Determination is a good thing. It brings resolve to the weakened mind, andcourage to those unable to stand for themselves. It is a double-edged weapon, however,dangerous in the hands of those that will not see reason –andequally deadly when possessed by a wise man.
In my years, I have learned to watch those around me much more carefully than in my younger days. A skill I should have learned then, but never did until it was arguably too late. My observations have led me to make several conclusions.
Some people remind me of bears; powerful and afraid of nothing – but ultimately loners. They do not accept help, nor offer it; typically found in the more independent cultures. For example, colonists and farmers will help each other within their own communities, but are extraordinarily well known for resisting outside influences.
Other people are more similar to alligators; cold, ruthless and uncaring of everything but their own. They watch the world with indifference, waiting for the best opportunity with minimal risk.
Still others resemble herds or schools, constantly watching each other for indications, taking cues from the actions of others. A moral code taken from a herd is only as good as the average, which helps explain why nations deteriorate and fall – information that is as useless as it is insightful.
Shepard reminded me of a wolf; at times a loner, yet often working with others, a pack if you will. He was certainly an alpha, resisting challengers to his supremacy, and efficient in taking down threats. In that, he combined many of the best traits of the others; strength, fellowship and self-sufficiency. No matter how many opponents came against him, he never surrendered, never gave up. His actions inspired his followers to truly heroic heights – or should I say his companions inspired him?
Whatever the cause, the entire group was more than up to the challenges facing them. They were practically a force of nature, sweeping away all obstacles in their path, obliterating what would not move.
It made me laugh, when I read a line by Virgil, that ancient Roman poet. He indeed said it best:
"Wolves never care how many sheep there are."
~Dr. Arnold Pavenmeyer
Project Ragnarock
[SR-1 Normandy, Deep Space]
[0913, Thursday]
A tall, angular figure making its way through the morning gym crowd caught Shepard's attention, reminding him of the … guest … in the Normandy's brig. Shepard raised a hand, gaining the turian's attention. "Detective, can I speak with you in my cabin?"
The turian stiffened. That was expected; the Hierarchy ships enjoyed a more relaxed off-duty atmosphere. Oversight for personal activities had to be irritating for the alien senses.
Tough. Shepard didn't spare the emotion. Human ship, human protocol.
They waited in silence as the elevator brought them up to the CIC level, a relatively short duration given the prototype vessel's abbreviated structure. For unknown reasons, the Captain's cabin resided there while the Executive Officer's quarters took up space a floor down; near the crew pods ... likely the results of the Normandy's prototypical edge. No one seemed to notice their approach, except the solitary guard on watch. The man didn't obstruct Shepard's path, but his posture indicated uneasiness.
Shepard waved away the concern, at the same time gesturing Garrus into the room. He made sure to take a side-step, so he could see the detective's reaction.
Garrus walked in, and then almost stumbled to a halt. His mandibles hung limply, an easily translated expression. Too soon for Shepard's taste, he recovered and began examining the room in earnest. His eyes flickered across the bedecked cabin, categorizing every piece. His gaze reached Shepard, and stopped.
The turian exhaled gustily, picking a chair to sit on. "I suppose those metal objects on the wall are just decorations?"
"Museum pieces I worked up over the past few years." Shepard glanced at a medieval battle axe, bolted securely to the wall. He turned back to see Garrus raising an eye-ridge. "What? Everyone needs a hobby."
The next sigh was, if anything, deeper than the previous one. "What did you want to talk to me about, Shepard?"
Ah. That. He had almost forgotten in the conversation. "What do you think of our prisoner?"
Garrus's mandibles tightened. "I'm not sure if she should be called a prisoner of war, or arrested suspect. Legally, there's a world of difference."
"True," Shepard agreed, "But since she was with a known public enemy, and attempted to flee a known authority, I think we could make whatever we want from it." He folded his arms, "What would the Council do with her? According to your regulations, I mean."
"Well," Garrus looked thoughtful. "If she were my prisoner, I'd have to turn her over to C-Sec for interrogation."
"Not an issue."
"Good." Garrus's exposed needle-sharp teeth, "As for what's permissible … it all depends on who's doing the questions."
Shepard stroked his chin, absently noting he needed to shave. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since he'd last slept; there had been just too much to do. Shaving was one of the things at low priority, getting the ship in running order was more important. It would reduce his efficiency somewhat, but that was acceptable; he'd gone as long without sleep before, and with less backup too.
"I know of a place …" Shepard started slowly, "but I don't want to go there unless we absolutely need too." he frowned, "Call it a hunch, but I've been getting reports – hints, actually – of individuals or small groups of asari going through Alliance space. Nothing illegal, but an honest traveler wouldn't need to hide their transactions so well."
"What do you mean?" Garrus's eyes were bright, focused, the interested look of a professional investigator.
Inwardly, Shepard awarded himself another point; the turian detective was as sharp as he'd hoped. "I have access to a lot of financial data. Lots of contacts too, all throughout Alliance space, and every once in a while – something … vanishes."
"Vanishes?"
He moved away from the desk. "Fades, more like. It's as if the information exists, but is changed slightly like ..." he searched for an analogy, "Instead of being sent to a resident apartment in the Citadel Zakara Wards, it's sent to the apartment landlord's office instead. Nothing illegal, not even suspicious … just a minor shift rerouting communication lines. And each time, there's an asari involved, but no one knows who." He splayed his hands in a helpless fashion. "I couldn't do anything outside Alliance space – until now, but that's only been a recent shift."
Garrus settled on another chair. "You're bringing this up because of the prisoner, right?"
"Yeah," Shepard studied his hands, considering his next words. "She's clearly an experienced asari commando, and with a defunct, mothballed terrorist group. Why?"
He glanced out at the most recent addition to his collection before changing the subject slightly. "The Council hasn't assigned me an 'adviser' yet," he included the obligatory air quote, "but I anticipate their remedying the situation soon. That means I have only a little time left."
"Get the interrogation over with quickly then?"
They had reached the heart of the matter quickly enough, almost too quickly. "Yes."
"And you want me to lead off the questioning?"
Shepard held up both hands, palm outwards, "No, not by any means. My question is: would you be obligated to report my interrogation?"
Garrus paused, apparently thinking the matter over. "If I were still in C-Sec, I would have to report anything suspicious, or at least," he paused again, "anything I considered suspicious. Since I'm here as a contractor though," the needle-sharp teeth made another appearance, "I wouldn't need to report something that was clearly within your jurisdiction."
