Tales from the Citadel
Chapter 18: Shepard versus the Flyboy
The definition of breaking news varies depending on its perceived importance and impact. I was reminded of that considering the latest events to unfold.
Several months ago, (Acting) Alliance Prime Minister Thibault announced that his government had awarded a lucrative contract to the Unity Group charity. It wasn't long before he was accused of cronyism and conflicts of interest, given how the contract was issued as a sole-source contract, the many ties between his family and the charity and aggressive lobbying by the Unity Group despite the fact that they never registered as a lobbyist.
While Thibault dodged and evaded any and all questions and criticism, the Unity Group had been inundated by criticism and controversy. Celebrities and sponsors who formerly supported the organization were hastily cutting ties. News outlets were writing investigative reports about its financial practices, its sprawling and Byzantine organizational structure and its internal culture. Many speculated that something would have to give. And it did.
In an official statement, the Unity Group announced that they were withdrawing from the contract, given the controversy surrounding its announcement. Furthermore, they would be making operational and organizational changes to better suit its mandate.
For anyone interested in Alliance politics, this was quite a development. Would this fuel another blowback against Thibault? Or did he somehow manage to have the disgraced charity act as a fall guy to save his political hide? It really depended on your point of view. Some would argue that this could have intergalactic repercussions. Others would say that any turmoil the Alliance was facing paled in comparison to what was happening with the batarians.
What was going on, you ask? Good question. News from batarian space was sparse to begin with, even before the war. But in the last few months, the number of news stories about the batarians had gone from slim to almost nonexistent. No one really knew what was going on and, I suspect, no one really cared. Everyone—individuals, towns, cities, provinces, states, countries, colonies and planets—had their own problems to deal with. But one story had recently made headlines—and not in a good way.
Apparently, Khar'shan had instituted a tax increase of five percent about six months ago. Most of batarian space had acquiesced with little in the way of protest. The lone exception was Camala. You know, the batarian colony that had opened the doors to refugees of any race who were willing to settle down. The colony that had promised—and later passed—democratic reforms in line with most galactic governments. Anyway, the colonists of Camala decided to exercise their newfound rights and protest this tax hike. Gatherings of various sizes. People carrying placards—holographic or physical. Speeches. That sort of thing. All very peaceful. All without any hint of violence.
Well, the government of Khar'shan didn't appreciate the antics of those protesters. In the last week, they had passed—or rubber-stamped—various pieces of legislation. The Ministry of Public Awareness—formerly the Ministry of Information Control—received expanded powers and funding to improve batarian cybersecurity. Specifically, they were directed to enact a series of firewalls that would effectively screen data transmissions passing through batarian comm buoys. Mandatory military service for all batarian citizens had been reinstituted, with increased funding allocated to training and arming all those new brave defenders of the state. And let's not forget the network of vid-cams that would be installed in every building, street and alleyway of every batarian planets, thanks to—you guessed it—an increase in funding.
All these laws were couched in long-winded, flowery language. But it basically amounted to the return of the isolationist and dictatorial Hegemony.
The only voice of dissent to this recent legislation came from Camala. Governor Grothan Pazness made a brief statement questioning the need for these new laws and promising the citizens of Camala that, as long as he was in power, they would not be conscripted into the batarian military. Nor would he allow the installation of any new vid-cams on Camalan soil.
Bold words. One couldn't help but wonder what Khar'shan's response would be.
One couldn't help but wonder how the other races would react—or whether they'd even care.
Shaking my head, I reached to shut off my computer before I heard any more depressing news, only to pause at the sound of a new e-mail entering my inbox:
Subject: All work and no play
From: Steve Cortez
Shepard,
We may have a little down time on the Citadel, but we all know that the work never stops. The replacement shuttle for the Normandy just arrived and I'll be taking it for a test flight later today. If you'd care to join me, let me know. I can meet you at the Silversun Strip.
Oh! Right! When Brooks—it was simpler to keep calling her Brooks despite the sheer number of aliases she had—my clone and CAT-6 had tried to kill me and my squadmates, they'd briefly seized control of the Normandy. We managed to retake the ship, but not before a few of the CAT-6 mercs stole one of the Normandy's shuttles... which they eventually abandoned after a crash landing. I'd requisitioned a new one but, galactic demand being what it was, there had been delays. At long last, it seemed like the new shuttle had arrived. And while there was no rule saying the CO had to personally inspect each and every shuttle, it wasn't like I had anything else to do. So I hit the reply button and sent my response:
Subject: Re: All work and no play
From: Commander Shepard
Cortez,
I'd be happy to join you for a test flight. See you at the Silversun Strip. North shuttle pad, 1500 hours.
