… something unique about Shepard? How about this: The rumor of his being a billionaire by the time he turned twenty has no proof whatsoever. While there are no records of the fact, it is very obvious how much influence he had over the Mindor Corporation, one of the fastest-growing businesses of the day. Despite the colony being his home-world, no one knows for certain how he managed to achieve that prominent role, particularly given the independent nature of the company. Some of the difficulties he would have had to face simply come down to time; his training took years to accomplish, and yet he was somehow able to remain well-informed on many financial fronts. I always suspected he had outside help, but decided to let it go. He never told me his secret, and I never asked. I had secrets of my own, as this record clearly shows.
…
Of course, the story of Shepard is more than his roots, important though they be. Just as a tree needs more than earth to grow, so does the tale of a true hero. While Shepard was strongly rooted by surviving his home world, the fame from that survival needed other nutrients to grow into the legend he was destined to be.
In that line, the formula creating a hero does not occur in vacuum. It requires multiple variables, not the least of which is strength, courage, and support. Where would Washington have been without his generals? Or Emperor Augustus without his legions? But in the end, after everything's said and done, what people see are the names.
Elysium and Torfan are the big ones in early Shepard's shot locker of fame. Lesser known triumphs include the Shanxi Clan, the Saturn Killers, or if you're looking for truly obscure reference, the Phoenix Nest Debacle.
Eden Prime is one such recognized name. It's where the acknowledged beginning to Shepard and Saren's epic duel became a reality. The ability for selecting talent, to spot loopholes and subtle cues, everything Shepard had learned came to one finely honed point.
That's where it *really* began.
Dr. Arnold Pavenmeyer
~Project Ragnorak Files
Normandy SR-1
2183
Present
The pod's soothing hum reverberated through the mind of the Lion of Elysium. It had taken a few minor sleep-med doses the first week, but he had eventually grown to appreciate the sound low pitched noise. The association exercise, as suggested by Dr. Chakwas, had worked like a charm to the point where he grew drowsy just stepping into one of the pods. He still preferred a mattress, or frankly bare ground — anything that started horizontal, but he could survive on this fare. The half-awake state wasn't helping matters any ... maybe I should turn down the thermometer?
Of course there was an XO cabin where he'd been expected to sleep, Complications made such an obvious choice somewhat difficult though. Shepard was young, Pressley was old, and the old man had a much more immediate need for a soft bed. Beyond that, the concept of sleeping on his back while the rest of the crew – sans the Captain, of course – stayed in the sleeping tubes was fairly unappealing. Besides, he was harder than eezo-compressed steel; when he stared at the Sun, the Sun went blind … or so he was told. Ergo, here he was, stuffed into a sleep-tube, engaging Morpheus in combat worthy of an elite force contingent. It was a relief to be free in dreams, the one place he could see the faces of those he used to know.
I should be happy, snuggled into my tube like a koala on a eucalyptus tree. All thought paused for a horrified moment. I can't believe I used the word 'snuggle' in relation to myself. But ... it's true. Everything's safe, warm, fuzzy, sleep ….
Still … something tugged. Something was not right. The action of instantly changing from sleep to a fully awake state was only possible with movement, which was inadvisable in potentially hazardous environments. Like prototype ships. Easy does it, use your brains, what little you have. In, out. Keep the heartbeat regular … then show them why it's wrong to underestimate you.
Shepard kept his breathing even, slowly pumping as much oxygen into his system as possible without hyperventilating. A few deep breaths were better than coffee most days, although the dark stimulant was almost never denied. Full wakefulness could be obtained within fifty seconds, given the breathing method. Now, what was the problem? He began a checklist, working from obvious to less so.
I'm aboard the Normandy, groundbreaking prototype technology–which I hate – with the turians … whom I do not mind. Prototypes sounded sweet and innocent, but what the word really meant was untested. Prototype technology gave an edge over an opponent using last-gen tech, but only as long as the untested tech held up. Shepard figured the failed prototypes killed their operators, so only the new successful tech made it to the news, invariably good news.
In summary: bad feeling, prototype tech, fully awake but pretending to be asleep with all the acting skill my thespian instructor back at N camp could impart. Such as it is. There was no obvious reason for unease; that he could see at least. Therefore, it would be best to just greet the problem head on.
His eyes opened, focusing an annoyed Commander gaze on the view plate a few inches beyond his face. I should have guessed. On the other side was the stuff of nightmares … spiked mandibles, a bony fringe sweeping towards the back of a hairless skull, all framing an intent pair of yellow predatory eyes. Kryrik, Nihilus. Spectre. Council elite investigator slash assassin slash hired muscle.
Shepard keyed the opening sequence, maintaining eye contact with the turian.
"Shepard." The turian grunted.
"Nihlus." Shepard growled back. This was not the first time he'd caught Nihlus stalking him. The day before, he'd almost rammed the turian with a bo during sparring. Apparently, he thought sarcastically, aliens had no experience with blunt trauma weaponry, at least by the look of the weapons the Spectre had carried. That had been less than twenty-four hours earlier, and the turian was up to it again.
Any chance you'd like to explain yourself mister? Maybe your species doesn't understand personal space? Shepard inhaled deeply through the nose, barely avoiding shouting at the turian, choosing instead to stretch the recalcitrant kinks out of his spine. Stuffing a man as large as himself into a one-size-fits-none pod was no joke.
The turian sidled off towards the common area. Shepard could feel his predatory gaze every foot of the way. It was something about the alien's eyes … the perfectly circular irises, set in equally round sockets. He'd seen more empathy in the gaze of a vulture, nigh terrifying if you thought about it. But again, Shepard knew some people had a thing about spiders. Nothing personal, but he'd never seen the point of fearing a creature less than a hundredth of his biomass, provided it wasn't venomous.
