Disgust. And Rage.

The first is an especially intriguing word, with roots stretching back to the Old French 'desgouster' – meaning: "to lose one's appetite." Synonyms include nausea, ill-feeling, repugnance and revulsion. According to the Alliance Heritage College dictionary, at any rate.

The second originates from ancient Latin, 'rabia,' the same roots that gave us rabies, and meaning: madness, violence and insanity. A more poetic way of putting it would define it as 'becoming violent after losing reason.' Temporary insanity, if you want legal mumbo-jumbo.

I worked with Shepard at a distance – by necessity as you can imagine. However, despite that distance, he impressed me with a quiet wit, gentlemanly manners, and a draconic sense of pride. He hid it well, but did not take being crossed lightly. Betrayal was an even higher affront, to the point of outright violence. His was the classical definition of honor: treat all well, but if given insult, respond with blood.

Fortunately, that tendency was weaned over the years. Mostly. My records indicated a sharp fall in population whenever Shepard moved through, but whether that's due to fear of his name, or a rising body count I never asked. Serena likened the phenomenon to what she called a "Justicar," apparently a rather brutal form of asari law enforcement officer.

Anyway, I'm rambling. What the Council did to Shepard was reprehensible, by his eyes. To their lights, it was a normal business exchange … or so I thought. To Shepard? That was something … something else.

Dr. Arnold Pavenmeyer

~Project Ragnarök Files


SR-1 Normandy

Liara's nearly comatose body felt light on Shepard's shoulders; while an awkward position for the one being carried, it was the best solution for running. The route to the Infirmary had been cleared almost as soon as he'd arrived on the Normandy, practice drills had paid off well.

Chakwas, already alerted beforehand, waved him towards an open bed. "Careful Commander, that's not a marine you're throwing around."

"Got it," he grunted. While there were exceptions, by and large she was correct. That in mind, he …gently … lay the asari on the hospital bed; only for her to be pounced upon by Chakwas. The asari's body quivered, but relaxed for what had to be the first time since he'd seen her, and possibly for days before then.

"This is Doctor Chakwas," he kept his voice low, reassuring, but clear. Under dehydrated conditions, Asari maintained cognizance long after a human would become a gibbering wreck, but that didn't mean full mental acuity remained. "She will be taking care of you, try to relax, alright?"

At the Asari's feeble nod, Shepard glanced up, meeting Chakwas' gaze; she hadn't stopped working, but she maintained his stare. Giving up the struggle to keep eye contact, he looked down, brushing one gloved hand over the limp tendrils. Somewhere between the landing zone and boarding the Normandy, she had managed to convey the necessary medical information. Forcing the already injured doctor to do more than that … would be cruel.

"Keep an eye on her doc." Shepard moved backwards, finding the nearest escape route out of habit, "Let me know if you need anything."

A hand clutched at his arm, just below the bracer where the ferro-ceramic material ended. It felt cool, almost cold. Shepard stared at the blue fingers wrapped around his wrist, and traced it back to the asari. Her face twisted, something he couldn't read, then swallowed. "Thank you, I owe you my life. Quattor Vasilias."

Shepard froze, staring at her. "I'm sorry, what was that last bit?"

"Commander, I must insist." Chakwas loomed in his peripheral, "Talk later."

He paused, then nodded. "As you say, Doctor." He gave the prone asari a short bow, "I'm sure we will have much to talk about. A synopsis of the situation will be forwarded to you." Not waiting for a response, he made for the door once again, and left. Reports needed to be written, two squads debriefed, a new destination plotted, and an Admiral contacted.

Which first? Shepard keyed the elevator, using the time to make up his mind. "Joker, get us to the nearest refueling station, somewhere near a Relay."

"Aye aye, Commander," the pilot's voice emanated from his earpiece. "Ah, you have two calls incoming. One from Admiral Hackett, the other from a quarian Admiral … um … Zorah?"

Shepard sighed. "Let them both know I'm en-route to respond, unless they want it relayed to my earpiece."

"Aye aye, Commander." Joker's voice died, then appeared once more. "Admiral Zorah on the line Commander. Says he won't take up much time."

Keying his override into the elevator's console, Shepard sighed again, and touched the omni-tool. "Right, make the connection."

A brief squeal of static filled his head for a moment, then steadied to a quieter hum. Admiral Zorah's accented voice came in. "Captain, I hear you managed to help my engineer."

