1650 hours, April 27th, 2542 (UNSC military calendar)
Michael wheeled Nialla into a seat on the terrace and locked the anti-grav chair in position. He sat down opposite her and picked up the menu. A few things were apparently universal, he chuckled to himself.
The asari government on Telvanis had loosened the travel restrictions for the human refugees, and even given them all the basic allowance all inhabitants of the world had.
It was a beautiful sunny day, and Michael had gone to pick up Nialla at the hospital for their daily walk. He'd brought her to a nice restaurant he'd seen on one of his walks, and they'd gotten some weird looks along the way. It was mostly due to the fact that he was one of the few humans that left the refugee camps and toured the cities of the planet. He'd had to dodge a few reporters and photographers who wanted a picture of a human.
"You sure you want to go here, Nialla?" He asked. "We've passed a lot of different places."
"First place I've seen serve dextro food." Nialla said. "Many restaurants don't because of health and safety rules."
He nodded and adjusted the pillow on the chair. To his amusement, the chair itself shifted to accommodate him.
He noticed that a few of the asari were turning to look at him and Nialla occasionally. He heard them muttering under their breaths about the war, and how he'd lost the arm. One of them turned around to look at them, a younger-looking asari.
"Human. Is it true what the news reports say? About glassing? I heard the Covenant turns worlds into glass, but that has to be an exaggeration. Right?" The asari asked, only for her companion to prod her shoulder.
"Don't bother the human, dear. He's obviously been through a lot." The other asari sounded like Michael's nagging grandmother, and the resemblance unnerved him to no end.
He spoke up. "No. It's true. Their plasma beams heat the silica in the soil until it fuses into a black glassy substance. The oceans boil, the atmosphere is gone, and all life ends." He turned in his chair to look at the two asari. "Although they don't always finish the job. Sometimes they just kill everyone and leave the rest unglassed."
The asari didn't know what to say, and just respectfully nodded while she got back to her food, something that looked like a type of seaweed.
A waitress approached and, seeing Michael, immediately walked up and took his order, bypassing other customers. "Hello, human. You're our first customer. What can I get you?"
"I don't know what half these things mean, but surely you have something crunchy with a soft center? And, uh, a cold refreshing drink." He turned on his omni-tool and pressed the button he'd been told transferred funds. It really was an amazing little thing.
"Oh, no need." The waitress said. "Plantery government says it is reimbursing for humans, for now."
Michael was a bit taken aback by that, and just nodded while the waitress moved to Nialla.
"Turian brandy. With a straw." She asked, adjusting her position in the wheelchair.
When the waitress moved away, he turned to look at Nialla.
"What's with all the generosity?"
"They're asari. They're trying to ingratiate themselves with your species, form good ties, as well as put on a good propaganda image to the rest of the galaxy. And, uhh… a few might want your babies."
He coughed in surprise, nearly choking. "What?!"
Nialla laughed. "Oh yeah. You don't know. Asari reproduce via parthenogenesis. They scan your nervous system and use it to randomize the genes of their offspring. And seeing as there's only so many ways to actually -evolve- a functional nervous system…"
"There's compatibility." Michael continued. The concept sounded outrageous, but when he thought about it, this quirk of genetics and evolution made some amount of sense. There were only so many chemicals in the universe, and only so many ways they could combine. It made some measure of sense that in the randomness of evolution, certain things would evolve universally. Perhaps nervous systems too. Or they worked via tracing the nerve impulses of a body. He'd need to find a book about that. "Fascinating."
He'd been working as a clerk for ONI long enough to have had quite a few reports cross his desk. A few he most likely wasn't supposed to have read. Being a clerk for Section Three had its perks, especially if it was the special materials group.
"It's amazing to see species working together, and not be trying to kill humans." He said. "Most of my people have spent their entire lives being afraid of aliens. But that might change now. I'd love to meet more people like you."
The waitress returned and placed a bottle of brandy with a straw in front of Nialla, while placing a bowl of something that looked a bit like crispy potato bits, and a large bottle with a deep blue liquid in front of Michael. He took a good swig and a few bites. It tasted pretty good; a bit too high class for his taste, however.
Nialla suddenly grinned. "Watch out. Reporters."
Michael turned around and saw an asari, a turian, and a salarian quickly walking towards him with an entourage of camera drones in tow.
"Human! Citadel news. Can you answer a few questions for our viewers?"
He awkwardly smiled. They had him dead to rights. He held up a hand. "Give me the address for where you're staying, and I'll visit after I'm done eating."
He received three different hotel addresses, and four different extranet addresses.
In his little abode, Rickard looked in the mirror. The new face was still growing on him. Quite literally. In the absence of other qualified ONI agents on New Ghent or with Cole's fleet, he'd volunteered to go with a group of refugees. He'd been taken into the basement of the ONI base, and had one of the autodocs reconstruct his face. It wouldn't fool biometrics. But that wasn't important right now.
