Tales from the Citadel

Chapter 21: Shepard versus the Big Stupid Jellyfish

They say that you reap what you sow. Well, Acting Prime Minister Pierre Thibault of the Systems Alliance was finding that out the hard way.

He'd recently held a press conference announcing a hodgepodge of feel-good items. One of them was a promise to build billions of new affordable housing units. Given the sheer number of people left homeless after the Reaper War, you'd think that would be welcome news… until you did some research and realized that: a) that was a campaign promise recycled from before the Reapers invaded and b) most of those housing units would be built on Earth. Great for all the people on Earth who desperately needed a roof over their head, not so great for all the various colonies spread out through Alliance space who would have to fend for themselves… again.

What escalated this event from an announcement touched with cynicism to a scandal was a freedom-of-information request that had finally gone through.

Almost twenty years ago, Thibault and his party had sold three plots of prime real estate, with a combined total of fifteen hectares, to a private developer. At the time, Thibault himself described the plots as 'an ideal area for redevelopment… into a mosaic of new, safe and accessible housing, blending a mix of subsidized and market housing, along with community facilities and friendly neighbourhood amenities.'

However, the truth of the deal had been carefully hidden. Thibault had sidestepped any and all inquiries, citing confidentiality clauses, but promising that details would be disclosed when the actual transfer occurred. That never happened. Instead, his government put out a news release announcing that they had concluded the sales agreement with the developer, Prime Constellation Properties, who would pay a total of 956 million credits. After that news release came… nothing. No details. No development. Freedom-of-information requests were submitted to no avail… until last week. The details of the deal were finally released. And hoo boy, it was juicy.

The sale had one unique provision that no one had mentioned until now: Prime Constellation received a mortgage of one hundred billion credits that would remain interest-free… until 2200. Roughly three decades of free money, on terms that any homeowner could only dream of, all at taxpayer's expense. Furthermore, Prime Constellation had only paid 90 million credits as a down payment and hadn't built a single building in all that time. To add insult to injury, when the original sale went through, hundreds of civvies had been kicked out of their low-income housing and were forced to move elsewhere.

When asked, Prime Constellation put out a statement claiming that the terms were 'unusual, but ultimately reasonable solutions given the economic conditions at the time.' A claim that seemed hollow even before the realization that the economy was just fine at the time and there were seventeen other bidders for the sites.

Thibault dodged any questions on the sale for three days straight before finally being cornered. "It would seem that the intended outcomes have not been met," he was quoted as saying. "This lack of progress is confusing."

The only thing most people were confused on was how Thibault and his business-savvy, family-friendly government could authorize what amounted to a one billion credit giveaway. As one opinion columnist put it, the whole thing smacked of cover-up, government incompetence, disregard for the public interest and sweetheart dealing with the private sector.

Shaking my head over that colossal boondoggle, I was about to make some coffee when I got an e-mail… from an unexpected individual.

Subject: Your Assistance…

From: Javik

Commander,

I have received an interesting proposal that I wish to discuss with you. Meet me outside the casino at the far end of what these primitives call the Silversun Strip, although it isn't made of silver or near a sun.

Stupid primitives.

A proposal? Interesting.

Well, I hadn't talked to Javik for a while and I didn't really have anything better to do. Guess I should see what the cranky lug was up to.

Sure enough, Javik was waiting for me outside the casino. Well, pacing back and forth was more like it. The 'primitives' were giving him a wide berth, probably due to his cheerful and welcoming demeanour. By that, I mean he was glaring at everyone while looking like he'd just chewed on a raw lemon.

"Enjoying your shore leave, Javik?" I greeted him.

He stopped pacing and turned towards me. True to form, he didn't waste time on pleasantries. "I have been asked to take part in a… 'vid'."

Huh. I was not expecting that. "Really?"

"Yes. I am told it is a great honour and will boost morale."

"Who says it will?"

"The salarian who approached me."

Right... "Do you know anything else about this vid? Or the salarian who talked to you?"

"No. Only where the vid is being… filmed."

"All right," I sighed. "Let's see what this is all about."

Javik led me to a small warehouse on the Wards. The large, official sign on the front told me it held storage units of various sizes that could be rented out for various rates. I couldn't help but contrast that with the tiny, datapad-sized sign sporting the hastily scrawled title 'Citadel Documentary: Storage Unit 1129.'

It wound up being one of the larger storage units—easily the size of a gymnasium. There were a fair number of people running about. Mostly humans and salarians. One of the latter ran up to me.

"Ah, Commander Shepard! I didn't realize you were coming too! Perfect timing, perfect timing! You can play yourself!"

Play… myself? "Uh… excuse me. What are you talking about?" I asked.

Without waiting for a reply, the salarian ran to the centre of the room and cleared his throat. "Attention, the Prothean is on set! Someone tell the stunt double he's been demoted! We have the real Shepard now!"

The real Shepard? Did someone dig out another clone from the far reaches of space? Wait, the salarian said stunt double. At least, I think he said stunt double.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a well-tanned, fairly muscular man with a dark five o'clock shadow as he sighed and shuffled to the corner. The stunt double, apparently. One who definitely didn't look anything like me.

