All Sheffler could hope was that Siu and Kolyat were in a better position than he, Van, McVie, St. Claire, and Mercer were. It seemed to him that no matter which direction the team went, they kept running into more resistance than there should have been. That was, after all, what the Monkey Wrench teams were for, carefully staggered to draw off the Reaper ground forces so the Stiletto teams could get through.
Sheffler rolled his shoulders, glancing skyward. It was still raining, had been since they set foot back on Earth. He didn't know London well enough to know if this was normal or not, but it was painfully inconvenient. It left him almost wishing for the low-light filters of N training; those had been a pain to work with, but at least visibility had been better than this.
"I'm having a thought here," Van panted. "Take your locator off."
Sheffler blinked in non-comprehension. "Why?" Reliance on locator belts was something drilled into Alliance servicemen from Basic. Without the locator, you were invisible. Without the locator, you could become truly lost. Without the locator, extraction or rescue teams, medical service, nothing could find you. Without a locator, you might as well not exist.
"Because you're N7 Cerberus-hunting badass John Sheffler, and if we're so worried about the Reapers hearing a stray word over the radios, how do we know they're not using the Alliance's locator system to pinpoint high value targets?" Van asked tiredly. "We'll never reach the beam at this rate—Hammer One's already folded and gotten out of there."
That was probably true. Everyone had seen the big big Reaper head out to start shooting up London apparently for the amusement of putting a few more holes in the city. Its post at the beam had been succeeded by one of the smaller big Reapers, but he'd heard the story about the ones on Tuchanka and Rannoch, that they had trouble using their cannons to get to things at their feet. If you could get close enough, the chief danger was simply being stepped on. But it was easier to avoid a big foot than a quick-moving laser.
If mice could do it, Sheffler thought wearily, then he and his marines could. He wished he had something he could hook the locator onto, something that would put some distance between his unit and the Reapers. He looked at it for a moment before McVie took it and hurried off to one side.
Dropping it into a storm drain, Sheffler realized. Well…that would work. "Come on," he said, and began the next stage of plowing through shattered London.
"You think anyone's gotten up there yet?" St. Claire asked.
"Betcha it was the turians," Mercer said wearily, limping a little on a wrenched knee. "They don't like being second to anyone. And it'll give them a reason to laugh later: our planet, but they got to the objective first."
Sheffler snorted at this, but didn't argue.
"No, it would be the asari," Van interjected. "Their Commandos are trained not to get bogged down. They just find a way around. A turian crew would have to power through—like we're trying to do."
That was true, too. One never heard much about asari Commandos; given the way the asari liked to portray their society—a practical nirvana—that made sense. Commandos were presented as a decorative formality to the rest of the galaxy.
But Sheffler had worked with Commando units a few times on inter-species exchanges. What they lacked in physical strength they made up for in biotics and tactics. You didn't fall for stupid tricks when you were five hundred years old and had seen those same tricks a few times. The only drawback he found with asari Commandos was that they tended to be more open to diplomacy than most militaries. For most species, if the military went in diplomacy had already failed. Asari Commandos were expected to do both.
In this, they were like Ns. An N was trained for war, honed and shaped into a weapon, but an N also had to learn when to stop fighting, otherwise—so the theory went—they couldn't function without a war to keep them occupied. No one needed assets who went off and started another war because the one they were fighting died out. An N—at least, the higher tiers—had to know when the enemy stopped being the enemy. They had to know when enough was enough.
There wouldn't be any of that here. There was no negotiation, even if there had been, only someone truly stupid would put any faith in it. Reapers didn't negotiate. He didn't think they understood surrender either, not as it might pertain to them…and Reapers were one enemy he wouldn't accept surrender from. Too much risk of Indoctrination. Nope, they were the one enemy that absolutely had to be wholly wiped out. Hopefully, the Crucible would do that.
Katarina was on the Crucible detail. He hoped she was still safe. They were both Ns; if they hadn't been, there might have been ugly pyrotechnics over who went versus who stayed. He loved her, but he didn't want her on his squad for that very reason.
The next wave of Reapers spilled out in from of them, but Sheffler thought the wave didn't seem quite as heavy as the last few.
"What do you think?" he panted to Van, once the wave of Reapers were all down. His eyes darted about, taking stock of his team. Van, McVie, Mercer—
Van only looked past his shoulder. "I think we're down a man," he said gently. Then, in an undertone that understood a little too well, "I hate to be the one to tell you, John."
The blood in Sheffler's veins, previously helping to keep him toasty warm in this wet, dreary night, all turned to ice water; his feet almost ached from the sudden shift to cold. Slowly, he turned, made himself look.