"Good." Shepard nodded, rising to his feet. "In that case, I want you to watch the interrogation … pirates I can handle; slavers easily. But … I haven't encountered too many asari pirates … live ones, anyway."
"They're a credit a dozen out in the Terminus Systems," Garrus cocked his head. "I'd have thought you had a lot of … experience … with asari."
Shepard coughed, attempting to ignore the teasing glint in the detective's eye. "Fighting, yes. Questioning, some. But I have only five years of interrogations under my belt, very little has been actual asari. More importantly, C-Sec has a lot more hauled in for questioning than my little corner of the galaxy ... plus, I might … miss some things. Asari are so similar to humans, but they're aliens … would you watch her face, and tell me what you see?"
The turian's eye ridge lowered, then rose slightly. He gave Shepard a questioning glance, ridges coming together in a very humanlike move; so much so that Shepard almost saw the blurring effect return. The turian's curiosity was understandable; Shepard truly hadn't interrogated many asari. The majority of the asari he'd met were highly skilled ... which left few alive.
"Let's get to it then." Shepard led the way out of the room. He stopped when Garrus failed to follow him. Looking back, he found the turian's attention riveted to a small implement mounted beside an aged piece of hardened steel.
"Is that," Garrus's flanged voice had dropped the friendly overtones, falling into a predatory reverberation. "Is that a spathus?"
Shepard eyed the turian's target. "Yeah; I can't quite make those myself. Had to trade for it."
"Did you know," the voice had deepened into an almost guttural snarl, "owning a spathus is a criminal offence, punishable by life in prison?"
"Or execution, if it's been used," Shepard agreed. He waited a beat, "In Council space. In Alliance territory, it's nothing more than a curiosity. You have to admit, the nickname 'Walking Dead' has a certain appeal to the less cerebrally gifted people."
He lifted the implement off its hooks, letting the squat handle rest in his palm. While designed for the tridactyl turian grip, he could easily grasp its leather-covered hilt. A quick twirl let the thin blade sing through the air, its perfectly balanced length almost dance in glee.
"It's an assassin's tool." Garrus stated flatly. "Nothing more, nothing less."
"And I've used it no less than four times, in the manner for which it was designed." Shepard set the weapon back on its resting place, ensuring the magnetic clamps were locked before he turned back to the door. "It's a tool. I could use it to do a manicure if I wanted. I'm licensed for the entire armory, Vakarian; incriminating evidence is not exactly something I'd hang on my wall."
He heard a mumbled "You'd be surprised," but chose to let it go. A spathus was used to very precisely damage a small portion of a turian's vascular system, leaving a tiny but deep wound that – over time – allowed for a slow, but painful, death. It was no wonder most turians, let alone a law enforcement officer, would be squeamish.
[SSV Normandy]
[0939]
The brig was, as all Alliance ships boasted, at the bottom of the ship. Officially, there were no exits, but Shepard knew of at least one Captain that had opened the 'external repair hatch' in vacuum. To be fair, it had been a very reluctant krogan prisoner and a poorly maintained system, but the entire affair had been a scandal, eventually set aside only by the next bit of gossip.
A faint message glimmered in the upper right side of his visor, a message from Garrus .
The facial markings look like the Dantius line.Themost well-known one is on the Citadel, named Nassana. Major power holdings on Illium, but a reputation for brutality.
Shepard kept his back to the transparent pseudo-glass, subvocalizing. His hands looked as if they were typing a report, all the better to play with the prisoner's perceptions. "That's more than we knew before. Any advice?"
Tiny letters scrolled across the miniature screen in response: Nassana doesn't have a bad reputation on the Citadel, but her name carries weight on Illium, kinda unusual for someone that young. This one probably thinks you don't know anything, and will try to barter something insignificant.
He understood. It was a common enough tactic, turning evidence on a larger criminal in exchange for a lighter sentence. It was a good choice in many cases too, bringing in truly evil criminals for the cost of minor characters … but the idea of going easy on 'petty' murderers sat wrong on his stomach. Was there any such thing as a 'petty' death, even secondhand?
He turned, lowering the tablet so he was looking through a thick pane of pseudo-glass. The prisoner, hands still restrained, glared back with venom in her gaze.
"Computer, begin recording," Shepard said aloud. The computer chirped acknowledgement, and a red dot appeared just above the transparent panel, out of visual range from the prisoner. "Conducting the questioning: Commander Shepard, SSV Normandy, October seventeenth, twenty-one eighty-three." He took a breath. "Subject is an asari, one presumed … Miss Dantius." "
The asari glanced up sharply, her expression unreadable to him. Garrus's text crawled into sight; Shepard angled his visor so the words rested on her face. It would force her to conclude he was studying her, not receiving outside help. That got her attention. Keep going, be analytical.
"Weight: fifty-three kilograms. Height: one point seven two meters. Age: unknown, approximately third century, late Maiden stage." Shepard examined the captive, noting her dispassionate stance. Despite the fact that she could hear every word he said, she still maintained an aloof posture. "Madam, can you hear me?"
Her head tilted, a batarian move, designed to insult. Cognizant of her surroundings. Knowledgeable of batarian culture. Useless facts, but new data all the same.
"Ma'am, I repeat, can you hear me?"
She raised an eye ridge, more of a series of lighter lines in her dark blue face than an actual feature ... or so he'd been told. In his eyes, they blurred out of recognition.
Shepard sighed, reaching to rub the back of his neck. "Look, I'm sure this is just some kind of mistake. Someone of your stature doesn't run around with pirates like that. Can you please just nod or shake your head?"
Her mouth twisted; he couldn't read her body language as well as he'd liked, since she was still restrained, but it was not particularly amusing. His return sigh seemed to come from his toes. That was an old game. Play it right, be reluctant.
"You have no idea what you've done."
Not the opening I'd hoped for, but still something. Highly trained to resist interrogation; no shaking, no thrashing … a great deal of self-control. Or she's just naturally that way? Doubtful. Shepard kept a somewhat puzzled expression on his face; clueless honesty. "I'm sorry?"
White teeth in a near-violet face gleamed at him. "No, you're not. But you will be."
"Madam," he rubbed his neck again – a good mannerism, indicating nervous confusion, "I don't know what you're talking about. Is it the restraints? Are they too tight?"
Something in her posture shifted, relaxing? "Oh, there's no problem with them. They're actually rather … entertaining. I wouldn't mind having a pair of my own."