It occurred to me that the last time I was thrown in the deep end with no clue what was going on, I was on a combat mission. Never thought I'd be one of those people who missed walking around with a sidearm. "Can someone explain what is going on here?" I tried again.

No one did.

"All right!" the salarian called out again. "Places, everyone!" Quickly! Quickly! Cue the backdrop! Roll cameras!"

Backdrop? Cameras? What the hell was going on here?

A few salarians ran to fiddle with some vid-drones that were attached to stationary poles like a couple spindly mushrooms. They were all pointed at three individuals—a vorcha, a salarian and a volus. As I watched in befuddlement, a backdrop—that's right. Not a hologram, not even a green screen. A floor-to-ceiling, honest-to-gosh canvas backdrop—jerked into view, shuddering to a stop behind the trio. The backdrop showed a couple trees—well, silhouettes of trees—taken through a large window.

Somehow, the picture on the canvas looked familiar.

"And… action."

The salarian standing in front of the canvas straightened up. "Commander Shepard, thank you for coming. The urgent hour of doom which we all urgently face draws near. Urgently so."

Right… so this was some kind of vid. Which meant… okay, did someone actually write this schlock? Because if the answer was yes, I felt someone should be fired and replaced by a real writer. As soon as possible. Some might even say urgently.

"But there is hope. The Council understands you recently found a Prothean in a refrigerator and defrosted him!"

The… Council? Well, that explained the backdrop. It must have been one of the views from the Citadel Tower. I didn't recognize it because I'd only been in the Tower a few times. And the picture had a low resolution.

As for the Council… okay, first none of the so-called councillors were wearing robes or anything remotely resembling formal wear. Second, the Citadel Council currently consisted of an asari, a salarian and a turian—they still hadn't chosen someone to replace Anderson after he stepped down. The trio in front of me… well, they got the salarian. As for the vorcha and hanar, well, I had no idea. What, there weren't any asari or turians available? I blinked and slowly turned to Javik. He looked as confused as I was.

Everyone was looking at me. I think they actually expected me to answer the question. Only no one had bothered to tell me what to say. Or give me a script. Or explain what the hell was going on. There certainly hadn't been any contract discussing any expectations or obligations on my part. All of which was starting to irritate me. So I did what I usually did in these situations.

By that, I mean opening my big fat mouth and say the first thing that came to mind: "That's the dumbest thing I've heard all day. Are you guys just making this up or what?"

"Of course not," the director—I mean, come on, who else could he be?—said. "A writer wrote it, so it must be true."

He sounded a little too disingenuous. Either that, or he really was that stupid.

"Gah!" the vorcha 'councillor' burst out, jabbing a finger at me. "You die now!"

"Not yet!" the director hissed. "That line comes later!"

The salarian 'councillor' straightened up even more. "The vorcha councillor will kindly refrain from further interruptions!" he ad-libbed.

Javik frowned. "I believe I have been misinformed about the purpose of this 'vid'."

"Ya think?" I snorted.

"Now then, oh wise Prothean elder, what wisdom of the ages can you share with us?" the salarian councillor asked.

Oh, this should be good. I crossed my arms and waited for the wise Prothean elder to respond with his usual diplomatic tact.

Javik did not disappoint. "Salarian kidney is best served at room temperature. It is even better when the salarian is still alive. The fear adds… spice."

The salarian councillor gulped. So did a few other salarians. The vorcha gave a toothy grin. "Prothean no like you!" he chortled.

"Did someone say 'Prothean'?"

Turning around, I saw a hanar floating towards us. "This one is familiar with enkindling. This one has enkindled multiple females across the galaxy."

Right. Because hanar often called Protheans the 'Enkindlers'. As for the suggestive nature of the hanar's last sentence… well, apparently tentacle porn was a thing.

The volus councillor spoke for the first time. "*hiss* Blasto, about time you showed up!"

Blasto? Aw, crap. Now I knew Javik was misinformed.

Okay, in case you didn't know—in which case I thoroughly envy you—Blasto is a fictional hanar who has 'a lover in every port and a gun in every tentacle.' Oh, and he became the galaxy's first hanar Spectre. He stars in a series of really cheesy exploitation films—though I think the last one (Blasto 6: Partners in Crime) was marketed as a family film, complete with special combo toy packs for the kids. Despite withering reviews from the critics, it broke opening-week box-office records during the Reaper War. The only upshot to this cinematic travesty was that the producer pledged part of the movie's proceeds to the Citadel's military defence fund.

But I digress.

"*hiss* The galaxy is under attack by Reapers," the volus councillor said with way too much drama. "*hiss* If only someone had warned us about them years ago."

"This one tried," Blasto replied. "This one was ignored. This one's efforts fell on obstructed auditory—"

And now some second-rate actor was trying to claim credit for my efforts? I don't think so. "Uh, actually, that was me," I interrupted. "Sovereign? Saren? You might've heard of them."

