look past the beatings, the cuts and the bruises—a narcotic for his own racing mind.
It only made sense that he would miss this. Until it was staring at him in the face. Quite literally, in this case.
He kissed Jack back, his arms wrapping around the thin woman. There was no one else in the vicinity to witness this. Just the way the two of them preferred.
A couple of levels below, Avi Ben-Zvi was trying not to get too sucked into the spycraft aspects of his little scheme, mostly in the form of trying not to hum some of the more famous musical themes from the more well-known thriller franchises. His pulse was certainly hovering around one of the more chaotic ranges that would otherwise be considered unhealthy to a human, but he was managing to mask his nervousness with well-practiced stoicism.
The lower decks reminded Avi of the back alleys behind the Citadel promenades, but much better lit. Everything was so bright here he almost had to engage his retina implant's tint functionality. The area down here did not need to put up appearances—the prison-like atmosphere had stark white corridors and stainless-steel doors. A few terminal boxes jutted from the walls in odd places and the tubing in the ceiling was exposed. Quite the welcoming location, he noted sarcastically to himself. The air had the scent of frayed wiring and ozone. He figured that he was close to the engine room, though that was not where he was going.
Avi followed a convoluted trail through the unmarked maze of halls, drawing on his mental map for guidance. Eventually, he came to a long and dark passageway, a square tube. At the end was a single door, flanked by two salarian guards. The man slithered in an unseen breath and did not break stride as he marched his way through the ingress. An accomplished war reporter, Avi knew exactly what stances to take around men of action. He was particularly good at being mimetic.
As he approached, Avi raised his omni-tool, flashing a computer code on it.
"Commissioned personnel," he merely said, holding out his arm as though he dared the guards to contest it.
To their credit, the guards did not make any challenges that doubted his status. One of them simply engaged their own tool and flashed Avi's code. A green symbol lit up on their tool—everything was in the clear. Silently, they gestured for Avi to proceed, guaranteed that his visit would be harassment-free while down here.
Avi could barely contain his grin as he sidled into the next room. The benefits of Cirae's recent promotion had already seen results. Avi had known this, having chatted up a few embassy clerks while the asari had been having her meal with Pry'cor. Being on the Synod's council came with a few extra benefits, including the ability to transfer a complete level of access to the Atoll Stoa to one other person at that member's discretion. While Cirae was being the public face of the Menhir's outreach, he would be doing all the shadow work, thanks to Cirae gifting him the keys to the kingdom. Or at least, a vast majority of the ship.
The room he was in now was dim and cold. Alien darkness. A faint nitrogen mist billowed around his ankles. Avi zipped up his jacket with a shiver. There were rows upon rows of steel black and violent red colored databanks, arranged in sinister processions whose length seemed to span half the Menhir's. The beating heart of the Synod's intelligence—the vast data core of the Atoll Stoa. No better place to search through communication logs than here.
Avi put some distance away from the door. He was paranoid enough that he did not want his lonesome figure to be the first thing that anyone otherwise unsavory would glimpse upon first entering. He embarked on a somewhat aimless path, cutting left, right, left through the rows of servers. He finally stopped at the far terminus of one of the data towers. There were console inserts embedded into the ends of the rows for anyone to utilize. His credentials gave him root access to the network, though he was in for a rough time: there was no graphical UI—all he had to use was a blank command prompt.
"Oh, just kill me now," Avi grumbled as he hit the enter key twice. This was something he had not anticipated. He was absolutely rubbish at coding, how the hell was he going to penetrate a simple shell command language? So far, he was turning out to be a particularly lousy spy.
