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For the nearly decade and a half that he had lived on the Krogan homeworld, he'd found many ways to describe it. It was vicious, filled with animals that could and would eat even Krogan on a regular rotation. It was barren, obviously. And at times it could be shockingly cold, too. Without tree cover to contain the heat from the sun, or suitable buildings that could do the same, vast expanses of Tuchanka's surface would become windswept, desolate, and home to sub-zero temperatures by night.
But most of all, and most obviously, it was bloody.
The entire planet filled with hundreds of major Clans fighting for every scrap of meat and workable metal they could get their hands on. Most of the time, conflicts were relatively small scale. Small enough that even the odd mercenary gang, rogue warrior, or even the odd minor clan lucky enough to escape the gaping maw of the greater clans could participate. Whenever that happened, it was always… Interesting to see what changes came from that.
Twice, in his tenure, it had resulted in a powerful warlord surging up from a minor clan and taking the reins of a major one. And once out of those two, that warlord had gone on to wipe out another greater clan. He'd intervened when it looked like he would take a third, and become something able to cause problems off of Tuchanka.
'Unity on Tuchanka would mean another Uprising,' his handler had said when he'd sent the report through, 'Keep it handled.'
And so he had, slinking through the Krogan's territory and setting a bomb to kill the nascent Overlord before he could take true power. A few scattered data-drives in one of his lesser warlord's quarters, and a tip to a particularly opportunistic vulture of a warrior, and the warlords had been at each other's throats when the bomb went off. It had been almost sad, watching the massive coalition fall apart.
But orders were orders.
Then the Coalition had come to Tuchanka…
'Same Varren, different pattern.' His Handler had said when they made contact. 'Continue as ordered. Adjust targeting patterns to allow non-Krogan as well.'
'Why?' He'd asked.
'Because those are the orders, Operative.' His handler answered shortly, irritably. 'Your line will be compensated accordingly.'
He'd fallen in line at that, of course. He didn't have all the reports, numbers and information, so he just had to trust that the Union knew what it was doing. What was best for the galaxy. As it always did. But what was he supposed to do against the Coalition? Bomb building sites? Undermine rail lines? Jam communications? Poison the Rachni hives in the mountains, as horrifying a discovery as their arrival had been?
He'd done everything his handler, and his incoming STG comrades when the situation worsened, suggested…
Nothing had worked to do more than slow down the construction, though. At first, he'd been frantic, alongside the nearly hundred score of STG operatives scattered around Tuchanka. But as time passed, and the operatives' numbers started to thin, that frantic fear faded to… Resignation. He continued his work but even so, he soon found himself looking skyward to see Human, Turian, and even other races' ships, all dotting the sky. Space stations followed, and soon, he could see long lines of air-car traffic crossing through a sky steadily turning more and more blue.
Now he found himself on a mountain in the southern hemisphere, looking out on a city that was a mix of ruddy brown, repaired buildings that gave way halfway up to dull iron colored sky touching towers and elegant, curved glass and steel buildings. Governmental buildings, intelligence suggested. Around them were smaller buildings, clustered around their bases and filled with the more pedestrian sorts of city-scape decor. Restaurants, homes, workshops, and factories.
Further out, the city gave way to rolling ground covered in young trees, bushes, and grass. Long rivers irrigated by engineers crossed the land in even, rigid lines while others dug by Rachni meandered around hills organically. Naturally. The former were croplands, gridded out for maximal production with the canals meant purely for the crops themselves. While the latter was restoration. Meant purely to heal the shattered world.
And while he could still pick out clusters of mostly ruined, derelict buildings, and he knew that there were still vast arid landscapes covered in ruins elsewhere, he could see that it was working...
The Krogan were healing their world, with the aid of two of their ancient enemies… Kneeling at the edge of the ridge his camp was built on, where he could observe the region from the relative shelter of a deep cave, he couldn't help but ask if the Union were wrong to send him here. Or, if they were right ten years ago, maybe they were wrong to keep him here. The Reapers had united the galaxy, it seemed.
And the Union was being left behind…
"Why?" He mused, easing down onto his stomach and pulling his long Mantis up onto its bipod beside him. "Why is the Union doing this…? What is the point?"
Still, he slid his integrated visor onto his face and brought the scope up to his eye. Training it out on the city, he found the local seat of the garrison and counted the windows from the North to the South, looking for the right one. It didn't take long to find, bordered on all sides by a thin strip of specialized paint much like invisible ink that his visor was meant to detect. His agents had painted it a week prior and while the windows would look ever so slightly blurry for the half-inch width around the window, no one would suspect it as anything more than dirt.
Through the window, he could see a weathered Turian leaning over a table surrounded by a half-dozen other officers from the various Coalition races. Looking at the window to its side, he saw a lithe form kneeling over a prone Human in a simple skirt and shirt. The STG operative tugged his Omni-Blade free of her breast and stood, drawing a Carnifex and a small block of explosives.