Shepard caught the turian staring after him again on his way down to the hangar deck. The turian had a very understated body language, as if he'd been trained to suppress the usual cues common to turians. Shepard knew better than most what to look for, however, and clearly saw the minute hesitations in the tall alien's gait.
This time Shepard glared back at the alien, Spectre or no, sending a clear message. The turian spread his mandibles slightly again, nodding once before turning away.
2300
Recreation Deck
SSV Normandy
Shepard took a service ladder, eschewing the elevator. There was a higher possibility of stumbling, but at least it was a faster route. Halfway down, he did manage to almost fall over a rung, but managed to catch himself inches above the Recreation Deck ledge. Had anyone been watching, they would have claimed it an act of athleticism, but Shepard knew the truth: He'd tripped.
Just before exiting the access hatch, he paused, listening. It was an old habit, ingrained from spending too much time in technically-illegal places. Voices emanated from behind the slightly open hatchway.
"I tell you, it's like a dream! I can't believe I'm on the Normandy! Working on the same ground team as Commander Shepard!" A young, excited voice seemed to be tripping over itself in speed.
Shepard winced, grateful for the sheltering metal.
"He's a good guy, I'll give you that." A somewhat calmer, older voice responded. Lieutenant Alenko, if Shepard remembered correctly.
"Good? He's incredible! I heard the guys in the canteen back on Arcturus talking about some operation or other. They said Shepard's got a Marksman rating better than the nerds on Galaxy of Fantasy! I looked up his record, and would you believe he's got more redactions than that freaking intelligence specialist we had last week?"
Shepard heard Alenko snort. "How did you know all that?"
"Ah, well …" Jenkins exuberant tone suddenly became lower, "I … might have accidentally discovered an access card. Purely by chance."
"Chance." Alenko's voice was flat. "Right."
Jenkins voice rose in protest. "Hey, she was hot! Like, super-model hot!" His voice adopted a vague, dreaming quality, "Dark hair, a figure you wouldn't believe, smart … did I mention attractive?" his voice rose again. "How come no one like that ever works here permanently?"
A sigh resonated through the access hatch, audible to Shepard's ears. "Probably because of grunts like you, Jenkins."
An indignant snort echoed, loud enough to make a point. "She shot down Hector like a skeet contest. Raymond didn't even try, after hearing about the put down. She definitely acted like an ice queen. Why wouldn't I want an extra edge?"
Alenko's next sigh was even deeper, if possible. "Because getting on the wrong side of Intel gets you investigated?"
Shepard nodded approvingly. It wasn't wise to irritate Alliance Intelligence. He'd gotten away with it solely due to his N7+ ranking. And possibly a few bribes. Maybe some dirt, too. Anyway, the point is, don't bug them unless you're me.
"Um, yeah. Good point." Jenkins said, quickly changing the subject. "So, um, you heard anything about the Commander? I've read up, but all I really know is that the Captain asked for him specifically. I mean, I'm here on rotation, but the Commander was chosen for this gig."
Shepard eased the hatch open wider. It slid to one side without a sound, probably because he'd ensured it to be properly greased his first week aboard. Mentioning such a task to the usual engineers invited unwanted questions. He stepped onto the deck proper, a rugged brushed-metal surface, and made his way past the rec-room's lockers, smaller than the shot lockers on the main cargo deck, without being seen by the two squad members. Just as he entered the gym he felt eyes on his back. It felt like a pair of pinpricks, slowly jabbing into the skin over his spine.
He whirled, dropping into a half-crouch, palm slapping to the cool metal of a side-arm his father had left him. Against regs to carry a sidearm outside the armory, he thought ruefully, but Anderson knows what they mean to me. Lucky me. Keen eyes peered into the darkened hall, scanning every square centimeter for the source of discomfort. Regretfully, there was nothing to be seen … but the uneasy feeling persisted.
The rest of the night proceeded similarly, continuing until the early morning hours. Shepard stayed in the gym for the most part, alternating between a lighter version of his workout routine and catching up on paperwork, feeling the hairs on his neck prickle every so often. He didn't like needing the reassuring weight of a gun in his boot to feel safe. Least of all, while he was XO on an ostensibly friendly ship. There were ways to fight back of course, but using them on a guest felt … wrong.
As a compromise between his conscience and reality, he broke out one of the NightStalker gauntlets from the armory, wearing the unarmored portion on his left hand. Sometimes, when fractions of a second counted, reaching for a sidearm took too long. It also gave him … nonlethal options, salving his conscience.
The prickling sensation faded away after several hours, he assumed, just before Lieutenant Alenko came back, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He blinked at the sight of Shepard in his workout clothes, lazily sitting on a bench while reading a report. Although it was nearly silent, Shepard could hear the implant plugged into the base of Kaidan's skull humming slightly. Has to be annoying, constant noise wherever you go. Useful, but distracting, especially for stealth missions.
"Morning, Commander, or are you up late?" Kaidan asked.
Shepard grunted, setting the report to one side. "Not my choice," he grumbled. "Turian keeps getting close, wakes me up."
"Maybe he likes you, or maybe he's a she? Hard to tell with turians. Maybe the alleged 'she' is trying to work up the nerve to ask you out …."His tone was teasing, so far as Shepard could tell. Kaidan pulled a set of weights towards him with a blue flare, the nanofibers behind his ear glowing the same hue as the strange energies.