Trying to decipher the correct command lines to type in would take him the rest of his natural life, and then some, so Avi knew that any blind attempts to force his way through the digital murk were going to take their toll on him. Fortunately, he had a couple programs on hand that he had received during his days when he was exclusively reporting on software start-ups, while working for one. He had been particularly mercenary after the war, selling his journalistic services to the highest bidder in his off-hours. Mostly he had been tasked with creating factual hit-pieces on the competitors of his clients. He had never been wrong in his accusations, but the work itself had left him with a dark feeling knowing that he was contributing to the collapse of the companies he exposed, never mind that the executives were the real criminals as they fleeced investors out of cash and bailed out on their situation with their golden parachutes. But he had to find a way to make some money in such a battered economy— anything to pay the bills in a struggling galaxy. Sometimes if a client was also short on cash, they would pay him with product. Software licenses. Some of it legal, others… not so much.
One particular company, ITer, had devised a program that could decipher common console languages and create guides on the fly for customers otherwise inexperienced with code. The original intent behind the software was that, if someone was fluent in one particular programming language but not the other, they would be able to use such a product that would analyze the code on the screen, offer real-time hints as to what the language meant, and would whip up common code blocks that would easily allow them to draft a connection from point A to point B in a system. ITer would not be given a chance to distribute its product to a wide audience before it went under due to a lack of funds, but they had given Avi a key for the software before their demise for him to use "at his own discretion," but such a condition had been delivered with quite the obvious wink. Blind eye towards a wandering mind.
A now-confident Avi had opened said program at this point, where it was installed on his tool, and was using it to fumble his way across the Atoll Stoa's database. The program first popped up "$ pwd" as his first command to enter. He did so, and a matrix of portage and root functions, along with timestamps, waterfalled down the screen. Guess that meant he was doing something right.
"Communication logs," he whispered into his voice-command unit. The program took a few seconds to process the proper code for him to type.
{use( /usr/root $ find . -type "*AUD*" -user{system} -type{auto} ) }
According to his code translation device, this was going to enable him to search for all system-created audio files, a common trait amongst standard communication files. Root access would allow him to search within hidden folders as well, so this, in theory, should proceed to give him everything.
Luckily, his fumbling around the ship's directories had ended up placing him in exactly the correct file location. The only problem: there were over 200,000 separate communication files for him to sift through.
Avi rubbed at his eyes tiredly. More trouble than it's worth, perhaps.
It certainly seemed that way. He was only here to do due diligence, after all. He had not come all this way to ignite the paltry embers of what could only seem like conspiracy theories. All he wanted to do was determine the extent of the Synod's communications had been with the other remnants of the militaries that had not yet conceded to Aleph. That was it. With such information that he would then give to Cirae, the asari would presumably be able to use her status to try and jump-start more involved summits in a broader push to gain allies, even though doing so might earn her the rest of the Synod's ire.
Still, easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.
He opened one of the files, just to get a sense of what he was looking at. The contents of the message had been decoded, but they were filled with mostly naval jargon that seemed benign in nature to Avi. Nothing really of use, here. Before closing the message, the reporter made sure to take stock of how the message was structured, including the time stamps, location codes, and the file sizes emblazoned on the top right corner of the screen. So, he was able to see where certain messages were sent and when. This could be useful, he figured.
Trying to trawl through the rest of these messages for clues would drive him to the brink of insanity, so Avi began playing with some of the filters. He cycled through messages with indicated keywords (finding nothing), compared the cadence when repeating messages were sent (also nothing), and even tried running a filter search on the ident codes that sent the messages out in the first place (useless—all the messages were sent from the ship's central server ID).
It was only when he filtered by file size did he hit a breakthrough.
The files were organized by the smallest ones first, but there was something odd about how the first entries on the list were arranged, Avi noticed. He ran a mental average on the data size for these messages—practically all of them were over 300 megabytes in size due to the properties of alphanumeric coding. Yet, there were nine messages in the beginning of his list that were only 30 megabytes. Messages sent in error, perhaps? Avi opened one of them to check.
No… it did not seem like these messages were created by mistake. They contained no text upon them, just a link to another compressed message. Avi checked them all—they all had been created the same way. Nine messages that each linked to other separate messages on the server. Something was not adding up, here. Avi opened one of the linked messages in the absurdly small origin file, but this did not allay his confusion. The message attachment that was linked was a random communique that detailed nothing of value, just standard acknowledgement codes between ships, the kind that were created when signal pings were sent through the relay network, much like the sonar function on a submarine.