Shepard cocked his head. Keep up the earnest-but-stupid role. You know nothing, you see nothing, you hear nothing.
The asari lowered one shoulder, looking down and away before facing him again. "There's just … one thing … if you could?" Was it his imagination, or had her eyes changed to pure black? Asari sclera didn't have that color naturally, did they? Yes there was a faint color shift at the iris, but – it was so dark ….
Something pinged in his ear, a faint annoying line clouding his eye before it was banished.
"Wha- what can I – do for you?" He felt an urge, to do – something. Anything, for that enchanting person, so cruelly secured. Why had he tied her so tightly, couldn't something softer have been used? Or perhaps a little trust?
Her teeth showed again, and Shepard felt a sense of elation he hadn't felt in years. "I can tell you what I know, but it has to be off the record."
"Off the record …" Shepard murmured. Did she mean …?
"Turn off the recording device, and I'll tell you." Her voice sank into an evocative, husky timbre.
Shepard's hand automatically fumbled for the switch. It paused. Wait, what am I doing? Interrogation ….
"Turn. It. Off." Her voice snapped like a whip, launching his hand as if it were rocket propelled. The tiny device clicked, resistance fading.
"Good," she purred. The sound made him shiver in delight, she was so happy. "Lock the door."
Lock? How did that work?
"Fool, just release me. How did an incompetent idiot like you ever get the drop on me?" Her endearments made Shepard – not exactly smile, but perform an action very close to it.
"Yes ... the lock …." He keyed the command override, releasing the restraints on her hands. A second series – much longer – unlocked the heavy-gauge pseudo-glass.
Knocking sounds came from the door, freezing his hands before the last sequence. Wait … what's going on?
"Tell them to go away!" Her hands were glowing, shredding through the toughened material. "For me, please?"
Something isn't right. Shepard felt his brow furrow in concentration, why was he so confused? What?
"Do it!"
Something clicked in his mind; he rose to face the door just as it opened. A monster entered, dark purple, almost black, dangerous spikes standing at jagged edges. It growled at him, sniffing as if testing the room's scent. Its mandibles flipped open, baring fangs long enough to meet in the middle of his neck. Other monsters, eyeless, smooth black-skinned beasts followed immediately behind it, daring to point flat rods at His Lady.
Shepard recoiled from the sight, instincts urging him to get as far away as possible. Man was never meant to fight demons. Fear coiled through his abdomen … why was that such a strange feeling?
"Kill them." The hissed command slapped at Shepard's mind, a titan showing its displeasure. Monsters killed. Stole. That made them thieves of the darkest kind. By trade and intent, I am a destroyer of monsters. A killer.
Wasn't he?
Her voice resonated inside his mind, echoing like thunder. "Now!"
The military-issue knife was in his hand, twirling faster than the eye could follow. He made a lunge, before something – something ||heavy|| pushed at the back of his eyes. Pain struck his temples, driving him to his knees, forcing his eyes closed; making him seek refuge in the comforting darkness. Further down the yawning chasm of his mind, an ancient, powerful, hungry presence stirred. Glowing crimson eyes, older than stars, stronger than fire opened, turning the pitch-black night into red-streaked dawn. Its terrifying shape loomed over him, rising from pits deeper than Dante could have imagined.
No. Shepard forced his eyes open, pushing as hard as he could. For one moment, he met the gaze of the asari, could see her eyes wide, surprised. The moment stretched, as if on the edge of black hole's event horizon. Her pupils dilated, mouth twisting obscenities that went unsaid.
"Commander!"
Shepard jerked as the turian voice hammered his ears. "Garrus? What are you —?"
"You are good, human." A sharp, feminine voice overrode him. He frowned, twisting again to see her. The asari inverted her freed palms, raising one to the underside of her chin, the other over her heart. Blue light flared from their surfaces. "Just not good enough. Ad Triginta!"
White light blasted his eyes, mercifully sparing him the sight. Unfortunately, it didn't block the sound of a wet explosion. Shepard winced; there was a reason biotics were encouraged to receive training. Suicide? Among those trained by the International Combatives Center, self-termination had always been a – divisive subject. An agent in enemy territory could end his life, preventing information from being divulged … or could wait, be tortured and hope for rescue before he broke. There were proponents for each camp, but he'd always advocated the concept of not getting caught in the first place.
Pain hit his temples again, pounding like a war drum reverberating a message of pure agony inside his skull. "Gah … blast it. Damn it!"
"What happened?" Garrus's voice echoed, as if from a deep tunnel. It grew stronger, "Commander; Shepard!"
"M'alright," Shepard forced the pain into the background, into more of a dull throb. "Headache. Should be fine in a minute."
"You don't look so good," worry tinged Garrus's words. More than professional concern? Careful Shepard, don't get too close. "You should see your medic."
Shepard rose to his feet, starting to protest, but gave it up when his head began whirling. I suppose it was inevitable, fall on my face in front of the new help. He fought the sensation down again; certain it wouldn't be the last time. "Did you see what happened?"
"Some of it. Legally, I'm not sure it's acceptable, but I saw it."
"It's legal," Shepard assured him. A thought crossed his mind. "Well, no one has challenged my methods in the past. Successfully, anyway."
Garrus made a face. "That fills me with so much assurance."
Shepard glanced inside the cell. An Alliance Marine was looking through the barrier; the man's dark armor triggering the past few minutes. "What happened in there? One minute I was interrogating her, the next everything went … blank ... sort of like what happened with the Beacon."
"When you turned off the camera," Garrus looked down at his talons, "That backup you told me about switched on. She," he pointed at the corpse, "started giving you instructions. Your voice went … " he hesitated, "funny. I saw her eyes, thought asari couldn't do that outside a bonding situation, but you shut down the link."
"Funny." Shepard latched onto one of the terms. The pain made it easy to maintain an even expression, "I'm guessing it wasn't of the humorous variety."
"No." Garrus tapped the marine on the shoulder, gesturing at Shepard. "You should go to Medical. Get that looked at."
"I hate checkups." Shepard muttered under his breath. He drew a breath, planning on refusing the offer, but another blinding pain spike forced him to change his mind. "Alright. Fine." He had to use small words; the concentration needed to keep away the pain was phenomenal.
Distantly, he heard the turian snapping orders, then the less-reverberating voice of Williams taking command. Good. Keep the crime scene from being contaminated. Dead prisoners, not good. He fought back against the pain, feeling it recede, almost sullenly. Sentient pain?
