Chapter 22: Requiem
We got David back to the Normandy without any further trouble. Jack and Grunt did a quick but thorough job of disabling all the vehicles and shuttles before we left. I think under other circumstances they would've taken their time, but they were still a bit rattled by what they'd seen here. I know I was. Plus, they were probably still reeling from the fact that it was Miranda who'd given the orders to trash Cerberus property. I know I was.
Dr. Chakwas had her best bedside manner firmly in place. Not that I've ever seen her with anything less. She insisted that the entire squad—except for Legion, of course—wait outside for a quick physical or something. She didn't have to, of course-she had real-time access to all the medical readouts from our hardsuits. (1) But I guess she wanted to be doubly sure. Mordin offered to take care of that, since he was licensed and all, but that still meant we had to wait outside in the mess hall while he looked us over one by one. Not that we were complaining—after all David had been through, the last thing he needed was a bunch of guys taking up space. But that meant we drew a lot of attention from the crew, which meant scuttlebutt spread around a lot faster than normal.
The general mood seemed to be one of stunned shock and horror. Oh, there were the few die-hards who opined that the initial intentions were good. Jacob had to set them straight—Garrus was off calibrating his guns again and Miranda was a bit subdued. Well, a lot subdued. More than a little. You know what I mean.
Once Mordin had given the green light or all-clear or whatever, we went back to do our usual thing. Which meant I did my usual rounds. Usual except for the fact that it took twice as long as it normally did, what with everything wanting to talk about the latest mission. Never had this much interest in missions before. Maybe a bit of chit-chat about the latest recruit. Or if it was a personal mission for one of the squad mates—much to my delight, everyone was acutely concerned about their well-being. Even if they were a non-human. (2) I know there was a lot of chatter when we bumped into the Collectors. But never as much as this mission.
Of course, this mission had provided first-hand proof of just how low Cerberus was willing to go. Kind of a cruel wake-up call. Hit everyone pretty hard. Even me—judging by all the rambling I indulged in earlier.
An uncharacteristically subdued Kelly gave me the heads-up that one member of the crew was having particular difficulty in coming to terms with this. Apparently, Miranda hadn't been reviewing or signing off on daily reports with her usual efficiency.
"You can say it," Miranda said softly when I went to see her.
"What?"
"You can say it," she repeated bitterly. "You can say you were right. That all your complaints and disapproval and opinions about Cerberus have some merit. Today, you get to say 'I told you so.'"
"Maybe today I... I don't want to," I replied.
Miranda gave me an incredulous look, opened her mouth as if to utter a retort. Then she closed it again.
"So... I was wondering..." What would be the best way to ask, I wondered. "You need a hand with any paperwork?"
"Paperwork?"
"Yeah. You know, maintenance logs, logistics stuff."
"I've got it under control."
"Oh, I know that," I reassured her. "Just wondering if you need a hand."
"Why? I just told you I have it under control. Are you doubting me now? Are you doubting my competence? Or maybe you just need another physical to check your hearing, because I said, for the third time now, that I have it under control!"
Miranda was yelling by the time she spit out that last sentence. Methinks she doth protest too much. Or protested too much. You get the idea. "I'm not doubting you," I tried.
"Oh really?" she challenged. "Because it sure looks that way to me. You come by three times every day, once per shift, like clockwork. You've never asked if I needed help."
"Sure I did."
"That evening review when we docked at the Citadel to get the upgrades for the Normandy doesn't count."
Oh. Um. Hmm. Think, Shepard, think—got it! "Garrus!"
"Garrus?"
"Yeah, Garrus. Command-wise, he's next in line after the two of us. 'Bout time he started learning how to handle some of the administrative stuff."
Miranda gave me another incredulous look, opened her mouth as if to utter a retort. Then she closed it again. "I suppose..." she started.
"Better for him to get some practise now as opposed to when things are really hectic," I continued, speaking as quickly as my noggin could make it up. "Might as well get Jacob in on it, too. Seriously, how much time could they possibly spend calibrating or cleaning weapons?"
"Fair enough," Miranda conceded. She pulled up a log of items that were still pending. Judging by the way her eyebrows briefly twitched, I guess she hadn't realized how behind she was. By her standards, anyway—it wasn't really a big list. She downloaded the minor stuff to a datapad and handed it to me."Thanks," I said on my way out. Miranda didn't respond.