The Atoll Stoa's been pinging friendly fleets? Avi wondered. He recognized some of the ships in the linked messages. Ships that belonged to the Alliance, to the Hierarchy, and others. He opened another tab so that he could search for any follow-up communications on these pings regarding their final destination, but was unlucky on that front. That was a pretty big clue that the Atoll Stoa had, besides sending out IFF pings, not engaged in any serious dialogue between the remaining allied fleets.
But why ping the ships if only to remain silent? Avi felt that he was missing something. Pieces of a puzzle whose shape he could not yet ascertain. Grasping at ghosts, more like.
He was about to leave when one final idea came to his head. Avi opened all the nine messages at once and read their transmission zones: Xi 12-32, Tucana II, 45333 Hunvar. He had to open his map for reference. Right away, there appeared to be some inconsistencies. The messages were all sent to zones of empty space, or systems that were otherwise so remote from civilization that there would be no point in having a military fleet take up an occupying position there. Avi raised his hands, confounded. Another dead end.
Then Avi noticed something on the screens. He leaned in and squinted. Nine messages. Nine attachments. Attachments that were there for a reason. Within the messages, he opened up all the attachments and checked the transmission codes on those.
And what he found chilled his blood.
The transmission codes on the attachments were innately familiar to him. Local Cluster. Apien Crest. Athena Nebula. Each with their own definite set of coordinates within those systems. All areas where presumably the resisting armies were continuing to defend against the PMC invaders and their own traitorous confederates.
The very same places that Garrus had indicated, on his Operative Volar report, where friendly fleets had been ambushed.
Only now did Avi realize what was going on. The attachments themselves were the code. Sent within the blank messages, the attachments held the exact coordinates and timestamps that recorded any successful IFF pings. Anyone who intercepted such a transmission would be able to open the attachment, read the coordinates that had been coded with it, and then head off to surprise the allied fleet still blissfully loitering in the system. These were not messages sent by mistake—they had been deliberately constructed transmissions that had been sent out to seemingly meaningless zones where enemy ships were awaiting the receipt of such communiques. Hidden messages, using the Atoll Stoa as its unwitting transmitter.
Someone had deliberately cherry-picked these messages, compressed them into small file sizes, and attached them to blank messages in the hopes that they would be considered too small to register on the transmission bandwidth levels.
And such an author was not just any someone.
Operative Volar.
Menhir
Sam pressed two pre-wrapped syringes into Garrus' hand. Thin blue liquid could scarcely be perceived sloshing around within the glass tubules. The human sternly met the turian's eye. A fierce command. A desperate plea.
All of the above.
"Two injections a week," Sam said, light around the med bay brightening his white coat. "Twice a week. Subcutaneous layer will suffice—the thigh's a good area. Take over-the-counter meds beforehand to keep the swelling down."
"Got it," Garrus said as he grasped the medicine and tried to take it out of Sam's hand, but the human would not let go just yet.
"You will tell me if you have any complications?" He emphasized 'will' like he was giving the turian an order and not a suggestion.
Garrus solemnly nodded. "Anything more than I already have, at least," he promised, and Sam released his grip.
The doctor returned to his seat, but not before he slowly turned on a heel, a practiced maneuver. Almost as if he was intending to make his parting statement a dramatic one.
"And… your health now? There anything you want me to know?"
The turian broke eye contact for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for Sam to notice. Doubt shadowed his eyes and they momentarily lost their luster, as if he was deep in thought. Registering that doubt felt like someone had taken a blowtorch to Sam's insides, a cruel trick of his mind to mimic the pain that Garrus must be going through, what with the radiation eating his organs at this moment. And the damned turian was being stoic. Stoic.
Even though he must have been holding back a tidal wave of immense agony, Garrus managed to push that all back so that he could adopt a shaky grin and a rasping laugh.