"Sir!" Ashley saluted, very pointedly ignoring Garrus. "Orders?"
Shepard glanced back, seeing the marines starting to form a perimeter, standard procedure for a forensics investigation. "Don't bother with the full complement Lieutenant. This is a brig, not an open site; are there any cruisers or battleships in range?"
"Um," the dark-haired woman took a step back, "Not that I know of, sir. We're in the Artemis Tau cluster, not much Alliance presence here."
"Blast." Shepard ran a hand over his head; surprisingly, the headache was almost gone. "Do we have any forensics experts on board?"
Someone cleared his throat. By the vibration, it could only be turian. "Gar – Detective Vakarian?"
Mandibles flipped sideways, exposing teeth in a meat-eating smile. "I have a full authorization for crime scenes on the Citadel; I've run more than a few examinations. Mind if I take this one?"
Shepard frowned, thinking. On the one hand, allowing a turian, and therefore Council representative, to take over the problem removed the scene from his own authority – nominally. On the other hand, it was still his ship, and unlike a larger vessel, he had no dedicated security division. That left the decision between either convenience or protocols designed for a different situation. "Do it. If you need anything, talk to the Chief."
He turned, leaving the group to deal with the mess. Theoretically, he could do a perfectly adequate investigation himself, but that would take up a major chunk of his time. Time that was required for his current occupation. "Joker, do you have scan results in yet?"
The filtered voice came back, following his path through the Normandy's halls. "Nothing so much as a come-hither in Athens, some Helium-3 deposits and a weird satellite thingy. We're headed for Knossos now. ETA currently about fifteen minutes before we hit Armeni – maybe. I assume we can skip the gas planets?"
"For now," Shepard turned up the small stairway/ramp that connected the brig level to the other floors. "Scan if they're on the way. If we don't find anything we can always do them on the way out."
"That's what I like to hear, I'll let you know if we find anything Commander. Joker out."
Keeping his eyes open, Shepard strolled up to the medical level. Regulations could be bent, subverted, or even outright sidestepped, but ignoring them completely was a one-way ticket to demotion. Setting a bad example for the lower-ranks didn't possess much appeal either. No matter how much he disliked it, regs stipulated that a biotic attack required an examination by a trained professional.
Even if he really didn't want to.
The door loomed ahead, slowing Shepard's steps. Despite a full decade's passing, Shepard couldn't help but try clearing his mind before entering the medical bay. Pushing aside the worries, the looming threats … stopping the sheer calculating aspect of his mind, was hard. Focusing on some of the victories helped; times he'd pulled a mission out of the fire, particularly satisfying kills. It might not be overly healthy, but there had been some very bad men, and for better or worse, removing evil from the galaxy made him happy. Enough stalling, get in there and get it over with.
The door slid open, cool lighting inside bringing with it a slight sense of relief. The scent of antiseptics the faint ozone smell from the ultraviolet sterilizer was … tension-building but not overly so.
"Commander? What brings you here?" Doctor Chakwas stood by her desk terminal, what looked like a medieval torture device in hand. A crewman, stretched out on one of the tables gave Shepard a cheerful wave. Her hand dropped like a lead weight when the doctor glared. "The arm only feels fine. Wait until I put it in a brace before you actually start using it." She gave an exasperated sigh, "I will be with you in a moment Commander."
"Take your time." Shepard eased back, taking a preparatory step.
Chakwas' eye was on him instantly. "Take a seat and let the good nurse take your vitals."
"Um," Shepard glanced at the chair, its armband open and waiting. A crewman, blonde hair – green eyes – communications insignia on her collar – Negulesco, Monica - patted the back of the chair. "All right … it's just a headache, though."
"If it's bad enough to bring you of all people in here," the doctor ran the device over the woman's arm, "then it's certainly worth a full examination. How did it start?"
"Classified." Shepard gave in to the inevitable, sitting down on the chair and placing his lower arm into the device. It pulsed a green light across the surface of his sleeve, clicking to itself. Gridlines formed, showing the progress of the scan.
"I have a patient-confidentiality agreement, Commander." Chakwas's voice shifted slightly, "But I will respect your wishes. For now."
Shepard waited as the brace was duly brought out and attached; a transparent contraption barely visible from underneath the woman's sleeve. He used the time for a quick breathing exercise, relaxing as much as he could. Sleep was becoming more necessary; the doctor would demand he comply if nothing else. But there was so much work!
"Commander to the CIC, repeat: Commander Shepard to the CIC." Joker's voice boomed from the nearest intercom outlet. "We have a situation."
Shepard almost leapt to his feet; not in relief he told himself, but due to great attention to duty. "On my way Joker." He flashed a partial grin at Chakwas, almost bowling over officer Negulesco in his haste. "I'll be back as soon as I can!"
The door closed behind him, fortunately before the medical professional could shout after him. Shepard smiled inwardly; an emergency overrode a medical checkup, unless itself overridden by an appropriate medical officer – given an appropriate reason. Regulations had saved him once more.
The galaxy map shifted to its default setting as Shepard approached. "What do you have for me?"
Pressley, busy along one side of the display, responded without looking up. "We have multiple geth in-system. Sensors are still counting; minimum of five cruisers, unknown armament."
Five geth cruisers … Shepard swallowed any reaction, forcing his voice into the sort of tone that communicated irritation with a particularly dim-witted neighbor. One hand tapped the console, locking in the shipwide alert. A harsh buzzing klaxon filled the Normandy's interior. "General alert: geth sighted, repeat: geth sighted." He turned back to Pressley, ignoring the sound of rushing feet. "Fighters? Battleships?"
"No battleships," the aged man's hands flew over the screen, dancing with a speed much faster than his appearance would have suggested. "One dreadnought-class, approximately thirty fighter-size craft. Two of the smaller ones are on landing vectors … close to the Prothean digsite if these maps are accurate." His head turned to one side, "Rahman! Double check the topo!"
Shepard glanced at the secondary position, then back to Pressley. "Suggestions?"
"Get the hell out of here," Pressley's own voice was a contrast to Shepard's, terse and filled with tension. "We aren't equipped to take on a full flotilla. Best we can do is retreat and – Jehosophat!"
Shepard glanced at the map, instantly seeing what had drawn Pressley's ire. A second grouping of geth ships had just entered the system … and were now between the Normandy and the Relay. "We're under stealth," he reminded the Navigator.