Most of his agents had been dead, or unqualified for a mission like this. So he did what he thought was necessary. He had a list of every ONI agent who'd been wounded and sent here, and who he trusted enough to work for him.
His self-assigned task was simple: set up the first ONI spy ring in Citadel space. Gather information that was not in their "Codex" and ascertain their intentions. While the official visitors got the tours and all the official treatment, he would work undercover and complement whatever information they could get their hands on, If possible. Arrange for the creation of an ONI spy ring among the refugees by setting up sleeper agents.
He stepped out of the bathroom and, having confirmed that everyone else was in their rooms, headed outside, towards the prefab housing Michael.
As Rickard walked through the refugee camp, he was pleasantly surprised at just how clean and organized it was. It was better than most refugee tent cities for the survivors of the outer colonies. There were prefabs, medical stations, food dispensers, water fountains. He didn't see any signs of lying or underhanded dealings.
To handle the influx of patients, the medical centres begun moving non-critical patients to tents. However, the tents didn't look dirty or overcrowded; they were experly put up and looked like solid structures from a distance. It was some type of ultra-thin reinforced fabric. Many aid workers worked here; he spotted turians, salarians, and asari, but also a great amount of floating jellyfish - so-called "hanar". These didn't work by themselves, but commanded mechs and weirder green-skinned reptilian-looking aliens to do the work. A quick glance at his codex confirmed that the reptilian aliens were called "drell".
One of the hanar floated over to him, Rickard's caution overridden by the sheer ludicrousness of the alien he was seeing. "This one could see you were curious. Can this one be of assistance?"
"I'm curious what brings you here. I haven't seen any of your kind outside of the medical centres." He answered truthfully.
"This one works for Healing Waters, a hanar aid organisation that helps victims of natural disasters and wars. This one travelled here aboard our aid fleet to assist your people." The glow emitted by the hanar kept changing as it talked.
Rickard surmised that the bioluminescence either complemented their language, or it was something the reason for which he could not discern himself. He smiled respectfully. "It is good to hear that humanity is no longer so alone. Thank you for your assistance."
"This one is happy to make a difference in the life of a person whose species' recent history has been as troubled as it is."
Rickard nodded and walked off.
Eventually he reached the place where Michael lived. He knocked and waited for an answer.
Michael opened the door.
"How can I help you?" He asked.
"Have you seen a man named Alan Frederik? Short, balding, thin blonde hair." Rickard asked, stating the code-phrase he had drilled into all his employees.
Michael nodded slowly and let him in.
"No one else is inside, and I've disabled all the bugs and listening devices I could find. Sir."
"Good. Well done, Michael. I assume you know why I'm here."
"My relationship with Nialla is strictly friendly. There is nothing going on between us." Michael said defensively.
Rickard was taken aback for a moment, then composed himself. Evidently Michael was already making friends. Good. That was what he needed.
Rickard took out a piece of paper from his chest pocket, and began to write. There was no way to trace or decrypt this.
"I don't care about whatever blue alien you're involved with, Agent. I don't blame you, they're pretty good looking. This is about your next assignment." He wrote.
Michael nodded.
Rickard continued writing. "You're now a sleeper agent, codename: INFECTION. You are to befriend, get to know, and ingratiate yourself with the locals. I want information, and lots of it. You're an asset to be activated at my discretion. Until then, you're officially discharged on medical leave. Store your information on a secure drive, and be ready to hand it over to anyone who states your code-phrase."
Michael nodded again.
"I'll continue looking. I'll be off, then. Have a good day." Rickard said and walked outside. He scanned his surroundings for anyone who could be following him, as well as surveillance drones or cameras, and was relieved to not see any.
He looked up the next name on his list of wounded agents. This was going to be a long night.
Michael calmed down from the surprise of meeting Rickard without warning.
He'd brought Nialla back to the hospital and returned to his prefab, where he learned his neighbours had gone to some kind of asari student party. He'd been looking forward to some peace and quiet on his own when Rickard had arrived.
Michael was one of the few people who knew of Rickard's propensity for using plastic surgery to change his identity. It had been how he'd risen through the ranks in the first place.
At first he'd thought it was just another ONI agent, but "thin blonde hair" was the phrase identifying the speaker as Rickard in disguise. That had been something Michael hadn't expected. Rickard rarely did operations out in the field himself these days, certainly not officially. Was it a private mission? Something to increase his standing in ONI?
Michael suspected the latter. A personal initiative to gather information on the Citadel, something to approach CINCONI with and climb the ranks. Rickard had always been ambitious. But at the same time, he'd have to have taken leave or something before he could abandon his post and head to Telvanis, right? ONI inner politics just confused Michael, and he decided not to think about it.
In any case, it wasn't his place to question his superior. Rickard was doing his job, and so would Michael.