"Everything's… manageable. Not like I have any better options right now, do I?"
Sam dearly wanted to lie to the man, but he could not find the strength.
"No, I suppose not."
The act of finally sitting down once Garrus had left had a draining effect on the man. A bleakness was making its way upon Sam, as empty as wild space. For the knowledge that he should be doing more in spite of all his efforts was an eradicating notion upon his psyche. Seeing the effects of his friend wasting away, delaying the inevitable with drugs, deceiving the both of them with their empty promises and blind optimism.
Sam stared down at his hands, clasped together in his lap. He let clarity leave his thoughts, reducing them to a discombobulated fog. A vague acceptance… or merely a delayed delusion.
Only his eyes moved upward as Korridon entered the med bay, the young turian's shoulders rigid. Sam raised an eyebrow, sensing a slight change in the man, but could not properly find the words to explain it.
"Korridon," Sam said by way of greeting. "This one of those 'friendly chat' sort of visits? Or you coming to get a head start on your own medical regimen?"
The turian waited until the door was closed before he spoke.
"I'm coming to you only because I know that your profession obliges you to keep secrets, Sam."
The human twisted his face into a sarcastic smile. "Again with the…" he started to say before he sighed. "I can keep secrets on my own terms, you know. I'm not solely limited to rely on the finer points of my job in order to keep another's confidence."
Korridon held up his hands, signaling peace. "And I know that you have the best experience at… well, what I'm about to ask you."
Suspicious, Sam narrowed his eyes. "Fine. Go on."
"Well… you're married to a quarian."
"Okay," Sam said flatly as he held up three fingers. "A few things. One, this doesn't sound like a medical issue. Two, you're interrogating me when these conversations are usually supposed to go the other way around. Three… why?"
"I just need to talk to someone," Korridon emphasized hastily. "Sam… there's no one else I can go to for this."
"All right, all right. Jesus Christ, I'll play along. Grab a seat."
The turian sank into his chair as though his own energy was expended in that moment. His eyes darted back and forth, a constant wariness keeping hold just behind his yellow gaze. He sat, hunched over, fiddling with his own fingers, before he finally stared back up at Sam.
"The extranet can only get me so far at this sort of thing," the turian lamely defended with a weak grin. "I mean, I've tried to find out everything I could relating to the subject… but there's nothing. I just… spirits, I don't know how to say this properly… but you're the only person on here who's had firsthand experience with this and… and you've always helped me on this ship. You've never turned me away for anything, Sam."
The raised eyebrow upon Sam's face was only going higher and higher. At the start of this whole meeting he had gotten the sour sensation that he was being mistaken (yet again) for a psychiatrist and now Korridon's sudden emotional admittance was now making him feel more like a priest. He placed a hand on his chin, keeping his eyes in confused slits, before he held up a hand so that the turian could not fumble around anymore.
"And somehow…" he said, "…my being married to a quarian has something to do with this, yes? Far be it from me to detail the nuances of family life, but—"
It then hit him in the next second. His eyes widened so fast they seemed to explode out of his skull.
"Oh," he said smugly, a mirthful spark in his eyes. "Oh ho! It all makes sense. A certain someone's captured your attention, eh?"
Korridon wrung his hands, leaning forward in his seat. "Sam, please. I'm begging you to keep this quiet—"
The graying human lifted his hands in exasperation. "Why is it that I apparently have this reputation for being a blabbermouth when no one can provide any evidence of the sort?! I'm not going to grab the ship-wide intercom and announce that you have eyes for the quarian commander—"
"Could you possibly be any more louder?!" Koridon hissed.
"—because there is no reason for me to act like that big of a prick to you," Sam finished. He then tapped his fingers upon his chin as he studied the turian considerately. "Which… is why you asked me about my wife. You want to know what you're potentially in for, right?"
Korridon's hands were clenched so hard the carapace of his palms were making scraping noises. Sam then got up from his chair and grabbed a nearby glass. He returned with the cup filled with a clear liquid—he handed it to the turian.