Shepard growled at the suggestion. "Yeah … not gonna happen." He shifted a set of weights from the rack, letting their magnets latch onto the deck. He followed their example, dropping to his palms and pumping out a quick set. "I think he's watching me for some reason." He switched to one hand, facing the biotic. "I don't like it."
The Lieutenant gestured, moving one of the weights into a floating position. "Well, he is working for the Council. Their people helped build this ship. Maybe he's just keeping an eye on the people in charge of it?" The fair-skinned man twitched, showing irritation. "I haven't noticed him watching the rest of us."
Shepard kept his arm locked, holding himself upright in a slanting position, extending the other gauntleted hand towards the weights. His fingers quivered against the contacts woven into the fabric, urging the gauntlet's eezo cell into a power struggle with the natural biotic. The blue light brightened in response, surrounding the weight in a brighter nimbus, flickering into a pair of lines leading between the two men. Sometimes the light seemed to vanish into spectrums Shepard couldn't see, reappearing moments later. Kaidan tilted his neck, apparently making a shift in the implants configuration. The lights leading along his arm flickered, intensifying the nimbus surrounding the weights. They twitched, edging towards the dark-haired Lieutenant.
"That's my point. He talks to the Captain, but he watches me." Shepard twisted his gauntlet, slowly building up the power feed. "I've seen him watching me when I eat, following my routine across the ship …." He made a face, closing his eyes at the memory. "I've even found someone trying to hack my extranet history recently."
Kaiden's eyebrows rose. "Might be that Alliance visitor last week."
Shaking his head, Shepard grunted a negative. "An official Alliance Intel agent doesn't need to do that." He paused, thinking. "Well, they might … but why? I haven't raised any red flags." His eyes cut towards Kaiden. "That I know of, anyway."
Jenkins popped up from behind a toolbox, face shiny with sweat. "Maybe she's a pedophile? Don't turians live a thousand years?"
Kaidan groaned. "That's asari, and no, it doesn't work that way. If asari only hooked up with people their own age, they'd be limited to krogan after a century or two."
Jenkins slowed for only a second. He always bounced back, higher than before. "Well, don't worry commander. If he tries to take you on a date or anything, we got your back."
Shepard had been trying not to laugh, but the young soldier's last statement disrupted his concentration anyway. As soon as his finger twitched, the nimbus burst in a blinding display, and the weight shot towards the lieutenant like a battering ram.
Alenko reacted instantly, flashing his hands in a warding gesture, blurring them forward into a shoving motion. The weights were deflected to one side in a spinning blast of cerulean energy, indicative of the biotic's true power. The weight impacted the deck with a resounding clang, spinning on edge.
There was a stunned silence while the weight toppled like an Euler's Disk. Then Jenkins fell over backwards laughing at the lieutenants' shocked expression.
Shepard shook his head, then checked his watch. "Glad someone found that amusing," he said to the pair of feet shaking above the bench. His tone was gruff, but there wasn't any heat in it. He looked back at Kaidan, "Sorry, lost my focus and moved … wrong." He extended the Nightstalker gauntlet in explanation.
"It's fine, Commander." Kaidan stood, stretching his arms past his head. "My reflexes needed testing anyway." His face twitched, visually similar to when a painful twinge hit, but Shepard wasn't sure. It was hard to read the Lieutenant's face.
Shepard nodded gravely, schooling his features to remain emotionless. "I'll be sure to arrange additional training with the Captain tomorrow." He rose, stretching the tightened muscles in his back. "Since it's morning, I'll just head up to the mess hall and get some breakfast."
0700
SSV Normandy, Mess Hall
Shepard traveled to one of his more favored places on the Normandy: the ship's galley. Like most smaller military vessels, there was no dedicated chef, or even a crewman whose secondary tasks were focused on cookery. However, in the time-honored tradition, those more gifted in the culinary arts frequently traded their skills in exchange for changing shifts or another duty common to any space-going vessel. The Normandy, as a prototype, was equipped with rather primitive food production terminals … insults to the culinary art.
He slapped together a few extra plates, leaving them in the warmer, and retreated to his usual corner. Back to the corner, eyes on the entrances. An unwary soldier is a dead soldier. Shepard pulled back a chair, crossing a leg to rest the foot on the opposite's knee, simultaneously giving him a makeshift table for tablet while keeping his knife close at hand. It was paranoid, but the prickling sensation had returned with a vengeance.
The soft sound of a boot scraping over the slightly uneven edge between the mess hall and the short corridor warned him. Metal boots. Alliance combat boots have ceramic plating … mostly, and sailors wear softer material. He glanced up to see the Nihlus enter, and deliberately dropped his eyes to his plate. I see you, and believe you insignificant. Like the krogan say, 'the best insult to an enemy is to ignore him.'
Maintaining his eye-avoidance protocol was easier with the help of an electronic reader. Shepard used it to sort through the duties roster for the next week. Lets see. Pakti, Abishek. Slated for weapons maintenance … put in a request for transfer to hangar maintenance. But he's got a massive crush on Addison … ah …. he checked the list again. Addison Chase, whom has also put in a request ... this is the Normandy, not the Loveboat. But a more plausible reason? He pondered the far wall a moment. Check for other applicants, and mark down too many, if possible. He moved on. Grieco, Marcus. Good man on the sensors, but also handy with the engines. I can split his time fifty-fify, until we get a better engineer.
Jar'min Bakar. He had to stop a moment before recalling the quarian whom had asked to be assigned for his Pilgrimage. Ah, yes. The short fellow, with yellow highlights on his suit. Crackerjack repairman. Repair-quarian. Whatever. I'll have to double check; make sure he's not just taking those shifts because he thinks it's expected of him, big sense of duty, possibly too big. Maybe he'll do for ground support sometime? Mark him for simulator testing later.