After I got out, I grabbed Garrus, pulling him out of Gunnery Control despite his protests that he wasn't finished. We headed up to meet Jacob in the Armoury. I gave them the low-down once the doors were closed.
"Sounds like Miranda," Jacob once I finished my summary. "I remember this one time, shortly after we'd retrieved your... uh... body. The science staff had come to the conclusion that we wouldn't be able to revive you without some form of artificial assistance."
"You mean the implants," I said.
"Yeah," Jacob nodded. "Miranda had her heart set on putting you back just the way you were. Same organs, same tissue composition, nothing more or less than what you had before the Collectors ambushed you. The fact that that was no longer possible didn't go over too well."
"And how long did it take before she accepted that compromises were required?" Garrus frowned.
"She just needed to sleep on it," Jacob shrugged. (3)
"Hopefully history will repeat itself," I said. "Until then, I'll let you two take up the slack."
"Don't you want to join us?" Garrus asked innocently.
I shook my head. "And rob you of all the fun? Nah! Besides, if Miranda finds out that I did your work for you, who knows what she might think?"
Garrus may have suspected that I was angling to get out of doing extra work, but Jacob nudged him before he could open his mandibles. No doubt he felt that my concerns had some merit.
Besides, I already had extra work to do, though I didn't find that out until I got back to my quarters and saw an unread e-mail in my inbox. It was from Admiral Hackett. "What now?" I muttered as I opened it. "Yet another random mission?"
From: Admiral Hackett
Commander Shepard:
Our scans in the Amada system have turned up something we thought you should see: the final location of the wreckage of the SSV Normandy.
We thought this news might be important to you, but we also have an ulterior motive. The Alliance would like to honour the Normandy with a monument, to be built on the site of the ship's final resting place. We'd like to invite you to place the monument and be the first to walk on the site.
There are still several crew members unaccounted for from the attack on the Normandy. If you find any signs of these lost crewmen, we ask that you report to the Alliance so that those heroes' families might find some closure.
Godspeed to you, Commander.
Oh. So, not so random. (4)
It was a cold place.
Alchera, the final resting place for the Normandy and her crew, was a frigid sphere of carbon and water surrounded by a thick layer of methane and ammonia. Average temperature: -22oC. Like I said, it was cold. And bleak. And desolate. And lonely. Maybe that made it a sad and gloomy place, a wasteland that offered no comfort and solace to the living. Maybe that made it a fitting site, one as cold and bereft of life as the dead themselves.
Or maybe I should stop thinking deep thoughts and get to work. Easier to work. Less depressing.
I stepped out of the shuttle. All I could hear were the sounds of snow and ice crunching underneath my boots and the hiss of my helmet's respirator. Pulling up the sensor controls on my HUD, I set them to scan for the standard composition of metals consistent with Alliance-issue dog-tags. A beep told me there was one right behind me.
It belonged to Rosamund Draven. Rose for short. Maybe it was fitting that the first set of dog-tags I found belonged to one of the last crew members I saw before the Collectors attacked. She was always the first crew member to start a shift and the last to hit the sleeper pods, so determined to start and finish whatever job was at hand.
The sensors led me to another set of dog-tags, lying behind a metal panel with the ship's namesake stamped on it. I paused long enough to look at the sign 'Normandy' before picking up the dog-tags. Caroline Grenado. She had a thing for ancient explosives, as I recalled. Especially the ones that bore the same name as her surname.
I turned around after pocketing the dog-tags and stopped. Right in front of me was the bridge. Well, part of it. The part leading up to the cockpit, buried into a rock face. I entered that section like a traveller entering a cave. It was eerie walking past row after row of empty seats that used to be occupied with men and women, all busy with their duties in spite of Joker's constant wisecracking. At least he was still around. Unlike everyone else. I closed my eyes, trying to remember everyone who pulled shifts in here. It was hard. Joker and his smug grin kept popping up. Eventually, I gave up.
It wasn't surprising to see another set of dog-tags lying near the airlock, especially given who it belonged to. Talitha Draven—Rose's sister. She was so excited to be assigned to the same ship as her sister. And to be assigned to such a top-of-the-line vessel as the Normandy. And, well, excited in general. Excited about everything. She was the kind of woman Dr. Chakwas talked about when she said that Cerberus lacked the Alliance's enthusiasm.
