Ludmilla Robbins wanted to scream. Not the high-pitched scream of fear or the useless scream of denial, but the full throated roaring scream of helplessness and frustration that preceded crazy action. The helpless frustration passed as soon as her mental scream—because actually doing it was unbecoming in an officer of her years and experience—reached its crescendo, the falling volume leaving her a plan she could proceed with.
"This is Robbins. Everyone on this boat, get your ass of it right now!" she barked over the all-call. "I want a full evacuation immediately. Anyone still on this tub in five minutes is gonna end up very dead."
"Robbins?" Maguire frowned.
Robbins turned to him, her expression pulled into an ugly grimace. "I'm gonna ram this thing down that bastard Reaper's throat," she snapped, ignoring the CIC personnel scrambling for the emergency escape measures. Her face burned and her head ached a little, but she'd be damned if she was going to place more value on this ship and her own life than she did on Hammer's success.
Not the least because her girl was down there.
Maguire shook his head. "You'll never get close enough to hit it. You'll never break atmo—if it doesn't shoot you, one of its buddies will." He didn't need to mention the effects on Hammer a ship of this size crashing into the Earth would have.
"I don't have to," she answered darkly. "If it's shooting at me it's not shooting at my girl." Rage beat at her in a way she'd never experienced, but this Reaper—Harbinger, Shepard called it—with its unhealthy fixation dredged up an anger that was almost primal.
Robbins didn't consider herself the motherly type and she certainly never saw Shepard as any kind of stand-in daughter—even if she had always felt some kind of fondness for her (buried under propriety and the demands of being the girl's commanding officer) that ended in pride at her achievements, flinches at setbacks, and rolled eyes from time to time when Shepard did dumb (or just crazy) things.
So obviously Shepard was hers after some weird fashion and right now that hulking behemoth with its bad attitude was taking potshots at her girl and probably doing it without accuracy just to watch Hammer scuttle and recalibrate their paths of travel. Like a cat playing with a mouse, and not even Shepard could do much against a Reaper, on foot and without a targeting laser.
It was asking too much for Robbins to just sit here, knowing the Reaper was killing Shepard's objective, while sitting in a ship that she could easily write off as being too damaged to be much good to anyone. But it could be some good to Shepard. And no one, except Maguire who would never tell all he knew, ever needed to know that the ship hadn't been truly damaged enough to crash towards Earth on a so-convenient trajectory.
"If she ever asks you, the Reykjavik was too damaged to continue," Robbins said snappishly as she cued the terminal she would need to enact this maneuver. "We were going to crash and just nudged our trajectory to something useful. You tell her that for me. Now get going." Then, switching radio frequencies. "Reykjavik to Normandy. We're going down—no way to change that. I'm going to try to put us on a collision course with that Reaper by the beam. Give it something else to shoot at. Just so you know."
That was 'band saw.'
"We'll make use of it," the helmsman responded.
"You'd better," Robbins growled, but only after the link was severed. Was it strange that she felt more concern over the plan not working than about dying? Maybe not: she'd lived a long life, would have eventually reached mandatory retirement and not know what to do with herself. This was a good way to go out.
And with any sort of luck at all…Shepard would get out. It might only be to get picked off during another battle with some Reaper while the galaxy burned down to ashes…but it would be a little more time. And right now that was more important to Robbins than the far-off future she would never see.
And who knew? Shepard was tough, as were most of the fighters on Hammer. If this distraction could buy enough time, perhaps one or more of them would actually finish the run-up…
"We're receiving a hail from the Geth fleet," Maguire announced, making her jump. "Putting it on the all-call."
"Unit Squall to Reykjavik. You are on collision course with Earth. We are reading multiple but non-critical system failure. Do you require assistance?"
"Reykjavik to Squall, we're too busted up to be any help in this fight. We're going to let the Reaper shoot at us, take the pressure off Hammer for as long as we can."
"Probability is—"
"Don't tell me the odds, I know they suck!" Robbins growled.
"—that the Reaper will consider the Reykjavik a greater threat than Hammer." Could geth sound disapproving? "We will increase distraction time. Units Icarus, Squall, Alpha, Delta, and Epsilon recalibrating objective. Present course calculated. Course optimal. Maintain course."
"Tell the Normandy—they're the ones who need to know."
"Affirmative. We will provide Normandy with estimated distraction time. Maintain course."
"What are you still doing here?" Robbins asked wearily, as she locked in the approach vector.
"Helping you," Maguire answered. "Someone's gotta open fire on that thing, get its attention. Your aim is horrible. Too much time in the big chair."
Robbins snorted. There was no arguing with Maguire at this point: a discreet check confirmed all emergency escape vessels were out of their cradles. There was no way off for him. "Thanks Jude."
"It's the least I can do, Ludmilla," he answered firmly.
Robbins nodded. It was Maguire's life and it had been his call. The least she could do was honor his decision by not arguing a moot point.