Shepard became so engrossed in his work that he didn't notice the breakfast crowd trickling in. The first true inkling he had of their presence was when a crewman started laughing, dropping his utensil in glee. Shepard glanced up, taking in the room before focusing on the voice. Felawa, Robert. He remembered. Able Seaman , First Class. Family man, thirty-seven years old, married, two children. Impressive record on the SSV Hutchinson, decorated twice for exemplary work on GARDIAN systems during multiple skirmishes.
"What's so funny?" he heard a female voice ask.
Catching the flushed skin on Felwa's face, indicators of embarrassment, Shepard quietly settled both feet on the floor and leaned back, deeper into the corner's shadow. No sense intimidating the crew a week into the shakedown voyage.
"Sorry," the light-skinned man apologized. "The article was just too funny. You read it, Helen?"
The woman's name clicked in Shepard's memory, although the face still failed to register. Lowe, M. Helen. Communications specialist, very knowledgeable in electronics, part-owner of a construction supply company. He thought about that point for a moment. I'll have to look into that later.
Unfortunately, the thoughts kept flowing, driving his attention away from the mess hall activity. Kaiden Alenko, one of the most powerful natural biotics in the Alliance is aboard. The best pilot in the Alliance is here, one of the most decorated N7 graduates is in command … and I'm pretty sure the marine complement is in the top tier as well. Elite forces, all the way around … and then there's me. He snorted at the thought. For what that's worth. Then there's Spectre Nihlus Kyrik, hanging around the ship.
A bit of movement to one side distracted his thoughts once again. He looked up to see a crewman settling in a chair at his side. Light colored skin, blue eyes, balding, with a beard, rank is … "Hello Pressley. Get a good rest?"
The older man smiled. "Best week of sleep I've had in years, Commander. Thank you."
"Don't mention it." Shepard waved a hand deprecatingly. "How are the systems going? Worked out the bugs yet?"
Pressley sighed. His love of perfection was already a standing joke, as were his complaints about the lack thereof. "Well, it's good and it's bad. You see …"
Shepard listened, nodding at the appropriate points, despite not comprehending the majority of it. The navigator was a good man, highly valued for his skill in finding routes, shaving days off transit times in ways that few others could perceive, let alone copy. For skills like that, Shepard would sleep with an anvil for a pillow … not that I haven't, a long time ago. Wait … Pressley's older, but there's no one better than him at his job. There's that elite-ness again. What's going on?
A strange shape caught his attention for a moment as a quarian walked into the mess room, one of the marines on loan from the Flotilla, part of the skeleton marine complement aboard the Normandy. His suit appeared to be more heavily reinforced than the average quarian, colored red and black overall. He maneuvered through the growing crowd in easy strides. Shepard had heard of crowded living conditions aboard the Flotilla, but every time he witnessed something like this, the truth hit him over the head again.
Shepard gave the quarian a slight nod, which was returned, before bringing his attention back to Pressley. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the alien marine take stock of the counter, then slump his shoulders slightly. Shepard deduced the cause; poor rations here. I need to add that to the supplies list, right after the Mako requisition and a few Mech armor sets. Idiots send us out on a mission before we're fully equipped … he refocused on the navigator, whom had either out of politeness or obliviousness, ignored his lapse in attention.
After quarter hour of commiseration with Pressley, Shepard excused himself.The man has a point. If this ship is going to be doing high-profile maneuvers, it'll need to be running perfectly. The face of the Alliance has to look good, but we need effective people, not just pretty faces. While walking past the island, distracted as he was, his foot caught on a corner, accidentally tossing the pad he'd been using. Desperately, he gathered himself, stretching an arm to snag the errant bit of electronics. It tumbled just past the edge of his fingers, almost mocking in its beautifully executed, if unintentional, backflip.
He landed awkwardly on his front, the impact forcing the breath out of him in a whoosh. Stunned for a moment, all he could do was stare at a pair of feet in front of his chin.
"Twenty minutes, thirteen seconds Commander. Not bad." A hand lowered within his visual range, palm upwards.
Grabbing it, Shepard allowed the crewman to help pull him to his feet. Shepard took a moment to brush off his knees, using the time to remember her face. Tan, Caucasian. Medium height, dark hair, engineer emblem … deeper voice than Miss Draven … but taller than Miss Waaberi. Who is she? He covered his confusion by smiling thankfully, straightening to his full height. "Thank you, Miss. Much appreciated." I don't know of any female engineers with hair that dark. Did I miss someone on the roster?
The woman smiled back, holding out the piece of electronics that had precipitated his fall from grace. "Anything good today, Commander?"
He took it, giving the device a quick once-over for structural damage. No nail-polish, not a big help on a military ship. Calluses on the thumbs, so a lot of typing … she's waiting for a response. "We're headed for Eden Prime, same as yesterday. Routine shakedown cruise I'm told." With the top Alliance combat specialists aboard, minimal marine team complement, no Mech-armor, and one of the Council's elite lapdogs sniffing around. He took a moment to consider his thoughts, snorting mentally. Too much Shakespeare, not enough exercise. I should write a book.
"Well, boring is good, I suppose." she replied.
Shepard noticed the woman had a strange look on her face, something that niggled at his memory, but couldn't recognize. He'd noticed some of the other crew with unidentifiable expressions as well, but then, it was only to be expected. An elite ship in the middle of its maiden voyage … it was an honor to be considered good enough to ensure such a valuable commodity's operational security. Having that kind of superior capability sometimes brought together strange people, each with their own little idiosyncrasies. Shepard decided to let it go. Not like I have much knowledge on reading emotions these days anyway. Give me a good firefight any day.