Leaving the cockpit, I meandered onto a small ridge. The sensors detected another set of dog-tags hiding somewhere behind a crate that had somehow made the journey intact. I stumbled across a pack of refined eezo along the way. For once, I paused before taking it. I know I was scooping up dog-tags, but that was to return them to the families of all those who had been lost. To swipe resources with my usual kleptomania seemed, well, wrong. But then, if I didn't take it, who would? Some other thief? A prospector, perhaps? Or some grave robber who wanted to pry goodies from a crew member's cold dead hands? In the end, that's the rationalization I stuck with. Better to grab it now so anyone who made the journey here in the future would come to honour the dead, not rummage for goodies. Besides, this was my ship once upon a time. Yeah, that worked. I think.
I belatedly realized that five minutes had passed while I wrestled with that moral quandary. Stuffing the eezo in a pocket and absently wiping my hands against my hip, I went to the next set of dog-tags. It was underneath a crate all right. Couldn't shift it. Well, that's not true—I tried to shift it and wound up breaking it. Combination of cheap construction—still a constant after two years—debilitating cold and a little bit of muscle, I guess.
The dog-tags belonged to Carlton Tucks. Ended with an 's,' not 'er.' He always introduced himself that way, after a childhood of teachers and random strangers who thought his name was Tucker. It got to the point that he'd correct anyone—politely, of course—who mistook his name. Even admirals. Even admirals with a chip on their shoulder and an axe to grind against pricey boondoggles.
I could see a large cylinder with a 'SOS' logo stamped on its side. With a start, I realized it was the distress beacon. The one I'd launched while chatting with Kai—Alenko. That explains why it took so long for the Alliance to find this place—the distress beacon must've gotten damaged, got sucked into Alchera's gravity well and crashed before it could send off a signal.
Anyway, the next set of dog-tags was lying in the shadow of the Normandy's distress beacon. It belonged to Jamin Bakari. He was the kind of guy who could always see the bright side of things and share that insight with everyone else. The crew used to joke that he was the Normandy's unofficial morale officer.
As I pocketed Bakari's dog-tags, I glimpsed something on a rock face behind me. It wasn't another set of dog-tags. It wasn't a packet of resources. It... I trotted over, only to realize I couldn't reach it. After trying to climb it and failing to get a good grip, I headed to a nearby slope so I could double back and retrieve the object that caught my eye.
It was my old helmet. From my first hardsuit. The one I was wearing when the Collectors attacked. The visor was cracked, there were dents all over it and the red stripe was worn down. For some reason, my throat started acting funny. And my retinal implants started to flicker. Maybe I needed Mordin or Dr. Chakwas to check me out when I got back.
Then again, maybe I was reacting this way because it meant something. I hadn't worn that helmet or the accompanying hardsuit in ages. It was more or less an afterthought. Something old, battered and discarded. Something from the past. Yet it still had relevance today. It was still there. Like me.
Cradling the helmet under my arm, I started to head back. I had only taken a couple steps when I saw something else behind a couple boulders, prompting me to make a slight course correction. It was the old Normandy's CIC. Boy, that brought back memories. How much time had I spent at the galaxy map there, choosing the next place to go after Saren, complete some random mission or generally waste time? Too much time.
I wouldn't have been able to spend nearly as much time as I did if it wasn't for the efforts of the person whose dog-tags I stumbled across next. Addison Chase—the only engineer to complete training and serve aboard a starship without ever stepping foot in an engine room. Too busy completing repairs or performing maintenance throughout the ship. He preferred it, he said. Claimed the engine room gave him the heebie-jeebies. Never got a chance to find out why. And I never would.
The sensors picked up another set of dog-tags, right next to a datapad. Amazingly enough, it was still working. Most of the files had degraded beyond repair, but there were still a couple entries that were more or less recoverable:
Entry 01*
[UNRECOVERABLE DATA] AA#%SKA-+-+-?/\]~!a[DATA RECOVERED]spoke to the Commander about this. I [CORRUPT] all these damned aliens aboard the Alliance's most advanced ship. I just don't trust them. Esp[UNRECOVERABLE DATA] that damned asari. And a quarian! And don't get me started on that turian. Or the damn krogan. What does Shepard think this is anyway, a zoo?