While there were a lot of shuttles, it wasn't hard to find the one I was looking for. It looked brand-spanking new—fresh coat of paint, polished to such a sheen that you could use it as a mirror, with nary a dent, scratch or scrape to be seen. It bore the standard Alliance colours. And it touched down on the shuttlepad at 1500 on the dot. Gotta love military training.
If there was still any lingering doubts, they were immediately dispelled once I walked through the hatch and saw Steve in the pilot's seat. "Welcome aboard, Shepard," he greeted me.
"Steve," I nodded as I joined him in the cockpit. "So where are we going?" I paused, then pointed at the blank panels in front of me. "And why are there no windows? How are we supposed to see where we are going? How did you get here without crashing?"
He gave me a sly smile. "Activating external cameras."
The panels in front of me suddenly grew transparent, revealing the hustle and bustle typical of the Silversun Strip. "I didn't know this shuttle had virtual windows," I said.
"Not just this shuttle," Steve corrected me. "All shuttles and starships built for military use. Certain transparent materials might be acceptable for civilian vessels, but not for Alliance regulations. No amount of reinforcement can stand up to the rigours of combat. Hence external cameras linked to internal vid-screens, more colloquially known as 'virtual windows'."
"I didn't know," I admitted.
"Bet there's more you don't know about this bird," Steve chuckled.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, crossing my arms.
"Before mass effect fields," he replied, "there was no such thing as inertial dampeners."
"Go on," I said slowly.
"Here. Feel this."
Steve tapped the controls and the shuttle lifted off the pad. An invisible force, stronger than anything I was expected, gripped me with such intensity that I lost my footing. If it wasn't for the co-pilot's seat, I would've sprawled on the floor. "Whoa!" I exclaimed.
"That, my friend, is unadulterated momentum," Steve grinned as the shuttle flew away. "Want to really feel it?"
Damn. I mean, it made sense when you thought about it. Mass effect fields had irrevocably changed our understanding and relationship with the laws of physics, both theoretical and practical. Artificial gravity, material production, shields, even weapons—the list goes on and on. Why wouldn't they be used to cushion the impact of inertia?
But it was one thing to know it on an abstract level. It was another thing to experience it firsthand. And part of me wanted more. "Show me," I said.
The shuttle immediately jolted forward. We soared above a few electrical cables, then dove below a walkway. Then, just for kicks, Steve put the shuttle into a barrel roll and we corkscrewed between two more walkways. I couldn't help but let out a whoop as Steve stabilized the shuttle.
"See?" Steve said. "Doesn't take much to pull a few G's."
"Makes you wonder how pilots flew without mass effect fields back in the day," I replied.
Steve had the answer. "That's what G-suits are for. They squeeze your body so the blood stays in your head when under acceleration. Without them, blood winds up pooling in the lower parts of your body. Your brain gets deprived of blood and things get bad. First your vision starts dimming, then you get tunnel vision. From there, you lose your vision entirely and eventually go to g-induced loss of consciousness."
"You seem to know an awful lot about them."
"I used to wear one when flying my Trident. In a fighter, it's common to transfer power from the inertial dampeners to other systems. Engines, shields, weapons, that sort of thing."
"You miss it?" I asked. "Flying fighters, I mean. Must be a big change going that to flying shuttles. I'd understand if you were less than thrilled."
"Hell, no," Steve said firmly. "Sure, flying fighters and flying shuttles are two completely different things. But I'm not just any shuttle pilot. I'm your shuttle pilot. Wouldn't have it any other way. Let me put it this way: when you're on the ground, weapon in hand, you're in control. You can move where you want, fight when you want.
"But when you're being flown to an LZ, all that power's taken away. You can't do anything to affect the flight path. You can't respond if your transport's under attack. You can't do anything if you're shot down. All of a sudden, you're vulnerable.
"Getting you to the ground alive—and extracting you in one piece—is a grave responsibility, one I wouldn't trust to anyone else."
"I feel the same way," I said quietly. "'Cuz you're right. When I'm flying in the Kodiak—or any other shuttle—all I can control is my own state of mind. That, and the morale of my squad. Everything else, during those few minutes, is out of my control. I have to have faith that the pilot can get me where I need to go. And during the war, that pilot was you. You got me in and out of Menae, Eden Prime, Tuchanka, Rannoch, Thessia… all the missions I completed, all the people I saved—none of that would have happened if it wasn't for you. You're an important member of the crew, Steve, and you play a critical role in what we do. I'm—we're—lucky to have you."
"Any time, Shepard."
We fell silent as the earnest sentiment sank in. Naturally, my big mouth didn't stay shut for long. "So, what do you think of the new shuttle?"
"Definitely fresh off the assembly line."
I glanced over at Steve. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It's just… on the surface, this is brand new, without any wear or tear. Maybe with some upgrades or improvements. You have to look a little deeper in order to find the little things."