"I don't really want liquor right now," Korridon said.
"That's fine," Sam said, "because this is water."
The turian took the offered glass with a sheepish look. The first swallow felt like it was dislodging a sizable blockage in his throat, quenching his parched esophagus. He drained the glass and set the empty container on the desk while Sam looked particularly satisfied at himself.
"Where are you at with her right now?" the medic asked.
"Hmm?" Korridon shook his head, distracted.
"I mean, is there even something between you two, or are you just testing the waters?"
It was hard for Korridon to even answer that. He was beginning to think that coming here was a mistake, that he had been too hasty in making his desires known. As if he was dreading that others would see his dreams as childish. Too unbelievable. Something dark and cold simmered in his gut. He looked away.
"I don't really know," he admitted.
Sam leaned back and crossed his legs. "So, what do you know?"
"Huh?"
The human tapped his hands on his knees. "It's a simple question, Korridon. A blunt one, but I've always admitted that I'm a terrible resource to go to for relationship advice. So, let me switch questions: what makes you care about her?"
Korridon blinked. He blinked again. "Kind of private, don't you think?"
"Hey, you came to me for advice. If you can't admit this to yourself, then you're not ready for it to happen."
A strangled sensation was imparting itself on Korridon's throat again. Stark memories from just yesterday of Roahn standing in her room, enviro-suit shed, a drunken smile plastered to her face. Her pitiful body hunched over the commode. Sobbing her eyes out while in the shower. Worn out to the bone, exhausted breaths escaping her as she was tucked into her bed. Secret memories, ones that not even Sam could ever hope to know.
The churning drone of the engine core from the deck below embedded itself deep within the turian's ears. A comforting hum—familiarity in what he loved. He remembered the times he would roam the halls before the entire Monolith business had come to light and, as if by chance, momentarily cross paths with Roahn. She would look at him, an unmistakable smile previously hid by smothering glass, and then she would vanish around the corner, leaving Korridon momentarily flustered. Had he been imagining things this whole time?
He leaned forward; eyes now distant.
"She's never judged me," he whispered, so quietly even he had trouble hearing it. "She wanted to make her own determination of me without letting others do it for her. It's something that… it's not even as banal as saying we share any similar interests. I mean, we do, but that has little bearing. More like, her independence, her attitude… she's an extraordinary person, Sam."
"Many would be hard-pressed to disagree," the human nodded.
"I just can't get her out of my head sometimes. There hasn't been anyone else who's like her. Not even close. And… I can't explain it, but I know she trusts me. You said it yourself—she would only talk to someone when she was ready, right? Well… she talked to me first. She let me in. Me. Not Garrus. Not you. What do you think that means?"
Sam flicked a thumb at the corner of his mouth in contemplation, where a small smile was partially hidden.
"It means there's no reason for you to stop trying," he said.
Korridon ruefully laughed. "I was… kind of expecting an answer with more substance."
But Sam dismissed that with a wave. "We all get ourselves into uncharted waters at some point. Thing is, kid, you're going through what quadrillions of people have gone through since the beginning of time. Probably the truth of the matter is that race has very little bearing on the situation, considering where you are now. Roahn being a quarian, despite it seeming like a pertinent point, actually does not carry very much weight for you."
"I just wanted to know what to expect, is all. If… if her being a quarian would be… you know…"
"Expect?" Sam arched an eyebrow. "Kid, if someone had managed to crack the code to flawlessly execute a successful relationship, never mind within our own species, we would've heard about it. Billion-credit market, romance, and despite all our knowledge, it's still as messy as it ever was."
"Do you think I'm simply wasting my time?"
The human pursed his lips. Thoughtful. Studious. "Only if one of you doesn't step up."
"I should have known this wasn't going to be an easy conversation." The turian's head was not completely vertical, as though his skepticism had been skewing his center of gravity over time.
"I don't think you came to me because you wanted something easy. You wanted honesty."