Entry 20
[UNRECOVERABLE DATA]TTHAK! %$**##)-===== #$(CE)(#[ !-=-=fk3-OS4%(# [DATA RECOVERED]with the quarian. It seems she's on some kind of journey or pilgrimage, trying to improve the lot of her home ship. I can understand that, I guess. I would[UNRECOVERABLE DATA] her to babysit my children or anything, but if she has to be on board, I suppose that's not too bad.
Entry 3**
[UNRECOVERABLE DATA]#########%%[#())faerlkj2!222* {)#!==11!13$$[DATA RECOVERED]for a while now, and I'm taking a look back at past entries in this journal. I [UNRECOVERABLE DATA] how blind I was at the time. I came on this ship firmly believing humanity was on its own in the galaxy. [CORRUPT] Shepard brought all these aliens on board, and there's no way we could have accomplished what we did without them. I am proud to say [CORRUPT] die for any member of this crew, regardless of what world they were born on.
Before I picked up Pressly's dog-tags, I downloaded the contents of the datapad to my omni-tool. In my mind's eye, I could picture my old XO saluting me.
I stood to attention and returned the salute.
As I left the remnants of the CIC, I stumbled across Harvey J Gladstone's dog-tags. What his middle initial stood for was always a mystery amongst the crew, since it wasn't actually spelled out on his resume. Didn't help that he kept changing it. One day, he'd say it stood for Jim; the next, James. Or Jeffrey. Or Jeremiah. Little did anybody know that I found out his actual middle name just before we'd hit Eden Prime. I never let on, though. Poor guy had it rough enough without the crew finding out that 'J' stood for Josephine.
I would have headed over to the next place I visited even if there wasn't a set of dog-tags nearby. After the fun I'd had piloting the Hammerhead, how could I not look at the Mako with some degree of nostalgia. It had stubbornly scaled mountains and blithely hurled itself off cliffs. It had artfully dodged armature attacks and gleefully driven over geth rocket troopers. It had borne the slings and arrows of mass accelerator rounds and intergalactic physics to get us to—and through—the Conduit. The only time that it was damaged beyond Garrus's ability to repair. The Alliance had arranged to have it fixed before we shipped out to go geth hunting. I never had a chance to drive her again before the Collectors attacked.
And here it was. It went through a space battle that saw the destruction of the Normandy and the death of twenty men and women. It went through an uncontrolled atmospheric entry. And it had emerged from that adventure... completely intact. Not a single hole, dent or scratch. Unbelievable.
It wasn't surprising that Silas Crosby's final resting place was near the Mako. He always thought that the Mako was the last nod by the Alliance to the great vehicles of the past. He'd go on and on about how fast they could go, what kind of parts they had, what colours they came in, which famous people drove them, how great they were, how they were icons of a bygone era and on and on and on. I still remember Garrus stumbling up to me after a marathon session with Silas, nursing one heck of a headache and plaintively asking me why a Ferrari was so darn important.
If it wasn't for the fact that Garrus's DNA was coiled in the wrong direction, he could have made use of one of Germeen Barrett's home remedies. As I scooped up her dog-tags, just before heading over to scoop some eezo, I remembered how she'd always return from shore leave with armfuls of berries and leaves and roots. She seemed to spend a third of her time working, a third of her time treating minor maladies and the other third debating the merits of various naturopathic and traditional treatments with Dr. Chakwas.
My feet next took me along a narrow ice path, with a large glacial wall on one side and a dizzying drop on the other. I guess I wasn't surprised to see Hector Emerson's dog-tags at the end of the path. He was always quiet and shy. Never liked crowds. Give him a task to do and he'd complete it with time to spare. Ask him to indulge in a spot of idle chit-chat and he'd clam up in a split second. I always knew that the easiest way to find him was to figure out where everyone else was and head in the opposite direction.
As I retraced my steps, I saw part of Deck Two. The corridor that housed the sleeper pods, to be exact. I walked between them, remembering all the people I saw enter them for their time with the Sandman or exit them for another day of work. Orden LaFlamme's dog-tags were dangling from one of them, right next to the dream catcher that he'd hang up on the sleeper pod's lid. Apparently, it was a gift from his girlfriend to give him sweet dreams. When asked, he'd always say that he dreamt of dates and vacations spent with his girlfriend, so of course it worked.