"My money is on someone looking out a camera." Pressley muttered; the panel under his fingertips flickered again. "Sir, upping that to a near hundred fighters, sensors are painting another half-dozen cruiser-size ships sunward." He clicked the intercom, "Joker, I'm plotting a course around the major gas planet. See if you can do a heat dump on the far side."
"Can I?" the cocky voice came back. "Watch me gramps. Ah, Sir."
The ship's engines thrummed under Shepard's feet, smoothly shifting into a more powerful throbbing sensation. Even through the insulation between decks, the sounds of crew members charging to their duty-stations echoed through open hatchways. He shifted instinctively, moving out of the way as two sensors officers pushed past. They took up their positions, relieving the workload on Pressley. Shepard also noticed the sensor range extended a considerable amount as well, highlighting yet more geth ships.
The Navigator sighed in relief, taking a breather. "Ion drive scrambler online, they won't track us by emissions now."
"Good." Shepard re-oriented the galaxy map, enlarging the focus point until its frame had shrunk to just the Knossos planetary orbits. Red dots floated in a sparse cloud around Therum, according to the display. "Pressley, keep watching the scanner. Stay at General Alert, but stand down the non-essential personnel." He forced his shoulders to relax, adopting an easier body language; "the Normandy was designed for infiltration. I'm guessing this is its test of fire."
"You could say that again," one of the crew muttered. Shepard glanced at the dark-haired man, mentally filing the comment away. Hudson, Caswell. Always popping up, not quite sure why. Still he does his job. He shook off the thought, spinning on a heel. "Comm room, send a request to Ambassador Udina, flagged urgent. If that doesn't work, step it up to the highest priority you know. I want him on the line yesterday!" He didn't bother waiting for a response.
A blinking red light met his eyes as the doors slid open. Without pausing, he jammed the switch. "Do you have any idea – "
"You bosh'tet! What the quin'vel (1) were you thinking signing that contract?" An unexpected voice screeched over the speakers. "I thought you had brains in that thick skull of yours. How many times did I say it? Always wait for the expert before signing!"
Shepard stopped dead. The number of times he'd been subjected to that kind of tirade had fallen to near nil over the past decade. He turned to face the speaker, taking the opportunity to examine just what individual would have the temerity, or at least a death wish.
A thin, older quarian with an ornate suit stood on the virtual platform, leaning over a pile of actual paper, not the synthetic material that faded inside a week. Only lawyers and the more eccentric scientists kept that much paper on hand – and the only lawyer he knew that had his emergency contact information was the one on Mindoir. Quarians had taken quite well to the intricate rule systems of the Alliance legal profession, to the point that some had changed their names to match. "Mister Blackstone?"
"I got this yesterday. Yesterday! And only now am I finding out you went ahead and signed it? I suppose you think you know everything there is about inter-galactic law? It's not as if there's a full dozen years of education in asari legal schools alone, is there?"
The man's voice had thankfully dropped from its exceedingly high tone, for which Shepard was grateful – and equally certain his ears were doubly grateful. Another blinking light caught his attention. "Listen, I have geth in front of me, the Ambassador waiting on the line, and hundred other things to do. I'll call you back, alright?" He didn't wait, shutting down the link as the lawyer's vocoder flashed, likely to call him out once more.
This time the – normally – less excitable visage of Udina appeared. "Udina, thank heavens you're there."
"This better be good Shepard, I was negotiating with the Primarch of Digeris." Udina's shoulders were set, and Shepard would have bet that the man's foot was tapping out of sight under the desk.
"Unfortunately, it's bad. You remember that asari the Council suggested I pick up? The daughter of Matriarch Benezia? We think we might have found her."
"Doctor T'Soni? Yes, she was supposed to be in the Artemis Tau cluster." Udina's tone seemed to calm. "What seems to be the problem?"
Shepard folded his arms. "Geth."
The ambassador inhaled slowly. "Many, I assume?"
"Two flotillas, looks like. One is hovering over Therum – presumably because of the doctor – the other arrived a few minutes after we did. The ||Normandy|| is in stealth mode, but my people assure me we can remain out of sight indefinitely." Shepard checked the timepiece on the back wall. "We'll have to drop cloak in eight hours, approximately, but that gives us enough time to get behind a planet. It's hard to detect thermal energy at any distance though, we should be safe."
"The salarians will be pleased. They love field-testing hardware." Udina's tone was a mixture of amused annoyance. "Since you're on the spot, what do you suggest?"
"I'm calling Admiral Hackett and the Fifth Fleet," Shepard nodded understandingly at the ambassador's hunched shoulders. This would be a hard task. Alliance military ships were not exactly prohibited from crossing galactic boundaries, but the consequences of such a move would cause ripples throughout the political spectrum like tidal waves on an aquatic planet.
"Done. I'll notify the Council, see if the turians wish to send additional support."
Shepard blinked. "That's it? No Just-Cause paperwork? I don't have to sing the National Anthem while standing on my head?"
"Contrary to what you may believe, not all of what I do must involve tedious routines." One ghostly hand made a shooing motion, "Contact Hackett, and do whatever it is you military types do. Udina Out."
The signal cut out, leaving Shepard slightly more confused than before; Udina had been surprisingly helpful – pushing the emergency button without a complaint. Confusing. Or, he thought, more confused than later, hopefully. Time was funny that way.
"Comm, get me Admiral Hackett; Priority One." Acknowledgement came across the link, once more leaving Shepard with nothing to do but pace.
He spent the time examining the comm room. It served many functions, as navy ships did; meeting hall, official communications chamber, an open place the engineers could spread out and work on things. Mostly, however, it served as its name indicated; a place where the Captain could make calls, to see and be seen by others. Such things were possible on the CIC, but having a conversation with open air could be – annoying. It was light on security, too.
Speaking of which … Shepard pulled out his omni-tool, scanning the room for out-of-place energy spikes. Surveillance devices could take on many forms, even be partially self-motivated, like activating only when the main system was active. They shared characteristics though, more than enough to be easily detected. It did nothing for hardwired devices, but one could never be too careful.
The comm chimed again. He tapped the answering tab, not stopping his sweep.
"Commander Shepard," the aged voice sounded annoyed. "You wanted to speak with me?"
Shepard started a new pattern, scanning for transmissions now that the comm room was active. "Sir, thank you for – "
"Let's skip the pleasantries and get to business. Did you find what you were looking for?" What did you get from the prisoner?"