It was a shaped charge, meant to kill most if not all of the Garrison officers in the other room, and thus slow development of the region for weeks. He just had to watch and, if needed, help the operative escape after the assassination. It would be tricky, but Operative Ninety One had done this kind of thing a dozen times. But…
"What's the point?" He growled to himself, tapping the guard of his rifle's trigger anxiously. "The Coalition is fighting the Reapers… Development here only helps against that. So, why?"
The answer was obvious.
Because the Union believed that was for the best…
"Compromised!" He heard the Operative suddenly chirp in his ear.
Flicking the scope over, he found the Salarian wrestling with another woman in office attire. She was larger than the other, though, and he could see the struggle. Her arm was glowing, and he could see the officers in the next room moving. Recating, to her calls for help or the sound of the struggle. The operation was a flop, he knew, as the officers made for the door.
Still, the Salarian managed to get an arm free, glowing with Omni-Tool energy…
His rifle bucked against his arm and he let himself breathe again. As he watched, the woman staggered back from the collapsing corpse. Standing, he reached up to pull the STG serial code off his shoulder and smiled. Looking down, he spotted a little flower bud and his smile widened.
Perhaps the Coalition needed a new marksman…
And someone to tell them just how much the Salarian Union had invested in their failures.
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Beyond the pseudo-airlock John stepped into what looked a lot like a ready room, to him. Smooth, contoured white lockers lined either side of the room, and the screens beside the door into the airlock had thick metal rods in the vague shape of a circle. He stepped in front of one of the two and blue light flared along the edges of the frame and then bloomed in, forming an opaque blue circle. He reached for it on curious instinct, and it flickered to life. He could see Wrex, out in the cave pacing along the inside of the barrier O-O-F had put up.
On the other side of which he could see more than a dozen Husks were writhing and snarling mutely, pounding against the barrier while a Marauder watched them. What it was waiting for, he didn't know, but his trigger finger itched anxiously for it.
"You do not need to worry." He flinched and spun, and the Monitor flinched back and away from him in surprise. Chuckling quietly, it said, "Apologies. I did not mean to startle you."
"It's… Fine." John murmured, turning back to the screen and frowning. "I don't need to worry?"
"No."
"Why not?" He asked after a moment, when it became clear the Monitor wasn't going to say anything else. Pointing at the screen he said, "That is a lot of Reapers, and I'm sure there are more just waiting."
"Indeed there are." The Monitor answered brightly, hovering close over his shoulder to look at the footage. Turning to him it said, "But that is a Hard Light barrier. So long as our energy levels remain stable, nothing short of a concentrated bombardment by at least four of their capital vessels on one area would be able to break through it."
"That's… Specific."
"I calculated the damage output some time ago, in case this installation was detected. Even based on secondary observation as it is, the liberal estimate comforts me." The Monitor answered quietly, "Now that it has… Well, I am happy I devoted the time to the venture."
"So am I." It was nice to at least know the chance of the roof giving in to a Reaper firing line was a bit smaller than he expected. "How stable is the power?"
"I won't bore you with the technicals, but only a full-scale implementation of the Safeguard Protocol or the Vanguard Protocol would lower power levels far enough to endanger the integrity of this installation's shield systems." The Monitor answered, turning and floating away before he could respond. It called back to him as it went, "Please, follow. There is so much to discuss!"
"Mhm…" He rumbled, turning to look at the 'lockers' as he passed them. There were tiny viewports about as wide and long as his hand in the middle of each, and he could make out what looked like stocks through it. "What are these?"
"Unimportant!" The Monitor called impatiently from the door. Bobbing in place, it added, "Please, come along. As I said, there is much to discuss!"
Nodding begrudgingly, he turned away from the cabinet of very obvious weapons and followed the machine through the wide door.
Beyond it was a long corridor, nearly three times his height and twice as wide. It curved to a point at the top, almost like he'd seen churches do in the past, and as he walked he could see the occasional… Drone, or what he expected to be drones, buzz by overhead. Some slipped into holes just large enough for them spaced along the corridor while others moved along just under the curve of the ceiling, where they were out of the other drones' way. They were like ants, in that way, buzzing just by each other to head to wherever they were going.
"So tell me." The Monitor said as he walked and it floated along ahead of them. "How much do you know?"
"About?"
"Well, I suppose that answers that question, more or less…" Omega sighed quietly. Once again before he could react, the machine rushed on, asking. "Do you know what either the Flood or the Forerunners are?"
"No." He answered honestly. "I don't know anything about either. At least, assuming you don't mean the mundane options."
"I don't." Omega sighed, "That's what I was afraid of… Your people haven't attained the Mantle yet, after all."