The next set of dog-tags I stumbled across belonged to Helen M. Lowe, one of the best cooks and repositories of Chinese superstition I'd ever met. When she wasn't making the best dim sum you'd ever eaten, she was re-telling her story about how happy she was to have a string of eights in her Alliance ID, since it was considered a lucky number. Something about phonetics and rhyming with the Chinese word for lucky. I could never remember, usually because I was too busy savouring her haa gow.
Still remembering those tasty dishes, it was a while before I realized where I was. The remains of the garage. Where Ashley would work. She was always ready to clean yet another dozen weapons that I'd acquired from the latest mission, even if I'd sell most of them for credits. Always ready for a chat about her family or to quote some stirring bit of poetry. Always ready for another mission, no matter how mundane or how dangerous. Always ready to do her duty, right to the bitter end.
I was so caught up in remembering Ashley, I almost missed another set of dog-tags. They belonged to Alexei Dubyansky. Scuttlebutt said he'd had a crush on Ashley from the moment she dragged my unconscious ass back to the Normandy. If memory serves, he was hoping to put the moves on her using everything he learned from the university degree he'd completed in the midst of Basic training. His degree in English literature, not Russian—he learned enough of that at home, thank you very much.
Walking out of the garage and through the snow, I noted how some of the Normandy's wreckage formed a nice little arch. Dunno why I noticed it. While pondering the reason why it might've stuck out, I saw yet another set of dog-tags. Raymond Tanaka. One of the reasons he'd signed up was so the Alliance could help him pay his tuition. He was hoping to become a teacher, though he'd recently adjusted his goals to becoming a science instructor for Basic trainees. Funny how plans change.
Robert Felawa was the next guy I stumbled across. Or over. You get the idea. As I picked up his dog-tags, I couldn't help but grin at the ace of spades that was etched on the side. Strictly non-regulation, but totally in character with the old Normandy's most avid poker player. He'd always organize a game every week or so. I never had a chance to play with, or against him, myself. Some stupid mission or last-minute assignment would always come up.
At this point, I realized I was sort of backtracking. Or going in circles, since the Mako was in front of me again. Mind you, I stumbled across another set of dog-tags, so maybe I wasn't wasting my time after all. These dog-tags belonged to Amina Waaberi. Her family owned a restaurant chain, as I recalled. A very popular and rapidly expanding restaurant chain. As I recalled, Amina signed up because she wanted to make a life for herself that had nothing to do with the family business. Planning new meals and serving them? Accounting? Planning the latest expansion? Not for her, thank you very much.
And then there was Marcus Grieco. Five foot nine, bulging muscles, shiny smile. Perfectly professional, competent and courteous—as long as he was on a ship. Let him off a ship and he'd make a bee-line for the nearest bar or pub, where he'd try and pick up 'chicks.' Human, asari, he wasn't picky. 'Open-minded,' he said. Though he never had any luck picking up salarian or turian women—for some reason, he could never find any. Mind you, he had exceptionally poor luck flirting with human or asari women as well.
I looked around, trying to see where I hadn't gone yet. Then I saw something that I had to check out. On my way, I found a set of dog-tags belonging to Monica Negulesco. Crack shot with the assault rifle and amateur vid-buff. She would always keep up to date with minutiae like what some actor was currently doing, what writer or director was attached to what project, what themes were being explored in some vid. Her way to decompress when the reality of life in the Alliance—or the galaxy—got a bit much, she said.
Before I grabbed the next set of dog-tags, I had to take a moment and look at what had caught my eye. It was a large piece of hull plating with the Normandy's name on it. Gazing on that segment of alloy plating, it brought back so many memories. How I felt when I first saw her. When I first stepped foot on her decks. When I first saw her docked in the Citadel with the Serpent Nebula off in the distance. When I walked her halls as CO rather than XO. The Normandy was hardly my first ship—I'd been on my fair share of ships during my life, even before joining the Alliance. But after everything we'd been through, all the insane and harrowing adventures and death-defying encounters we'd endured... I couldn't help but think that the Normandy stood out from the rest. Even the new Normandy—with its bigger size, more luxurious touches and fancier tech—couldn't quite compare. There would never be another SSV Normandy SR-1.