"Such as?"
"The overhead handrails at the back, the ones you might hold onto while standing, aren't made of the usual stainless metal. From what I can tell, they replaced it with some kind of plastic. Probably lighter and easier to clean, but I don't know how they'll hold up under regular use. I'll do some more checking. In the meantime, I've already put in an order to have some of the older handrails added to our inventory.
"The inertial dampener controls were buried behind menus and submenus—which might be fine if you have plenty of time to sift through them, but not when you're in the middle of a combat situation. Once I finally found them, I programmed a shortcut.
"And I had a brief scare about the vacuum seals. The model and lot numbers that were listed weren't on my list, which meant they weren't rated for pressurized environments. Pretty important when you're trying to keep in atmosphere against hard vacuum. Turned out my list wasn't up to date and the seals on this shuttle were up to code after all. Which is good considering I was going to fly down to Earth and surprise James."
Oh yeah! James had gone to the Interplanetary Combatives Academy for advanced training. I'd wondered how he fared. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. He said he'd completed his N1 course. The next available shuttle going from Rio de Janeiro to the Citadel wouldn't be departing until tomorrow, so I offered to pick him up."
"That's nice of you," I said. "Picking him up early so he doesn't have to wait."
"Well, yeah. I mean, there would be a little waiting. See, we were also hoping to find a bar to catch the biotiball game."
"Biotiball?"
"Yeah. The Seattle Sorcerers are playing at home tonight. They're taking on the Usaru Maestros. I'm telling you, it's gonna be epic."
I'd have to take his word for it. I didn't really follow biotiball at all. Couldn't tell you what were the rules, how it was played, who was hot, who was not. A lot of people were really into it. I was not one of them. Never had been. Sometimes, I felt like I was missing out or being left behind. Story of my life, I guess.
I was so busy mulling over the story of my life that I didn't realize Steve had asked me something. "Sorry. Spaced out for a second. You were saying?"
"I was saying that you're still housesitting for Admiral Anderson, right? Which means you have that apartment with the sweet, sweet vid screen."
"That's right."
"Well," Steve smiled. "It occurs to me that that can't be a coincidence. Would you be willing to let us watch the game at your—Admiral Anderson's—apartment? You provide the couch, we'll provide the refreshments."
Huh. On the one hand, watching a biotiball game wasn't exactly my idea of a fun evening. On the other hand, there were nothing to loot or set on fire. And a night of hanging out and pretending to be 'one of the guys' might just be what the doctor ordered.
"Sure," I decided after a moment. "Why not?"
Steve dropped me off at the Silversun Strip, partly because he didn't really need his CO playing co-pilot while picking up James, partly so I could get back to Tiberius Towers and clean up. No, the apartment wasn't that messy—I was a guest, after all. Not to mention all those habits drilled into me by the Alliance. But it gave me time to clean at my leisure and skim a quick guide to biotiball. Not enough that I could pass myself off as an expert, but enough that I might be able to understand one out of every three things.
Now I could've sent out a general invite to see if anyone else was interested in catching the game. There were probably plenty of other people interested in biotiball. But there were a few reasons why I decided against it. First, it was very short notice and people might have made other plans. Second, I didn't have enough drinks or refreshments on hand and I didn't feel like making a last-minute shopping trip. Third, I just didn't feel like entertaining a lot of people. A couple people? Sure. But a crowd? Not really.
According to the sports guide, the biotiball game was supposed to start at 1900. I had the vid-screen tuned to the channel and playing at 1855. Oddly enough, James and Steve hadn't shown up yet. Guess even military precision had its limits.
I didn't hear the door chime until 1915. Turning on the vid-screen, I saw James and Steve waiting outside. "Sorry we're late," James called out. "Somebody forgot to pick up the cerveza."
"No worries," I said, opening the door. "Come on in."
"That somebody was you!" Steve told him as they walked inside.
"Didn't say it wasn't," James chuckled. "So what did we miss?"
"Some pre-game analysis, a lot of clips showing the teams practicing and way too many ads," I replied. "I think the game's just about to start."
"All right!" Steve grinned. "Seattle Sorcerers versus Usaru Maestros. Going to be some intense biotiball."
James didn't seem so sure. "Nah, there isn't even a proper season this year. And they announced that they cancelled the playoffs last week. This is just a goodwill game for morale. No one's gonna kill themselves if nothing's at stake."
"Maybe nothing's at stake," I disagreed, "but that doesn't mean they'll take it easy. The galaxy needs every bit of goodwill and every boost in morale right now. I'm pretty sure both teams will give it their all."
"Absolutely," Steve nodded. "Hey, have you guys seen Derek Rogers' game lately? Man, he and the Sorcerers have been tearing it up."