Korridon's eyes narrowed almost playfully.
"The last time you and I talked, you said there was no chance of being able to break through to Roahn, to get her to open up."
"Yes… that's correct."
"I'm glad I didn't listen to you then."
Now Sam laughed, relaxing in the moment. "That a roundabout way of saying you might not heed my advice from today?"
"No," Korridon shook his head, voice hushing a tad. "Just that… at the time, I think you said what I needed to hear."
The medic quickly glanced at his omni-tool. He then slowly got to his feet but continued taking glances at Korridon as he slowly orbited the room.
"Knowing what you want to hear and what you need to hear are radically different things. A lot of the time, you won't realize it in the moment. Bits and pieces of conversation—initially dismissed—become important with reflection."
The turian released a breath, shockingly feeling like he was relieving fifty pounds of weight from his chest.
"So, you're saying that I'm just going to have to brave through this? Keep doing what I think is right? I'm not trying to… win her, or anything like that. I want her to want me on her own terms."
Sam flashed a grin as he was in the process of filling a glass of water for himself.
"No one's ever gotten through this without feeling some modicum of fear. I've been there… perhaps a little more intensely than the average of most couples, but I mustered through it, as will you. I can't tell you which is the right path to take because there's only one person who can make that choice and that's you. But… I can offer you a couple of pointers."
"Anything," Korridon scooted forward until he was almost dangling off the edge of his seat.
"You're going to have to be patient with Roahn, and this has no bearing on her being a quarian. It's just who she is. No matter what happens, expect her to be the most blindingly stubborn person you've ever come across. She can be tenacious as hell, as I'm sure you already know, but that can also be a benefit. She can be one of the most fiercely loyal and emotional people you could ever hope to meet in your lifetime. For the person she cares most about, she'll let you in, all the way. But no one else. And she won't make it easy."
"I'm not even close to giving up on her," Korridon said.
Sam chuckled and walked over to pat the turian on the forearm. "Then you've got the right mindset. You're halfway there, already."
Grateful shakes tremored at Korridon's extremities. Jitters of relief. He sensed that this conversation had reached its natural conclusion and he rose to leave, but not before thanking Sam for his discretion.
"One more thing," Sam called before Korridon could touch the door controls, "might be too late to mention, but if you still have the slightest inclination that I'm an old fool who doesn't know what the hell I'm saying and you want to do some more research on your own, I'd advise you to stay away from the extranet sites. You know which sites I'm talking about. They're nothing but garbage."
Korridon did indeed know what sites Sam was talking about and he turned to face the man before he left. "Unfortunately, I think I've already seen the vids you're referring to. Someone left a few links to them on my profile years ago, probably as a gag."
"Pretty wretched, aren't they?"
"You can say that again," the turian's eyes widened as he nodded in agreement. "I don't think I've ever seen such trash in my life. One of them was an animated video. Human-made, so already you'd figure they get some of the details wrong. Not like I'd ever repeat some of the… things that were demonstrated in that vid. I'm not that inexperienced."
"Let me guess. A video about turian-human relations… lot of scratching, biting, clawing, and otherwise several incorrect depictions of turians acting like absolute animals?"
Korridon was dumbfounded. "Yes, actually. I was more impressed at what the video unintentionally got right than—wait… how did you know that? Were… were you watching the same vids?"
Sam waggled his fingers, as though he was eager to bring a close to this discussion. "They're called stereotypes for a reason. And the thing about stereotypes is sometimes they are painfully, dreadfully, wrong."
Roahn sat, rigid, against one of the firm-backed chairs that faced towards one of the few open windows that graced the Menhir's hull. The port observation deck was perhaps the plushest area of the ship for a person to unwind, containing a couple of tables for people to mingle around and a countertop with a few quick refreshments easily accessible. Despite the creature comforts, the deck here was also reflective of a comparable step down when it came to the Normandy, as the Menhir lacked the padded recliner chairs, the cabinets filled with alcohol, and even the poker table that acted as quite the lure for some of the more easily distracted members of that vessel.