It took a moment for Shepard to mentally reset; it had been a while since anyone had cut him off so thoroughly. One corner of his mouth lifted; there was a reason he liked the old man. Then it dropped as the impact of the old admiral's words struck.
"I filed a report on the mission at the last Relay, less than two hours ago." What he left unsaid spoke with equal volume. Bureaucracy moved at a glacial pace, and even faster-than-light communication would have seen the report arrive on Hackett' s desk no earlier than fifteen minutes from the current time. Which meant ….
Hackett's projection folded its arms. "One of your crew sent a report earlier, letting me know what happened."
Anger started to build, but he crushed it ruthlessly. He also stopped his scan, giving his full attention to the conversation at hand. "I would prefer that you receive the information in its entirety. Not second-hand from an observer."
If anything, the admiral's posture grew more rigid. "Nuclear threats are top priority, Commander. You may be a Spectre now, but you were Alliance before then, and born human. Don't forget your roots."
Shepard stared at the image, quelling the irritation he was feeling. Chain-of-command was in place for efficiency, and trust. Bypassing that command undermined the whole system; a fact of which Hackett had to be fully aware.
"I assume you will continue gaining substandard information on my actions whether I approve or not," Shepard kept his tone respectful, but let the anger lash out in full force through his choice in words. "I had hoped my previous record would help provide the absolute minimum ounce of respect enjoyed by my colleagues … but I am not surprised to be wrong. Sir."
Hackett winced. Shepard didn't care; the older man was a fair one, and engaging subterfuge on a good man in such a fashion was reprehensible, no matter what the excuse. That was partially why he refrained from engaging the Alliance in full – too many manipulative gloryhounds … exactly what he'd trusted the older man not tobe. Shepard mentally put an asterisk by Hackett's name on his list of 'most trusted people.' That made him angry.
"The prisoner committed suicide, a technique I'd never seen before. This was after she used some – technique … to attempt influencing my mind." It hurt, but it was the truth.
Aged shoulders snapped forwards. "You mean to tell me she's dead? What the hell happened Commander?"
"As of oh-nine hundred thirty," Shepard put his hands behind the small of his back, spreading his stance to address the admiral, "I began interrogation of the subject, tentatively identified as a relative of one Nassana Dantius. Assisting in interrogation was one Detective Garrus Vakarian – "
"You let a turian observe a sensitive interrogation?" Hackett interrupted, "Ordinarily I'd ask if you lost your mind, Shepard. But you better have a good reason for this."
"Minimal education in asari interrogation techniques, secrecy clause in his contract, and," Shepard brought both hands out from behind his back, leaning his full weight on the railing. "I am running. Out. Of. Time."
Hackett watched him for a moment, an experienced predator evaluating his competition. "Very well, I'll wait for your report. What's the current situation."
He didn't move. "Long story short, I'm in the Artemis Tau region, Knossos System. My target, one Doctor Liara T'Soni, has a strong possibility of being on the planet Therum, a former Prothean planet according to the Council's data." Shepard took a deep breath, closing down the sweep. "Upon arrival in the Knossos System, we discovered that the Geth are already here. Shortly after arrival, a second geth fleet arrived. Stealth mode appears to be holding, but I'll need help to take them on."
"Understood." Hackett's hands moved outside the sensor's range, ||"How many – never mind. The Fifth Fleet is already in motion. Send as much information as you can; and Shepard?" The old man stared directly at him, "Hang in there.."
It wasn't much, but for such a high-ranking officer, it counted as an at least partial apology. Responding in kind was only proper.
"I'm not worried, Admiral." Shepard let the half-smile fall into the same expression he'd used during a one-man campaign on Kar'Shan. "With the Fifth Fleet coming, the only thing I'm worried about is how angry your men will be."
"Angry?" The admiral's shoulders twitched, head tilting in confusion.
"At being stuck with clean-up." Shepard made a clicking noise, applying the tongue to the inside of his teeth. "Seriously, thank you. We'll try to leave a few for you."
The admiral's teeth, tinted blue in the false lighting, spread across the lower third of his face. "I like your attitude Commander. My boys will be there inside twelve hours or I'll have them scrubbing Arcturus for the next six months."
Shepard sketched a salute, still smirking. "Shepard out." He glanced at the clock, was it really that late? Maybe he could finally get some sleep – but there were still things that needed to be done. Wait – that's what he'd told Anderson, only days earlier; that's why there was a second-in-command.
The intercom clicked under his fingers. "XO, I will be in my cabin." There. Now he'd be able to get some rest.
Shepard awoke horizontally for the first time aboard the Normandy. Little sounds, feet outside the CIC and air rushing through the ship's ventilation system felt soothing after the nightmare he'd finally escaped. Or was it a dream? We can't really be facing geth, can we?
The muted clatter of unfamiliar feet, not in unison but close, outside his door disabused him of that notion. Protocol dictated warzone ships had at least one patrol on every level. And that invited a whole host of other problems. Shepard pushed aside the thought; there were many other issues to work through first. At least there was time.
Life aboard a hidden vessel in the middle of enemy territory was proving to be surprisingly uneventful. Vessels that traveled underwater in previous eras had been forced to engage in methods reducing vibrations – liquids transferred sound exceedingly well after all. Quiet voices, trying not to drop hard, heavy things … anything that could make sound was discouraged.
The cold vacuum of space had no such limitations. The clarity was unparalleled, providing an almost pure view for any sensor sweep … but that worked against itself in the end. Stars rotated, shooting pure energy across the cosmos while planets spun along their infinite orbs. Particles of dust, comets, an entire ||universe|| of matter interfered with any perception – ignoring the whole dark matter issue. One tiny ship was indistinguishable against the backdrop of an energy-filled miasma.
"Shepard!" A sharp voice spoke through the door. "Are you decent?"
He shook his head. "Clothed, but never decent."
The door remained silent for a moment. It spoke again, but in less aggressive tones. "I don't often make house calls, Commander. But in this case I'm making an exception. May I come in?"
Blast. Shepard sat up, checking his apparel. Fortunately, his sleeping clothes matched his waking garb, although he'd need to put on a shirt. "Come in."
The door hissed open, letting in the brighter lighting from the CIC. Shepard caught a glimpse of crewmen around the main projection before Doctor Chakwas loomed into sight. Veteran of a hundred campaigns though he was, the sight of the formidable woman's approach forced Shepard to re-evaluate his previous decision.
"May I … help you?" he ventured.