"Esteban, the Maestros don't lose," James replied. "Have you seen Tyra T'Sanis play? The woman is blue lightning!"
"Mr. Vega," Steve laughed, "your love of the asari team has more to do with how they look than how they play."
"Hey, that's not true!" James protested.
Steve raised an eyebrow.
"Not… exactly," James admitted.
Hah! I shook my head and tossed a bottle of cerveza to each of them.
"Besides, you telling me you don't have the hots for some of the Sorcerers?" James asked pointedly.
"Okay, okay," Steve laughed, raising his hands in defeat. "Guilty as charged." He took a swig from his bottle before changing the topic. "Hey Shepard, who're you backing?"
"Don't know," I shrugged. "I don't really follow biotiball. I'm more of a hockey fan myself."
"Oh yeah?" Steve asked. "Which team?"
"The Vancouver Canucks."
Steve and James quickly adopted bland, neutral expressions, but not before I caught the mix of polite surprise, disbelief and pity I usually saw when I announced which hockey team I supported. In case you didn't know, it's not easy being a 'Nucks fan.
"But we were talking about biotiball," I said before things got any more awkward. "What do you guys think?"
"The Seattle Sorcerers are one of the few human b-ball teams left," Steve said promptly. "They were on tour when Earth was hit by the Reapers. That being said, they were well known for their discipline and tight defence. Since acquiring Donna Novotny from the Hackers, they've been completely unstoppable."
James shook his head. "Playing against other human teams, sure. Maybe even some of the lesser asari teams. But the Maestros? Most of them have been playing since before the First Contact War. That's why the Maestros beat the Sorcerers the last five games they played against each other. Trust me, they'll beat 'em again."
"I know the Sorcerers have never beaten the Maestros," Steve conceded, "but they've never been this hungry either. Look, you wanna talk about stats? Every game they've lost in the last season, it's only been by a few points. The Sorcerers don't give up, no matter who they're up against."
"Yeah, okay, I'll give you that," James said grudgingly.
Steve turned to me. "So, Shep, who's it gonna be?"
Now I'd spent the entire war—and several years before that—trying to get the various races to work together. Having said that, if I had to pick between a human sports team and an asari one… "You don't bet against the home team," I decided. "Besides, I've got a soft spot for the underdog. Put me down for the Sorcerers."
"Mr. Vega," Steve said gleefully, "I hope you're hungry for humble pie. When has our commander ever been wrong?"
James shot me a look that clearly said 'Et tu, Loco?' But all he said was "Come on, man. The game's starting."
The game wound up being pretty intense. With James and Steve cheering on their teams—and trash-talking the other teams—it was hard not to get caught up in the moment. Especially when they took a break every now and then to help me understand what the heck I was watching and some of the tactics behind certain plays.
We also caught up with James and his Interplanetary Combatives Academy. I had no doubt that he'd do well, but James had expressed some jitters. Turned out his fears were for naught and he passed the N1 course with flying colours. Even better, he'd been able to track down his family. His aunt and uncle—the latter providing the strong role model needed by a young James Vega—were alive and well. Surprisingly, so was his father. His drug-free father. Turned out dodging Reapers and helping civvies survive was just what Mr. Vega needed to quit red sand. All's well that ends well.
As long as we weren't talking about biotiball.
"Mierda!" James swore, jumping to his feet. "You're blind, ref!" He shook his bottle angrily at the vid-screen. Thankfully, it was mostly empty.
The referees consulted with each other, but ultimately stood by their ruling. "And it's good!" the asari commentator announced. "Sorcerers 68, Maestros 66. The Maestro streak comes to an end as the Seattle Sorcerers win!"
"Yes!" Steve cheered. "They did it." Then he looked up at James, who was pacing angrily. "Now pay up!"
"Pay up?" I frowned as James flopped down on the couch and dug some credits out of his pocket. "Was there a betting pool going on that I didn't know about? And, if so, why didn't you let me in?"
My guests looked at each other for a moment. "We weren't exactly betting on who'd win," James finally replied.
"We were betting on if you'd pick the winner," Steve finished. "And everyone knows you don't bet against Shepard."
James shrugged apologetically. "Anyway, it was a hell of a game."
"That it was," I agreed, waving off his apology. "And it made for a great evening. Thanks for putting this together, Steve."
"Thanks for hosting," Steve replied.
They spent about five or ten minutes helping me clean up. I tried to tell them I could handle it, but was met with a blatant display of insubordination.
"Tomorrow comes early," James finally said. "Hasta luego."
Steve nodded in agreement. The two of them said their goodbyes and left the apartment. I finished collecting the bottles for recycling and called it a day. Tomorrow would come soon enough.