It was with a bout of—loneliness? Homesickness? I dunno—that I retrieved Abishek Pakti's dog-tags. Avid extranet gamer. Loved exploring the extranet sites for news on the latest games. Mainly role-playing games—it seemed first-person shooters didn't really thrill him after a career spent doing the real thing. He was really excited about some massively multiplayer online role-playing game that was in the works. What was it called again? Everquest? EVE Online? World of Warcraft? Galaxy of Fantasy. That was it.
That left one more set of dog-tags to find. Thankfully, it only took a few minutes. I knew who they belonged to even before picking them up to read the ID. Mandira Rahman—the only scientist who habitually carried a small sketchpad and a set of charcoal sticks. Whenever things got slow, or she was off duty, the odds were good that she'd be chatting and joking with her colleagues while whipping off another 'Rahman original.' Mostly portraits, though she did the odd caricature. I still remember the one she made of her new CO—beady eyes, wearing a mask and a black-and-white striped outfit, rummaging through a crate. (5)
Then that was it. Area explored, dog-tags retrieved. Only thing left to do was find a place to put the monument.
And I knew just the place.
I stood up, brushed some snow off my gloves and stepped back.
The monument itself was gold in colour and roughly two metres tall. A miniature version of the Normandy was attached to a curved pillar, marked with the names of every man and woman who'd lost their lives two years ago, which in turn connected to a cylindrical base. The whole thing looked like the Normandy was taking off from the ground and swooping through the air. All in all, I couldn't think of a better design. It just felt right.
It was for a similar reason that I put the monument next to the hull plating that bore the Normandy's name. I could have put it somewhere else. Near the centre of the wreckage wouldn't be wrong. Next to the Mako would certainly convey that sense of endurance and defiance. But putting it next to the name Normandy? Again, it just felt right.
I exhaled in satisfaction and... was surprised at how, well, lighter I felt. As cliched as it sounded, I really did feel like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I guess I never really had a chance to grieve for everyone who'd been lost, having hit the ground running as soon as I woke up from my two-year nap. And, well, maybe I'd been lugging around a bit of guilt that I couldn't have done more—because there really was nothing I could have done to change things.
As I walked back to the shuttle, my eyes drifted skyward—wow. My eyes widened as I came to an abrupt halt. The sky above me was crystal clear, offering a stunning view of the stars. They were twinkling—or blazing—with an intensity you don't often see these days. Not unless you're on some uninhabited planet or colony world, of course. A shooting star would fly by every couple seconds, making it very tempting for even jaded old fogies like me to wanna make a wish. And to top things off, it looked like the Aurora Borealis and Aurora Australis got together, had a whack load of kids and grandkids and sent them over to Alchera to brighten the night sky with hues of green and blue and violet.
Huh. Maybe this wasn't such a bad resting place for the Normandy and her fallen after all.
"Kodiak 1 to Normandy," I called out over the comm as soon as I'd taken off. "Mission complete. We can head off as soon as I've returned."
"Actually, that isn't quite accurate," Miranda responded, much to my surprise.
"Oh?"
"Word's spread throughout the ship of what you were doing and you're not the only one who would like to take the opportunity to pay their respects."
Well, that was very thoughtful. "Okay," I shrugged. "Who wants to head down?"
"Everyone."
"Everyone?" I repeated.
"That's right. The entire crew. I've taken the liberty of setting up a schedule. The first contingent is already assembled outside the cargo bay and is awaiting your arrival."
I had to take a moment before acknowledging and signing off. For some reason, there was this tickle in my throat. And my retinal implants started malfunctioning. Again.
When I got back, I quickly flew through the post-flight procedures as the cargo bay repressurized. Then I stepped outside to see who had received the honour of heading down first.
Garrus, Tali, Joker and Dr. Chakwas stood before me. I felt a smile spread across my face.
What can I say? It just felt right.
I paid close attention to the various crew members during my rounds. They were still quiet, but it seemed like their shock and horror had been replaced with a solemn introspection. A few people looked like they felt the way I did after erecting the Normandy monument. It seemed like this impromptu memorial was good for the crew as well, and I said as much to Miranda when I saw her that night.
"I'm glad to hear that," she said, "though I can't take credit for it. The urge to pay respects just... emerged spontaneously and grew from there."