"Yes." Chakwas beckoned out the door, admitting a nurse with a small cart. The nurse pushed the cart into position before accomplishing a retreat faster than some scared recruits he'd seen. "Sit still, and don't move."
"Alright …" Shepard remained motionless, watching as a cloth was wrapped around his arm. Past experience ensured he kept a close eye as the fabric tightened, feeling micro-needles take a small blood sample, simultaneously obtaining readings. Chakwas began scanning Shepard's head with a small, grey wand. It made no noise, but he could see the outline of his cranium appear in waves on the cart's readout screen.
"You appear to be in good condition, Commander." Chakwas switched implements, "since you seem to have an aversion to my medical bay, I brought the appropriate tools to finish the exam here. Please lie on your back, and look at the ceiling.
Shepard obeyed silently. He'd pushed her far enough, complying was the least he could do.
"I hear things in my office," Chakwas mentioned absently, continuing to arrange a frame around the top of Shepard's head. "It is quite fortunate I have a patient-confidentiality agreement. You would not believe the things people tell me. Too, sound carries very well on a ship you know. Why, a conversation with the pilot can be heard all the way back by the CIC projector did you know that?"
He winced, failing to bury the action. Her hands paused, resuming with a gentler pace. "Commander, I know this situation hasn't treated you very well. Captain Anderson was more than a leader; he was your friend, am I right?"
He inhaled softly, letting the frustration ease on the exhalation. "He is. One of the few men I trust. Others I trust with my life, but I trust him with more than that."
"And he was removed." Chakwas raised her hands as the device whirred into place, rotating over Shepard's head, "Taken. Kicked out. That wasn't your fault, you know."
"I know." Shepard watched the flat scanning machine traverse past his eyes before it reversed its path. "But now I'm … never mind. It isn't important."
"But it is," Chakwas countered quietly. "The Commander can be as quiet as he wants. He carries out the Captain's will, and ensures the crew complies. The Captain," she emphasized the rank with an unusually aggressive inflection, "must provide an example to his crew. The Captain leads, and takes responsibility for his men – you are not a Commander any more, Shepard."
He chuckled once, bitterly. "Tell that to the Marines, the Navy won't believe you."
"Your legal rank is unimportant now." Chakwas cool hand felt Shepard's forehead, "Hmmm, a little low. Of course, you just woke up I presume?" She didn't wait for a reply. "The rank you hold means nothing to those you lead. Only the shallow-minded will use that as an excuse to cause trouble. No, the crew looks to you as leadership, they expect you to be Anderson's successor – and I don't think you want to let him down, do you?"
She's good, very good. Shepard turned his head, looking her directly in the eyes, fighting to ignore the shifting mass of her facial features. "You know the answer to that."
"Good." Her tone became brisk, "Then you'll stop this childish hiding. It may impress some of the crew, but the rest need stability. You need to be reliable. Not just for missions that will end in a few hours or weeks, but for a crew that will be looking to you for years."
"It won't be years," Shepard almost whispered.
"Then you better make the best use of what time you have." Chakwas began dismantling the contraption. "Far be it from me to criticize a good soldier, but you aren't just a soldier any more. You are a public figure, the first human Spectre. Just imagine how many people in the Alliance will want to meet you, simply for the honor of doing so?"
"Good Lord I hope not!" Shepard blurted. The thought hadn't even occurred to him, there had to be something he could do to counter it, right?
Chakwas laughed. "Commander, even you cannot hide in the shadows forever. You've done too much, been too many places, seen too many things." She chuckled when he turned a surprised look at her, "Commander, when the ICT started, do you think they had fully-ranked healers ready-made? No, they needed competent doctors – willing to work with the best, and have little time for themselves. I had just started my career when Gerald asked me to fill in for Doctor Sirta. The man hadn't shown up, and they needed someone – anyone really." Her body language turned thoughtful, "No one actually saw him after that. I wonder what happened."
Shepard's eyebrows tightened over the bridge of his nose. "You were N7 medical?"
The doctor activated her omni-tool, changing the light to what he recognized as an ultraviolet setting. Soon, it was shining it over the badge on her arm. Under its invisible illumination, a series of symbols appeared on the emblem. "My dear, don't try that simple trick on me. I was medical, therefore an M. I invented the Plus coat-of-arms. Sometimes they ask me what I think of a prospective Plus member … not many over the years; Gerald was most impressed with you, you know."
"Gerald?" Shepard pushed himself to a sitting position, "Wait, General Fitzgerald?"
"That's the one." Chakwas finished loading the cart. "Well, you're fit as a fiddle. Your brain scans are off, of course, but that seems to be a normal state for you. I presume you want me to destroy the records before you have to do it yourself?"
His stunned silence seemed to be amusing.
"Karl, I may be old, but I have spent over forty years reading records. I know a forgery when I see one. I don't know why you wish your medical records falsified – but I will do it if it is truly a state secret."
Shepard shook his head. "Just the brain scans. Anderson suspects – but please …" he swallowed, begging went against his very core. "You … actually know? I was so careful …."
"I back up my records more often than protocol dictates. One time, I got lucky … and noticed the discrepancy. I give you my word your secret is safe with me."
He blinked, then gave her a slow nod. "Alright Doctor. You've seen my history … I'll trust you to keep it quiet."
Chakwas gave him a half-bow. "Understood, Commander. I know how the Old Boy's network works. This way you don't have to risk anything suspicious, and I demonstrate my trustworthiness to you." One finger tapped her armband, playfully striking the invisible markings. "After all, we Plus rankings have to stick together, do we not?"
He sighed, shaking his head. Then a thought struck him. Geth. Not sentient people. There, safe in the sanctum of his cabin, he could let a long, slow smile stretch across his face. I wonder if the quarians want a crack at them?
"Message coming in," one of the technicians next to the galaxy map held up a hand. "Priority, sir."
Shepard accepted the transmission, noting the timestamp. Timing would be critical. Good.
"Pressley," he stepped onto the podium, feeling the ship's engine purring through his feet, "Heat sink status?"
The old man shifted positions with an easy grace, delivering a mildly scathing look to passing quarian without missing a beat. "Capacity at seventy-five percent and holding. We're at equilibrium, sir."
"Not for long," Shepard growled. "Give me an estimate for a stealth drop, on Therum."
The older man cocked his head thoughtfully, "Depends on when you want it to happen, Commander."