She had left her visor back in her room, some meters away. Her chair had been positioned right underneath the air vent, so that a blast of frigid turbulence could strike her in the face, ruffling her hair. Roahn tilted her head upward with a sigh. After the events of last night, the cold air felt like a sobering antidote. Her head still throbbed.
Her mechanical right hand gently clutched a glass, filled with a soft drink the color of distilled amber. Bubbles scrambled through gaps in the ice blocks. The drink was based on a root grown on Palaven and had a distinctly medicinal aftertaste, but it contained no alcohol. Supposedly, this drink had enough antitoxins to quell the disturbing sensations that were cramping her gut as she was going through the last vestiges of her hangover. Keelah, even glancing at a bottle of liquor was enough to make her temples pulsate, her ears burn, and her stomach perform flip-flops. She wondered if she would ever be able to take a draught of alcohol ever again.
It was not just the abuse to her body that her binge drinking episode had imparted on her, but the additional knowledge that she had allowed herself to be bared, in more ways than one, in front of perhaps the only person on this ship who truly wished to understand her. It was embarrassing, humiliating, not to mention completely unbecoming for someone in her position, to expose herself like that, to a friend and subordinate. The absolute degradation she had felt when she had first awoken in her bed, still naked, an uncomfortable cognizance dawning upon her like a boulder slowly tipping off a cliff. It was not hard for her to piece together what had happened. What Korridon had seen. Or heard. She felt mortified for both herself and him, because it was her own fault that the both of them had been in their respective positions. It had been unfair for the man to take up her burdens, even if it was just for that one night. No one should have had to peer so deeply into what haunted her so.
To distract herself, Roahn lifted her glass, her prosthetic fingers effortlessly clasping the cup, and put it to her lips and took a sip. Cold liquid hit the back of her throat. Some of it trickled down her jaw.
"Shit," she mumbled as she wiped her lip. Drinking normally was going to be a hard habit to master, it seemed.
Her mind kept coming back to the slanted minutes right after she had awoken from her drunken nap. She clearly recalled that the sheets of her bed had been tucked snugly around her body, her pillow fluffed around her head, and her enviro-suit had been folded and laid upon her chair. Folded! Her helmet and visor had been arranged piecemeal on top of the covering, too. Keelah. Korridon. How was she ever going to address such a complete lapse of her senses to that man, who looked after her even when she peeled back the barest glimpse towards her own fragile mind?
When Korridon had come back to her room to show her what he had discovered, Roahn had been both frightened and relieved. Scared that she might have had to see judgment on his face. Eager to feel that sensation of safety again.
Roahn closed her eyes with a sigh. The drink fizzled in her stomach, acidic and angry.
When she opened her eyes again, Tali was by the curved aperture, looking out towards the pinpricked expanse, a hand on the glass as if she was window shopping. Her mother's image then turned back, "noticing" Roahn, and leaned against the wall, arms crossed in front of her chest.
"You're lucky," she said to Roahn. "To have met someone who cares."
Her tiny smile for all to see, Roahn turned her head away. "Am I really having this conversation with you?" A spike of dread then seemed to skewer her. "Did you… see what happened last… last…?"
The purple-hooded quarian lifted two fingers from her arms. A tiny, but impenetrable concession.
"Only as far as what you want me to see. If you don't want me to know, then I won't know. It's that simple."
Roahn sat in her chair, ever still, but not completely convinced. "You don't need to lecture me. I know what I did wasn't exactly… healthy."
"We won't talk about it," Tali reassured as she took the chair next to her, mimicking her daughter's posture for a moment before she threw up a leg over her other one. "You're all right now. That's what's most important."
Staring darkly out the window, imagining she was among the stars, Roahn was still uncertain.
"Am I, really?" she muttered.
She waited for Tali to respond, a dim hope that she would ask for an explanation for her somewhat glib comment. But no such query came.