"Well you can take credit for organizing the trips," I reminded her.
"I suppose so."
There was a moment of silence as Miranda signed off on more reports and I... twiddled my thumbs. I was about to start wiggling my toes when—
"I wanted to... to apologize for my outburst earlier."
"It's understandable," I said. "You were upset."
"No, that's... well, yes I was, but..." Miranda paused, trying to find the right words. "I've never been upset for that particular reason."
"That particular reason being..."
"Upset at Cerberus for letting things get that far."
"Ah."
"No, that's not entirely accurate," Miranda corrected herself. "I guess I had some doubts when I saw firsthand the conditions that Jack was subjected to at the Teltin facility. Even though they had gone rogue and the Illusive Man was shutting them down, it didn't sit right. But what I saw at Project Overlord? What Dr. Archer did? To his own brother? I've never felt so... so... disgusted. Sick. Horrified."
"It was certainly disturbing, to say the least," I agreed.
"The Illusive Man's follow-up to my report hardly helped," she added, pulling up the e-mail for my perusal:
From: Illusive Man
Miranda:
I understand Shepard has taken Dr. Archer's brother to Grissom Academy. I'm familiar with their work; it should be a good home for him. I don't condone Dr. Archer's actions, but they did provide a breakthrough we've been sorely lacking thus far. We'll likely never find another individual with David's unique talents. Though Shepard's decision is understandable, it has set our efforts to understand the geth back several years.
You may need to take more overt action should his shortsightedness continue to jeopardize our long-term goals.
"Gosh, I feel so bad," my mouth said before my brain could tell it that sarcasm might not be the smart choice right now.
Thankfully, Miranda was in a similar state of mind. "Agreed," was all she said.
Then there was another long pause.
"After seeing that e-mail, I started going through your official reports again." Miranda shook her head before continuing. "One 'rogue' incident, however upsetting, might be underst... well, it could be a horrific outlier. Two, not so much. But the same pattern kept popping up. When we let the rachni escape from Argos Rho and spread all the way to the Styx Theta cluster. When we deliberately turned the Chasca colony into husks. When we lured Alliance marines into an ambush at Akuze and performed experiments on the survivors..."
"Like you said, there's a definite pattern," I replied diplomatically.
"But not one that I signed up for," Miranda burst out. "At least, I didn't think that was what I was signing up for. I was so sure that Cerberus would promote humanity in a more effective way than all the kowtowing of the Alliance. To improve humanity's position in galactic affairs without unnecessary compromises. To make the universe a better place without cutting through reams of red tape. I never imagined that would involve injecting marines with thresher maw venom. Or conducting cruel and barbaric experiments on children. On siblings. That wasn't what I signed up for. But that's what I got.
"So if I was so terribly wrong about that, what else was I wrong about? What choices did I make under false assumptions? What actions did I choose under false pretences? I don't know have the answers to those questions anymore. I don't know what to believe anymore. I don't know who I am."
Boy, that was tough. To have everything you stood for swept away, just like that? It wasn't fun, let me tell you. I went through the same thing when it seemed like the Alliance and TPTB had turned their backs on me. The latter wasn't so surprising: it wasn't like they were a ton of help and support before. But to have the Alliance declare me persona non grata? Yeah, that hurt.
Unfortunately, I couldn't use that experience to help Miranda. Call me crazy, but "Bury your head in work, plug your ears and sing off-key really loud" probably wasn't the sort of advice she was looking for. But that was all I had, wasn't it?
Wasn't it?
Miranda was looking at me like she was expecting some sage advice. Or advice. Or a response, at least. Time to wing it and see what happens.
"A teacher of mine once said that not having the answers was a good thing," I started, "because it meant you had to start asking questions. Maybe you could do that."
"Ask questions?"
"Yeah. We'll start with the basics. What's your name?"
"Miranda Lisa Lawson," she replied slowly.
"What's your gender?"
"Female."
"What's the colour of your hair?"
"Seriously?"
"Okay, we'll move to something a bit more complicated. How many members are currently serving on the Normandy?"
Miranda started to scowl after a couple more basic questions. Time to jump to something more complicated. "What was the other reason for your joining Cerberus?"
"What?"
"Just before we went to Illium, you asked me to come see you. You gave another reason for joining Cerberus."