"Well, thanks again. Speaking for the Normandy, I'm sure we'll have a nice trip, and will see you next fall." He gave her a slight smile, trying once more for humor. She gave him the usual response, a slightly puzzled expression but this time mixed with an oddly hungry look.
Shepard took that as an opening to leave once more, this time being more careful about where he placed his steps. Good thing breakfast is being served. Looks like she needs it … whomever she is. He considered the odd reaction, then put it out of his mind. Sighing, he opened his omni-tool, making sure to note the duration and type of impact. She's right. This time I made it two minutes longer than yesterday before tripping. Soon, I should have the place memorized, no more tripping I hope.
He took the opportunity when turning a corner to glance quickly back the way he'd come. The woman had her dishes in hand, and appeared to be currently taking them to the disposal unit. Who the heck was she?
SSV Normandy, Pilot station
Shepard found himself lurking in the back of the cockpit, watching the armored turian stand behind the pilot. It was payback, in a sense; watching the Spectre that had been dogging his steps for nearly a week. Of course, Shepard had been far more subtle himself, ensuring there were legitimate tasks for every position he took. Not that he believed the turian was fooled at any time, of course.
"Sending handshake protocol to the Relay. Signal acknowledged. Stand by for transit."
Flight Lieutenant Jeff "Joker" Moreau's hands flew over the keyboard, aligning the engines to their Relay configuration. Shepard knew he'd done this a thousand times before; in simulators, shuttles, cargo vessels, and on occasion, military warships. He never seemed to grow weary of the task, of feeling a multi-megaton craft answer to his touch.
To the short man's right, a dark-haired man with a biotic implant checked the numbers from the co-pilot seat. Only one biotic on the Normandy powerful enough to rate an Alliance T-2 implant. Shepard knew the biotic well enough to guess he was running the algorithms mentally as well. "Confirmed for transit."
"Hitting the Relay in 3 … 2 … 1 …."
Shepard almost felt the tiny frigate slide closer to the Relay, harnessing the massive potential energy inherent within the ancient device. The usual spark touched, connecting the two separate constructs, and propelling it to the partner Relay, far faster and more efficiently than the best Hawking Engine.
Joker sighed with undeniable satisfaction. "Target reached, drift just under fifteen hundred k."
"Fifteen hundred is good. Your captain will be pleased." Nihulus stalked towards the aft, mandibles moving stiffly.
Joker waited just long enough for the Spectre to pass out of earshot. Shepard knew from experience the maximum distance sound could carry; apparently the irascible pilot did as well. "I hate that guy." he muttered.
"Nihulus gave you a compliment … and so you hate him." Kaidan responded. He didn't look up, apparently choosing to focus on returning the frigate to normal-space configuration.
"You remember to look both ways before crossing the street, that's good." Joker hit the presets laboriously programmed days earlier. "You launch yourself across the galaxy and land on a pinhead? That's fantastic!" He double checked his presets, matching them against the virtual dials. "Besides, he gives me the creeps. Call me paranoid."
"You're paranoid."
Joker managed to sound hurt. "Spectres don't take joyrides on shakedown cruises. They go where their leash-holders tell them." He gave the brushed steel column behind the projectors a fond pat. "Usually someplace not quite as classy as my baby."
"The turians are a Council species, and helped build the Normandy. They have a right to examine their investment," Kaidan objected.
Joker snorted. "Yeaahh, if you believe the official story. Since when does an elite hunting dog get assigned to kiddie tours?"
"Joker has a point," Shepard interjected, making himself heard. "Spectres are considered to be among the best in the galaxy. Why send a soldier on a shakedown? Wouldn't a salarian ship designer write a better analysis?"
The pilot waved approvingly at Shepard. "See? Even tall dark and gruesome here gets it."
Shepard listened to Kaidan chuckle, feeling an old sense of camaraderie once again.
Joker glared at the amused biotic. "Hey, the man tells it like it is. Don't complain about the truth."
"Joker, what's our ETA?" A voice echoed over the communication device installed over their heads.
"We just finished the jump, Captain, and should reach Eden Prime within the hour. Uh, Nihlus is headed your way, and looks kinda cranky. Thought you might want to know." Joker thumbed off the switch.
"He's already here. If Shepard is there, send him aft." The Captain's now irritated voice abruptly left the system.
"Hmm, grumpy." Joker mused. "Wonder what's up with him?"
"Yeah, I wonder why." Kaidan rolled his eyes expressively. "Well, you heard the cap, Commander. Better head on back."
Shepard nodded absently, staring back along the transit corridor, letting his eyes rest on the bright orange CIC projection. He had good eyesight, better than the 20/20 once considered to be the apex of visual acuity. He could see the lines on the display shift under his gaze, highlighting the power flow currently running through the Normandy's skeleton. For a moment, he felt a sense of melancholy rising as he tried looking at the faces huddled around the orange glow, swimming tantalizing out of focus. A pair of eyes became visible, then faded as the nose shifted into clarity, only to give way to an impression of hair overall.
Giving up on the exercise, Shepard made his way past the superstructure of the CIC, noting Pressley in his customary position. The man looked much more energized than he had the first several days aboard, testament to better treatment, Shepard believed.
"Pressley, how goes the calibrations?" He stopped just behind the older man's left shoulder, leaving enough room to pull back if necessary.
"Commander? Sir, the calibrations are going well." Pressley snapped off a short salute.
Shepard smiled, returning the gesture. "At ease, Pressley. Thoughts on our guest?"