Her mother existed in the corner of her eye, but she did not look over. "There's nothing between us, if that's what you think."
"Between you and the turian."
"Yes."
"You're that certain?"
"Mom, please," Roahn now turned to find Tali staring mirthfully back at her, head tilted as if the elder quarian was sure of her stance, very much more assured than Roahn was in the moment. "He's a friend."
The ovular shape of Tali's eyes abruptly narrowed into vexed hemispheres. "The lie sounds strange when it is said out loud, doesn't it?"
"You think I'm lying?"
"Maybe because you haven't yet considered the truth. What would be wrong with that?"
"Nothing," Roahn frantically shook her head. "There would be nothing wrong. He looks at me the way I've always wanted to be looked at. Doesn't give me any special treatment apart from my rank. He's the normality I've been dreaming of for years."
Tali slowly blinked. "But?"
"I can't. I just can't."
Twiddling her fingers upon the armrests of her chair, Tali looked back and forth for a moment. If she were real, she would be able to manipulate her environment so that she would be able to pull her chair over so that she would be seated across from her daughter. Since this was not the case, she simply got up and walked directly in front of Roahn and took a knee, becoming an unwavering roadblock that Roahn could not look away from.
"There has to be something for you to live for," she told Roahn, almost an admonishment.
"There is," Roahn gritted. "The man who took my father—your husband—from me. When I've removed his memory for all time… then I'll be free. I'll live for that until then."
Tali shook her head. "That is not a reason. Revenge does not fill a void."
"Why not? Maybe you're wrong."
"Perhaps. But what if you're wrong? What if you do win and you've become irreparably broken as a person afterward? Do you know for certain that you can get through this alone without destroying yourself? You need an anchor, my dear. Someone for you to trust. To love. That is why people are meant to be together. We save each other that way."
"I don't need anyone," Roahn growled as she abruptly got up. She shut her eyes tight and walked forward, through Tali, and made it to the window without any resistance. But when she looked behind her, her mother was still there.
"Your father thought that way once," Tali said, a deeper timbre invading her voice as she tipped her head lower. "He changed his mind."
Roahn glowered. "That was after he died the first time."
"Which is why I'm reminding you now. Roahn, I know you can never look through my eyes. I'm just a shadow of a person you only fleetingly knew. I wasn't there when you completed your childhood. I wasn't there when you started your adulthood. I don't know why I am here now, but I never lost that spark, my deepest desire. To see my little girl happy. Alive. Anything I can do… anything I can say. If I can steer you away from a dark future, then…"
Tali dipped her head completely, breaking eye contact for a moment. She then lifted her eyes back up, a serene look coming over her.
"At least consider my words," she said. "Consider my meaning. You still matter to people, you know."
She then walked up to Roahn, hand lifted like she was about to trail her fingers across her daughter's shoulder gently. The younger quarian closed her eyes, unsure if it was out of fear or some nameless emotion that still remained dammed up within her. When she opened them again, Tali had once again disappeared. There was no need for her to scan the room—no sense in confirming what she already knew.
Roahn's glass was still quietly sparkling upon the armrest of the chair she had vacated. She headed back over and took up the cup, the ice within melted to the tiniest of pebbles.
"To you, mom," she whispered.
She then drank.
A/N: Life in quarantine is reminding me heavily of my college days (or "university" to be more colloquially accurate for any of my non-American readers): where we're drinking too much, everyone is insulting one another as a result of going stir-crazy, but everyone still likes one another.
Stay safe. Stay vaccinated. And don't storm the capitol building, for fuck's sake.
Playlist:
Atoll Halls (The Kiss)
"Eno Cordova's Theme"
Stephen Barton and Gordy Haab
Star Wars: Jedi Fallen Order (Original Video Game Soundtrack)
Avi In the Server
"Worth the Price"
Clinton Shorter
The Expanse [Season 4] (Music from the Amazon TV Series)
"You Still Matter"
"Out of Bullets"
Thomas Newman
Spectre (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)