Shepard checked his wrist again, mentally running the numbers. "Four hours. Give or take five minutes"
"Ah." Pressley's shoulders straightened, "Definitely inside our capabilities sir. If we can manage a heat dump before then, we could perform reconnaissance afterwards for approximately five hours … ten, if the Normandy doesn't go too far into atmosphere."
"Joker," Shepard didn't waste time, "I want a stealth HALO drop on Therum in – " he checked the time again, "three hours, fifty-eight minutes. Get me as much rec-see afterwards as you can get."
"Roger that, Commander," the irrepressible pilot's voice boomed back, "You want a Mako or infantry drop?"
"Mixed." Shepard made an about-face, "Make it happen."
"On it. One HALO in three-five-seven, mark."
Shepard kept moving, sidestepping two crewmen carrying a large package towards the aft section. The bare-bones of an attack plan were already in position, but he would need the input of experts. Maybe an hour and a half; add another hour for prep time, and one more to account for errors and repairs … this would turn out very well.
His offhand rose, activating the shipwide intercom. "Squad leaders, Specialists, meet me in the comm room in the next ten minutes. We have a mission to plan.
The Normandy cruised silently under the stars, a giant raven approaching the planet through the implacable silence of pure vacuum. The sphere below presented a malevolent appearance – eerily similar to a primeval battlefield, fiery magma roiling in channels, cutting molten lines across its dingy gray surface. It was as if long forgotten deities had chosen this one planet to exercise their rage, striking it with every weapon they could conceive, wreaking an unquantifiable level of damage. Fire still came from pits in its crust, furnaces that made weapons none could comprehend.
Shepard watched the planet approach, though not through a secondary medium like a flatscreen, but with his naked eye. Magnetic barriers backed by repulsion fields kept the ship's atmosphere inside the hanger bay, but allowed perfect visibility. The vast opening was wide enough for a pair of shuttlecraft to enter, if their pilots were skilled. Tactically speaking, leaving the bay open like this was dangerous; one well-placed round would drill through the hanger and out the other side in less than a second. The protective armored covers for the opening were retracted, prevented from their normal position by his task.
Which brought him back to the here-and-now. At his side, purring like a great cat, the Mako jostled on its oversized supports. Vakarian - Garrus – was not rated for HALO drops, and was taking the next best thing, along with Tali and a few members of Delta squad. Members of Alpha squad were waiting behind himself, waiting for his word.
"Second thoughts, Skipper?"
Shepard hesitated, then snorted, chuckling under his breath. Chakwas had a point; he wasn't operating on his own, with people that would vanish within days. Barriers he hadn't even known existed were starting to come down … but he wasn't sure if that was a good thing. "You read the classics, Williams?"
The heavily armored woman shifted, "All the time. Some of my favorites."
"First be sure you're right, then go ahead." He cocked an eyebrow at her bland, unmarked faceplate.
"Senator Davy Crockett, Battle of the Alamo." Her voice sounded pleased. "I didn't take you for a classic lit fan."
"They're classics for a reason," Shepard returned his attention to the panel, grudgingly putting his helmet on. "I developed a taste during OTC."
The heavy plates shifted again, settling in a more relaxed position. "You avoided the question though, are you having second thoughts?"
Shepard stretched his neck, trying to get as much room worked into the memory-foam as possible, before it hardened. "What; about dropping into hostile territory, one frigate as support and God only knows how many geth waiting in orbit and on the ground?"
He let the pause drag on, watching the oversized armor start to shuffle nervously, before chuckling again. "No. No regrets."
"Commander, Hackett's at the Relay."
Shepard didn't need the warning. Above the blastbay door was a tactical map, and already there were red dots changing course towards the Relay. Nothing had exited, which meant the second wave of geth had left an observer on the far side.
"Give me a countdown Joker." Shepard walked as close to the edge as possible, following the painted green line on the floor to its end. Behind and to each side, more of the Normandy's active marine complement positioned themselves, readying for the final plunge. The Mako inched forwards, its nose just shy of penetrating the containment field.
"T-minus thirty and counting." Joker's voice, normally full of humor, became deadly serious.
Shepard flexed his pauldron. The Nightstalker armor conformed to his movements, layered metal-and-polymer moving almost like a living thing.
"Twenty."
His eyes closed. Lord, protect my men. Protect me. Teach my hands to know war, and forgive my failings.
"Ten."
Underfoot, the Normandy's decking shuddered at the forces being heaped on its superstructure. The massive element zero node shrugged off the puerile forces, shooting the excess energy into the Hawking Engine core.
"Five."
Underneath his helmet, Shepard bared his teeth, visualizing his enemy. Stoic, silent machines that killed children to fuel their war machine, things that destroyed colonies at the command of others. Kill, a true pleasure this time. Destroy them all. The image of a soft teddy bear, forever separated from the tiny hands that once held it crossed his mind. He remembered to turn off his microphone, just in time.
"Green light, go go go!"
Bellowing a wordless war cry, Shepard charged out the field, hurling his body into the vacuum. Behind him, nearly half the military complement of the Normandy followed his lead, trusting him to know what he was doing.
The planet grew in Shepard's sight, growing larger and larger. His howling cry went silent, a bird-of-prey catching sight of some worthless vermin. Bring it on.
1) Quin'vel: khelish term referring to the lowest level of the Ancestral rankings. Considered to be the level from which the least intelligent inspirations arise; where the dishonored dead are sent. See Ancestors for the comprehensive entry.
A/N: Thanks for reading another chapter!
First, big thanks to Nightstride for his beta proficiency. I reworked multiple sections, improving the content drastically with his help.
Second, to Lurker Jotun: Thank you for your service, and I highly approve of lurking. It takes a refined mind to understand the subtle intricacies of a proper lurk. I generally lurk myself, unless I have compelling reason to reveal my presence ... and I appreciate your 'breaking cover' as you did. Reviews like yours are the reason why I leave the 'guest review' switch on.
In answer to your review, I must ask if you have the gift of second sight? I was halfway through this chapter when I read your review ... right at the Chakwas moment. Yes Shepard's behavior will be changing, but I like to develop characters slowly ... which is in no way saying I have trouble writing round characters. At all.
To everyone else, thank you for your reviews. For more updates, check my profile. If you have suggestions, feel free to review or PM; I don't bite ... much :)
See ya down the road!
Chuck
Suggested reading: The First Human Spectre by Octo8 (story ID: 6764056). Note: this story is anti-Alliance and Anti-Cerberus, but it is very well written. Enjoy!