The balding man's expression darkened almost immediately. "He's a turian, sir, and a Spectre at that. The Council didn't do anything about the batarian slavers until humans came on the scene, and the turians were the ones with the most capability to do anything."
Shepard's eyebrows went up. "An interesting point. What about the embargos the Council have put in place, or the patrols along Hegemony space? Turians have been very … eager about that."
"They didn't seem too eager according to their own history." Pressley muttered. "The Spectres sound like loose cannons, too. No oversight? How do they keep track of their agents?"
Shepard felt one side of his mouth pull upwards. "I think the Council would say something along the lines of how they've selected people who don't need babysitters. Responsible people, right?"
The navigator snorted rudely. "I've been around long enough to know you can't really trust anyone that far. Especially when they ask you to."
Shepard grunted, nodding a farewell to the old man. He turned towards the communication room, sidestepping two officers who were conversing in low tones, becoming more introspective. Maybe it's like the old Roman emperors, he thought. When they got a good one, the entire empire prospered like nothing ever before. But when they got a bad one, they lost ground. Or maybe there's more to it? I'll have to remember to ask Udina sometime, he's around the Council often enough.
He detoured around two people, chatting about what he assumed to be Nihlus. Hmmm, energetic. Highly emotive … Jenkins, Richard. The other has gray hair, so it has to be Doctor Chakwas. No one else on this ship has gray hair. He slipped past the two, taking a longer path, while enjoying the sensation of eluding the good doctor once more. Among all the medical professionals he'd worked with, she was the only one who seemed to enjoy the games of cat-and-mouse as much as he did. Hiding his … condition … had led to a certain amount of subterfuge.
The comm room doors hissed open, reminding him once again of a massive serpent. Just as Shepard stepped inside, he caught sight of the turian Spectre, the large alien facing the large screen. Instantly, Shepard went on his guard, quietly pulling his arms together behind his back. The ceramic handle of his holdout felt cool against his skin.
"Spectre." Shepard kept his voice calm, polite. Whatever else could be going on, he would be blasted if humanity's representative would be seen as disrespectful.
"Commander." The turian's dual-toned voice smoothly returned. Perfectly circular eyes focused on Shepard. "I'm glad you are here."
Shepard hid a shiver, casting a careful look around the room. "Where's the captain? He asked me to meet him back here."
Nihlus sidestepped to a monitor a little further from Shepard keeping one shoulder turned towards the big man. Whether it was from habit or an active desire to provide a smaller target was unknown. "The Captain stepped out for a moment, some sort of human beverage, caw-flea?"
The turian shook his head. "The word translates to mean a thick mud, used to trap opponents in front of siege walls. I believe the software is not quite operating at full capacity, I was certain I read another definition earlier. At any rate, I actually wanted to talk with you. What do you know of Eden Prime?"
Special Tactics and Reconnaissance … guess which one this is? Shepard lowered his arms, entering the slow dance his counterpart was offering. "I'm told it's a paradise. The files I've seen show it to be very similar to Earth, but with a milder climate over its entirety."
"Yes, a paradise." Nihlus nodded thoughtfully. "That is one way of putting it. I would say it is vulnerable, myself. Near the center of your empire, equidistant from multiple bases, you would think it is secure … but how safe is it, really?"
Shepard felt his hackles rising. "Is there something you are trying to say?" he turned his own shoulder, letting his right hand drop out of the turian's line-of-sight. "I am not considered highly tolerant of threats to my people, Spectre."
The doors hissed open once more, admitting a familiar uniform. Ranking … Captain. Anderson. Holding a hot steaming mug of … "Sir."
The dark-skinned man didn't look at him, focusing on Nihlus. "Commander, I think it's time to tell you exactly what's going on here. This is a lot bigger than a simple shakedown."
Shepard dropped his friendly stance, assuming his full-threat posture. "I knew there was something."
Anderson turned the full force of his stare to Shepard. "Stand down Commander."
Shepard slumped, a little chagrinned at the rebuke.
Anderson pursed his lips, looking as if he were debating with himself. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision. "Shepard, I'm not going to lie. Nihlus is here because this isn't an ordinary shakedown cruise. This mission is set to retrieve a Prothean artifact from Eden Prime; an intact, functioning Beacon."
The news set Shepard back on his feet, though he tried not to show it. "That's why we aren't carrying a full complement? No decent hardware?"
Anderson grimaced. "I received word less than two weeks ago, Top Secret plus. The brass needed someone at Eden Prime as soon as possible, with as much discretion as could be managed. Admiral Hackett knew the Normandy was almost ready, and asked me to hurry it along a little."
Nihlus stepped into the conversation. "I was called in as an outside observer. The discovery of Prothean technology, particularly functioning technology, is a huge issue. Massive. A young race, new to the galaxy, one that is not …" for a moment, the turian acted flustered, as if catching himself before saying something embarrassing. "I mean, the Alliance and the Council managed to reach an agreement to study the technology on a joint basis."
Shepard raised an eyebrow. "You mean the Council doesn't trust the Alliance to share technology?"
Nihlus shrugged. "In the short run, yes; long run, I'm not sure if they want the Alliance to extend the technology difference gap. The dalatresses are eager to get their hands on technology from your sector of the galaxy in the first place, after all. Those trade agreements made before your people made contact with the rest of the galaxy have boosted their industrial capacity to unprecedented levels." He looked down at his wrist, fiddling with the near-invisible band of his omni-tool. The ridges running along the side of his face shifted uneasily. "They've been making products that outmatch asari R and D, which is frankly incredible. The asari are making a comeback, but it's been centuries since someone has outdone them in technology development."