"The what...?" He asked as they stepped into some kind of data-room, surrounded on all sides by floor to ceiling, familiarly smooth and sleek terminals. In the center of the room, ringed by thin guard-rails, was a small dais that the Monitor hovered over towards while he followed. "And what's this?"
"The Archive room." The Monitor answered simply, "The control at the center will allow you to access the Great Archive."
"Which is…?"
"It would be easier if you simply accessed it and asked it directly…"
"This is alien tech." He grunted to explain, hand flexing around the grip of his rifle. "I'm not getting near it without knowing what it is beforehand."
"I suppose that's fair, considering what is happening in the Alpha systems…" John's eyes narrowed at that. Was he referencing his home? If so, how did he even know about it? He opened his mouth to ask, but the Monitor beat him to it. "I can monitor Earth's status, and glean limited information from its communications systems, through the Domain. Once again, the technicals would bore you…"
"But we're…" He blinked, "On Earth?"
"No, we are not." The Monitor answered simply, "We are on Terra, in the Beta system."
"Beta…?"
"Again, the Archive would provide the answers…"
"I prefer hearing the answers from you." He answered simply. Whatever the Archive was, he still wasn't sure. And he didn't trust O-O-F enough to just step into a machine when it asked, either. "If you're having trouble finding a good place to start, try the beginning. I find that helps a bit."
"Fair." The obvious AI sighed, sliding forward and into the center of the dais. When it came to a stop, the terminals began to hum around them both, and holograms of aliens in sleek armor sprang to life in front of them. "Fair. Very well… I will start with a brief overview of the Forerunners, and the Mantle. Then we will move on to the Flood, and the Halo array, to complete the primer."
"Fine."
"You… May want to sit down." The AI suggested, "This will take a small while, I'm afraid."
"I don't have time to waste…"
"It will not be wasted." Omega promised sternly, "Believe me when I say that understanding this is integral not just to you, but to the survival of the entire Homo Sapien race in the Beta systems. And perhaps even to those in the Alpha systems, too."
"Alpha…" He meant his home galaxy, or whatever the right word would be with all this new nonsense on top of everything. The UNSC. If there was a way he could help… He sighed and knelt beside the dais, nodding curtly. "Get started, then. We don't have all day."
If it would help, he didn't really have a choice...
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"Steve!" Shepard snarled into her comm, holding onto her shock harness with white knuckled fingers and watching the locked down crate in front of her warily. "We have precious cargo! What's going on?"
"You don't have to remind me about- Fuck!" The man swore as the shuttle rocked, its internal lights flickering as the entire hull shuddered. The jerking back and forth lessened after that, but the explanation wasn't one that made her happy. "Primary stabilizer is out, Commander. We're a kilometer out, but I'm going to have to drop weight to keep the Oculi off me."
"Drop weight…?"
"You." He grunted as the shuttle rocked and, from outside, she heard hundreds of small somethings slamming against the hull. "I'm gonna slow down, come to a brief touch, and I want you and the package out. Clear?"
"What about-"
"Just- Damn it, Commander, let me do my job!" He snapped, cutting her off and making her eyebrows shoot into her hairline. "Touching down in thirty. Get the package in place and put a stop to this! Clear?"
"...Yes, Sir." She finally said, offering the man the respect he was due, rank be damned. "Steady out, I need to hit the release on the hatch."
"Copy."
She staggered upright as the shuttle rocked side to side, her pilot trying his best to evade fire at the same time as he tried to keep the belly level. A hard trick to manage, she knew, but one she had faith her pilot could manage it. At least for a little while.
Hopefully for long enough...
The release on the storage system is simple, and keyed to her Omni-Tool alongside Cortez's, in case of emergency. The crate hissed as it opened, venting stabilizing air and coolant alike. Then the bricklike case enclosing the actual Leviathan Orb clicked free and rose on a little platform, complete with little straps that hung off its case limply to make it look as much like a simple run of the mill pack as possible. The engineers had even pockmarked the metal case, covered it in false scars, and smeared it in streaking paint, all to sell the image to any unwary eyes looking.
Of course, the minute a scanner got near it thanks to the unique radiation it put off, the illusion was broken, but…
Well, ideally that just wouldn't happen.
The shuttle slammed into the forest floor and slid as she tugged the pack on. As the hatch opened, she leapt and rolled, grunting a simple, "Clear."
Cortex didn't respond, simply whipping up and to the side, cruising away as a trio of Oculus fighters swerved after it. She saw one fire, craving through the outside of the Kodiak's hull, and frowned. The shuttle was trailing smoke, now, but on it went. And, silent as the grave, she turned to head on her own way.
She had to get to the mine and plant the Orb, before time ran out.
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Predator 1701 :
A lot of good thoughts! I can't confirm or deny much beyond that this is not a ship. Other than that, yeah, good thoughts! Hope you like where the story goes.
Random 65 :
And I love you, random citizen!