"*hiss* Yes, and Blasto here destroyed the Citadel putting them down," the volus councillor said, quickly improvising on the spot. "*hiss* But even he's just one hanar."

"And now we've asked Commander Shepard and his Prothean partner here to assist," the salarian councillor added.

"Under false pretences," I piped up.

Blasto's skin tone flickered in… well, he reacted strongly. I think.

"This one did not read that far into the script. This one does not share top billing."

Oh yeah, he reacted all right. Also, I never thought I'd see the day where a hanar would throw a hissy fit like some overrated diva. What a big, stupid jellyfish.

"Wait, what?" The salarian director darted forward into the scene, ignoring the fact that the vid-drones were still filming. "But it's 'Blasto 7: Blasto Goes to War!' Think of the children!"

Javik circled Hanar Diva like a predator assessing his prey. "In my cycle, your kind was nothing more than appetizers. Would you prefer to be boiled or fried?"

"Prothean no like you!" the vorcha councillor cried out.

"I can supply the heat," I shrugged, tapping my omni-tool. "All we need is a really big pot. Or a skillet. And oil. Can't forget the oil."

"Shepard no like you too!"

"This one has found his motivation," Hanar Diva declared after some serious consideration.

Oh. joy.

"Very well. Commander Shepard and Prothean partner of undetermined ethnic origin, welcome to the Spectre Club."

Huzzah. "I've been in the 'club' for over three years," I corrected him. "How did you become a Spectre, anyway? Was it a slow day or something?"

Hanar Diva stiffened. "I am not just a Spectre." He whipped out a pair of pistols—don't ask me where they were hiding—and pointed and pointed them vaguely in my direction. "I am an Ultra Spectre Elite 7000 Deluxe, now with less recoil and faster load time."

"You sound like a toy," I retorted. "A really cheap one, geared for gullible kids who don't know any better."

"Where is the airlock so I may throw you out of it?" Javik asked impatiently.

"Back that way," I pointed. "It's gonna be a long walk."

"I have already wasted much time on this pointless task, Commander. A few more hours will not matter."

The director had other concerns. "An airlock? But… we don't have a prop for that! Never mind. Next scene, next scene! Cue the sound effects! Change the backdrop!"

Another canvas picture slid into place. This one showed a ruined city with a few blackened skyscrapers rising up to meet the Reaper hovering in the dark, cloudy sky. As I watched, a model Reaper lowered into view. As it started firing 'lasers,' a loud guitar riff began playing.

"Look!" the volus councillor cried out. "*hiss* It's Sovereign's half-brother, Sluggard! And he's looking for some payback!"

'Sluggard'? 'Looking for some payback'? Seriously, who wrote this crap?

"Cue the stunt double!" the director yelled. I glanced back—yep, the vid-drones were still rolling. Whoever had to edit this monstrosity would have their work cut out for them.

The stunt double—formerly the pale imitation of the real thing—rolled across the floor, narrowly missing me and Javik. Oh, and Hanar Diva.

There was a pause.

"Your line!" the director stage-whispered. "Say your line!"

The vorcha councillor started. "Oh! Uh… you die now!"

"Oh no!" the salarian councillor wailed. "The vorcha councillor is indoctrinated!"

Indoctrinated. Right. Note that it's the vorchacouncillor. Not the salarian or volus councillor. The vorcha. I'm sure it had nothing to do with fueling stereotypes while pandering to target audiences. Nothing at all.

As the salarian and volus councillors ran—well, waddled in the case of the volus—off-stage, Hanar Diva drifted forward. "This one is the Hero of the Citadel," he said. He whipped his guns out—again—and pointing them dramatically at the vorcha. "This one has an incendiary projectile with the councillor's name on it. Vorcha scum, prepare for death."

That's it. I'd had enough of this idiotic farce. Reaching over, I swiped one of his guns. I figured it was a prop, a suspicion that was confirmed once it was in my hands and I felt how damn light it was. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," I said. "This one thinks we should at least try to talk the vorcha down rather than assume he's indoctrinated based on nothing but a few words."

"This one has an incendiary projectile with the vorcha's name on it," Hanar Diva repeated.

"This one heard you the first time," I replied, "and thinks you should let a real professional handle it."

Hanar Diva drifted over and tried to shove me aside. "This one insists."

"This one doesn't care," I retorted.

And that's when Javik finally had enough. Honestly, I was surprised he'd kept it together for so long. He stomped forward, his body rippling with green energy. "This one wishes he was still frozen in the refrigerator," he snapped.

With a thrust of his hand, Javik released a wave of biotic energy. It hit Hanar Diva and set him flying… right into the poor hapless vorcha. The two of them landed on the floor in a tangled heap.

With a grunt of frustration, Javik turned to me. "May we go now, Commander?"

I gestured towards the door.

As we left, we could hear the director. "Strike the set! Tell casting we'll need a new hanar actor. Oh, and another vorcha. Prepare for 'Blasto 8: Blasto Cures the Genophage!'"

Blasto cures the—oh for crying out loud! "Hang on," I said, holding up a hand to stop Javik. "There's something I need to do first…"