"To rescue my sister," Miranda nodded. "To give her a chance at a normal life."
"And did she get that normal life?"
"It appears that way."
"Did she seem happy?"
"Well, yes. Yes, she did."
I spread my hands. "That's a start at least."
"Is it?"
"Well, you know a little bit about yourself now. You're Miranda Lisa Lawson. You're a woman—"
"I'm glad to see you noticed that after several months," she interrupted dryly.
"—and you're the one who passed up a chance for a normal and happy life so your sister could have it instead." (6)
Something in Miranda's face seemed to soften at that point. "Thank you, Shepard. It's good to know that at least two good things came out of my association with Cerberus."
"Two?" I frowned. "You're counting a normal life and a happy life for your sister as two things?"
Miranda shook her head. "No, that's one. The other one is… working with and getting to know… you."
For the third time that day, my throat and retinal implants started acting up.
"How are you doing?"
"Huh?"
"David—and the VI—appeared to, well, hack you. Or gain temporary control over your motor functions. How are you doing?"
"Mordin gave me a clean bill of health," I shrugged.
"Yes, I know you passed your physical, but how are you doing psychologically?" Miranda insisted.
"I… I don't know," I admitted. "Haven't had a chance to think about it. It felt weird when the VI, well, hacked me. Weird and creepy. It was as if someone was pouring ice water into my veins and shutting down—no, that's not quite right. It was like my body was growing numb and distant, pulling away from me bit by bit. I swear I could count every implant wedged into my body, helping that… that loss of control. But the funny thing is: I don't feel weirded out at all. Shouldn't I feel weird? Or disturbed? Helpless? Violated? Because I don't." (7)
"It is a bit early. Maybe it hasn't sunk in yet," Miranda suggested.
"Great. Something else to look forward to."
"Mind you, you did resist the hacking attempt," she added. "By your account, the only lasting effect was the virtual reality overlay on your visual feeds. Maybe you don't feel helpless because you did resist and fight back. With a fair amount of success, I might add."
"I like the sound of that option," I admitted.
"Otherwise, you're feeling fine? You're sure you aren't suffering any ill effects?" Miranda continued.
"Yes, I feel fine. The VI's gone. No more tampering. No more visual tricks. Everything's back to normal." I tapped a finger against my forehead. "There's nothing going on in here right now."
It wasn't until I finished that last sentence that I realized what I had just said. I glanced at Miranda. The corner of her mouth was twitching ever so slightly. "Too easy," she murmured.
"How, uh, how did Garrus and Jacob do with the paperwork?" I managed to stammer out before Miranda could have any more fun at my expense.
"Could be better," Miranda said, "but there wasn't any template or SOP for them to follow. I should probably create one, come to think of it. Like you said earlier, they may have to do that sort of thing again."
"Sounds like a good idea," I approved. "If you want, you can give me the remaining administrative stuff to finish off so you can work on that?"
"I'll download it to a datapad for you," she nodded. "While I'm doing that, why don't you head over to the mess hall and grab something for us?"
"Sure." I mentally recalled what Gardner had served today. "How does jasmine teaand tapioca pudding sound?"
"Perfect."
(1): Standard practise for the resident chief medical officer whenever a team or squad goes on a dangerous assignment.
(2): It is not surprising that such close-knit ties developed, despite any pre-existing prejudice or xenophobia, given the high stakes of their overall mission and the low probability of their survival.
(3): Mr. Taylor neglects to mention that this sleep was preceded by a talk between him and Ms. Lawson.
(4): Given Shepard's past associations with monuments, the fact that he had so little reaction to this one may be surprising. I can only surmise that he was still coming to terms with everything he witnessed and experienced during the Overlord Cell mission. In addition, it is worth noting that this monument was for the men and women who had lost their lives when the original Normandy was destroyed, not himself. Shepard may have felt that their sacrifice deserved greater recognition than his own accomplishments ever did.
(5): Lieutenant Rahman actually made a second portrait, which was lost during the Collector attack. It was later retrieved, however, and anonymously sent to Captain Hannah Shepard.
(6): Not surprisingly, Shepard's talent for improvisation paid off once again.
(7): Readers are well aware of Shepard's reticence to admit any feelings of vulnerability to himself, much less to others. The fact that he is willing to do so with Ms. Lawson is quite significant.