"Hmmm." Shepard let that one sit for the moment. Something didn't feel right. One of the military best sent to escort a priceless artifact makes sense, but if security was the issue, the Council would have sent an army. True, Spectres are loyal, and rumored to be incredibly skilled, but they are only one individual. Why else is he here?
He shot a look at the Captain, clearly communicating his distrust.
Anderson sighed. "You're right, Shepard. That's not the only reason why Nihlus is here." He gave the turian a longsuffering glance. "See? I told you he'd catch on."
"Indeed." Nihlus assented.
The captain sat down, moving as if he was now feeling every injury he'd received in his career. "Shepard, Nihlus is also here to evaluate someone for Spectre candidacy."
"Hmmm." Shepard's eyes narrowed, mentally going through the crew list. Watching me, ignoring most of the crew … but why make it easy for him? He's been spying, make him admit it. "Alenko would be a good candidate. Biotic, highly decorated, well-commended by all of his previous positions."
Anderson froze, then shook his head. "Good thought, but no." His face came up, pinning Shepard with a raptor-like gaze. "He's evaluating you."
Shepard froze, staring at the Captain. He felt like a small rodent under that look. Then, he recovered, narrowing his own eyes in a similar fashion.
"I don't remember submitting my name for consideration …." thoughts whirled through Shepard's mind, processing the situation. Stall for time. Think, Shepard! There are still twenty colonists unaccounted for, it's been nearly fifteen years and I haven't tracked them down yet. The batarians are still raiding, and there are at least three major entities behind those raids; I don't have time to play nanny to three incompetent politicians! I have people to rescue! Enemies to kill!
"I'm sorry, sir," he tried to keep all emotion from his voice. It had taken years to manage that trick, but the rewards were very satisfying. "But I don't recall being informed of a change in my status, or of my volunteering for such a change." His return glare intensified to a version of his own, something he'd copied from an aged salarian negotiator in his N3 days. "Sir." He added, almost as an afterthought.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Nihlus tense. On a human, the equivalent would be the jaw muscles clenching, but the turian physique turned it into a sort of twitch in the shoulders. Anderson on the other hand, just lowered his head as if he'd expected the reaction. "I know, Commander. I was one of the committee members for the selection process. Your name was on the short list, but I was sworn to secrecy."
"Being a Spectre is a high honor, Commander." Nihlus interjected. "They are born, not made. Very few are considered, let alone chosen to reach this point of evaluation."
Shepard twisted, bringing the turian into view using only his neck. The move was designed to show perfect body control, as well as a bit of a dismissive attitude. "Why would the Council want a Spectre from the Alliance? We are not signatories of the Council, yet you would give us an omnipotent agent?" He twisted back, blinking once at Anderson again. "Or is this part of the 'trade' for the Beacon?"
Anderson shrugged. "I wasn't in the top level negotiations. Ambassador Udina was overseeing that portion." His gaze raked across Shepard's face. "But the better question here may be, why wouldn't you want to be a Spectre, Shepard?"
Crossing his arms, Shepard raised his chin. "I have a great deal on my plate, aside from my duties as the Normandy's XO. I have made an oath to serve and protect the Alliance, and I am fulfilling that promise to the best of my ability." He gave the turian Spectre a dirty look. "The Alliance has enough trouble to take care of without becoming responsible for solving the Council's issues."
Nihlus didn't react. He watched Shepard, as if the commander were some new insect, exhibiting unusual properties. It was at that point Shepard realized he was facing someone who might be as good as himself. Possible. He is good. Very good.
The PA system interrupted the tension. "Captain, we're getting a transmission from Eden Prime. It's … not looking good." Joker's voice drifted in over the speakers.
"Put it on the main screen." Anderson ordered. His dark gaze lingered on Shepard, promising further conversation later.
Shepard kept the gaze, silently agreeing. Then he drifted back, automatically seeking the darkest corner, with clear lines of sight to both the monitor and the entrance. He watched the screen, catching as much detail as he could. The static-filled transmission flickered inanely at times, but the general point was very easy to observe.
"This is sergeant … under attack ... Require immediate …" The soldier in front of the camera fell, an assault rifle chattering in the background. Another soldier, female rushed at the camera, ordering whoever was wielding it to get down.
She moves like a Mech driver. Shepard noted. Good forearm development, slightly exaggerated motions, definitely stronger than the average mook. Why isn't she in her hardware? Did they get attacked so fast they didn't have time?
His musings were interrupted by the captain once more.
"Go back, pause at 12:02." Anderson ordered.
The screen flickered more definitely this time, pausing at a point where the cameraman had flailed. There, on the screen, loomed a massive skyscraper that Shepard was certain hadn't been on the original colony plans. Dark crimson bolts of energy coruscated around its upper superstructure, arcing sometimes to the leg-like extensions that connected the seed-shaped main body to the ground.
Impressive. Shepard acknowledged. No wonder Anderson's considered one of the best. That's obviously the invasion craft … must have taken a lot of resources to create. He studied the image more closely. It had to be over fifteen stories tall … designed for landing, but that energy output doesn't look healthy. For a ship, anyway.
"Joker," Anderson's voice was full of soft menace, "Get us to Eden Prime, quick and quiet. Did you relay the distress call?"
"Distress call is away, moving up to flank speed. We should be there inside thirty minutes. Sorry, it looks like we're the closest. The next closest Alliance ship is the SRR Rubicon; they'll be here two hours after we arrive."
"Good." Anderson shut down the viewer. "Keep us under stealth as long as possible." He turned to Shepard. "Commander, gear up. Get a squad ready for the Beacon."
Shepard straightened, his normal clumsiness vanishing like a bad memory. "Yes sir. And the civilians?"
Anderson growled. "I'll send what marines we have, see what kind of help we can get."
"Captain, your first priority should be the Prothean Beacon. If anyone gets their hands on that kind of technology, it could mean intergalactic war!" Nihlus had also dropped his casual stance. Shepard had always considered the turian fringe to be more decorative than anything else, but he had to admit that Nihlus made it threatening, like a row of knives ready to impale.
Anderson wheeled back, skewering the turian in a single glare. "You go after the Beacon, I won't stop you. But I will defend my people the best way I know how. Understood?"
The Spectre paused, shoulders set. Shepard altered his position to an unarmed combat stance, ready to jump the foreigner. Finally, Nihlus shook his head, snorting gently. "You are to be commended, Captain. I wish no evil to befall your people, but the greater misfortune could arise from losing that Beacon. Consider yourself warned."
Anderson merely nodded, stepping to one side as the turian brushed past to the exit. He caught Shepard's eye. "Get ready to roll, Shepard. This could be a big one."
Shepard saluted, hurrying to the door. "Understood."
Cargo Bay
The clear space, where a Mako should have been placed, felt wrong. It was like a lost tooth, an unfamiliar gap in what should have been a tightly fitted series of teeth. The lack of the combined heavy artillery and troop transport bothered Shepard almost as much as the missing Mech hardware.
Shepard perused his armor locker, gauging what would be acceptable for an ad hoc ground mission. His non-standard NightStalker set was a certainty, despite the need to keep its full potential secret from Nihlus.
The armor was donned quickly. Time was short, after all.
Next were the weapon decisions … Not my dad's hardware. So then, Brawler pistols, with their high-damage capability, or the Tsunami model, with their higher rate of fire? An assault rifle was out, as was the shotgun. The only rifle he liked was the variety that could kill from a thousand yards. Shotguns were not worth the time of day, short-range cannons that made a mess of everything in front of them.
Rushing air caught his attention. It must have been Jenkins, a few lockers down, testing his jets. Shepard kept his head down, but turned just enough to watch the young man smile in satisfaction before strapping the plastron attachment over his undersuit. The jets cut in, pushing the marine upwards. He hovered at head height for a few moments, and then descended just as smoothly as he'd climbed. The opaque faceplate darkened, showing just the lower jaw, apparently the last step in Jenkins's preparations.
To the other side, the reduced marine complement was already fully armored. An esoteric mixture of humans and quarians, the group gave an intimidating aura to the normally calm cargo bay. The quarians in particular had an almost skeletal look, compared to the bulky forms of the human marines.
Pulling himself back to what he was doing, Shepard discovered he'd already finished, and was twirling a knife between his fingers. Keep it together Shepard, they're watching. He spun the knife back into its sheathe and pushed off the locker door. Before it clanged shut, he caught a glimpse of the longer blade he'd hung on every back wall since he'd joined the military. Its deadly length seemed to flicker encouragingly as the shadows enveloped it once more.
Shepard watched the door for a moment. He gave it a respectful nod, and then followed Jenkins to the airlock. Alenko was already present, his lightweight armor polished but worn from multiple battles. Captain Anderson had also made an appearance, hovering near the back portion, conferring with the turian Spectre.
As soon as Shepard arrived, the captain moved forwards. The older man had the same glint Shepard knew from when the two had been partners in the N7 corps. He answered it with a smirk, and was rewarded with a smile. All that took a second, before Anderson had stopped moving.
"You know the drill." Anderson bellowed over the muted sound of rushing air. "Get in, secure the Beacon, get out." He pointed at Shepard, disturbingly similar to a portrait of Fate. "It's your baby now, Shepard. Take care of it."
Jenkins helmet turned sharply. "Nihlus, you coming with us?"
The turian checked his assault rifle. "I move faster on my own. I'll meet—"
Shepard slammed one boot onto the deck, activating its mag-clamps, striking the turian across the chest with an arm, blocking the turian from leaving. "We're sticking together. No arguments."
Nihlus cocked his head at Shepard. "You don't give me orders, Shepard."
Shepard let a feral grin spread. "You're right. This is Alliance territory, and the mission is under my jurisdiction. If you don't want to follow my orders, you can stay aboard the Normandy." He pulled back, turning to face the door. "Your choice."
He heard Jenkins gasp, but Alenko was too disciplined. A faint blue haze appeared around the biotic's gauntlets, but that was it. Anderson, shoved his way between Nihlus and Shepard.
"Shepard, this is your mission, but Nihlus is not under your command. He is operating as an independent. Understood, Commander?"
For a moment, Shepard was tempted to challenge the Captain's decision. As Executive Officer, it was both his right and duty to disagree with dangerous commands. He took a long look at Anderson's face. He's done well by me. Trusted me when I ask for leniency, refrained from examining how batarian slaves got free when I'm around … I owe him. "All right. But I will not be responsible for his well-being. If he's close, I will protect. If not, his blood is on his own head."
Anderson's face relaxed into a more amicable expression. "I know, son." He turned towards Nihlus. "Is that acceptable, Spectre?"
The turian stared at the two, clearly nonplussed at their actions. His mandibles dropped, revealing teeth a vampire would envy. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
"Drop point reached. Ready to go, fellas. Thanks for flying Alliance Airways, don't forget to tip your server on the way out!" Joker's voice came through the intercom.
Shepard checked his squad, then spun his hand clockwise. "You heard the man, go, go, go!"
He didn't bother looking back to see if Nihlus was coming. Either he was, or he wasn't. Whatever happened, he'd be ready for it.
A/N: Well, there you have it, the first chapter! Hope you had at least half as much fun as I did writing it!