Shepard paused; he'd almost forgotten about the Admiral's brisk manner. It triggered a memory; he'd never actually pinned down what time Anderson had been with the Flotilla … or the lack of communication since then. "It was an easy burden sir. Engineer Tali'Zorah –" a connection belatedly made the connecting neurons fire through his mind – "is an excellent assistant to my current mission. She has also requested a position on my crew, which I have granted."

An explosive oath boomed into his ear, abruptly cut off. While the language had been khelish, there was no question about the emotion behind it. It was not translated either … unusual. Either a deliberately un-translated term, or an obscure dialect. Quarian vocal patterns tended to shift as their emotions did; changing from a trilling accent to a thicker, more glottal form. Here, it had gone from the light trill directly to the harsh tones between breaths.

Unexpected. Which meant he was on the right track. Thinking quickly, he started typing a message on an alternate screen, using every abbreviation he knew. It sent within seconds.

"Something wrong, Admiral?" Innocence, even if seen through, would be the best approach. "I wouldn't have wanted to catch you off guard." A lie, but a socially acceptable one. "If you have the time, a work history for Specialist Zorah's assignments would be very helpful. She is new to the job, but if her history pairs up with what I have seen so far, I am sure I can help with future assignments on this mission. Of course, we wouldn't dream of asking her to sign on permanently."

There. Sufficiently vague to avoid entanglements, but clear enough to get the message across. Failure to send her dossier would be viewed as petty, damaging the quarian Admiral's social standing – plus a mild threat to ensure whatever plan was going on would have to avoid using Tali.

Plus, if Admiral Zorah sent the data, he'd have a much better idea of what he was facing.

"Of course," the Quarian's voice sounded strained; the tell was in how the accent shifted again. Translators were good, but couldn't quite keep up with the fluid dynamics in khelish. "I will see to it."

"Thank you," his words practically dripped honey. Taking the food analogy further, butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth. "I presume you had a good reason for … contacting me earlier? The paperwork afterwards was quite … interesting. Was there anything else you needed to tell me?" Both knew what he wanted.

Irritation colored the quarian admiral's voice. "Very well, Commander. Yes, she is my daughter and yes, I lied about Captain Anderson."

Shepard took a moment to evaluate. This isn't a battlefield; making an enemy here is someone I can't just kill. That realization took another moment to process. Well, yes I could. But I won't.

However, the fact that he'd been lied too, manipulated, could not be allowed to just drop by the wayside. No one; no one used a Shepard without paying the consequences; preferably in blood. Think strategically. Tactics dictates I explain, then go for the kill. Strategy would be either blackmail or ally … blackmail will work only once. Ally it is.

"I must admit, your deception was well played," Shepard started. "You identified my trust of Anderson, and managed to tell me what I wanted to hear. What I want to know: is why?"

Growling sounds were the only noise he could hear. That was good – in one sense. Quarians didn't possess a highly guttural language, but their growling aptitude was thought to be a throwback to an earlier time, when quarians weren't the alpha predator of Rannoch. Young Prazza's exhibition on Therum had been such an example; subsonic vocalizations capable of inducing emotional reactions in others. Turians had the gift as well, but in a deeper, more visceral fashion.

Oddly, neither worked on krogan. And he was wandering.

"Admiral?" The tone held no hesitation. Answers, or consequences.

"Det'Kuazat." Shepard winced, but didn't respond to the curse. Technically, profanity, but viewed as on the same level as most outright curses. "Do you think I will show you my throat, Commander Shepard?"

Repeated usage of his rank made it an intended insult. Only a Captain was respected as a shipmaster, in Quarian culture Shepard knew. He ignored it, like all the insults thrown at him over the years; forgive, but don't forget. "I took a grenade to the chest for her. Went through an army of mercenaries, and destroyed a slaver ring to get her back. You sent me after Tali'Zorah nar Rayya, and allowed her to go."

"Bosh'tet." It didn't have any heat in the word, yet gave the heartfelt impression of being completely sincere. "Give me your word that Tali will never hear this from you. What I've done."

Shepard considered the request, checking for loopholes, and nodded. "I agree to your terms." He didn't like it, but it wasn't his family.

"Tali … Na'Vera … is my only daughter," Zorah's voice held a low timbre, almost daring Shepard to crack a joke. "When Na'Saera died, she was all that was left. Humans react differently, I am told. To my people, when your mate dies, suicidal thoughts are expected – many comply. Friends, family, everyone knows this; it is why many of my people fear becoming attached to someone not of the people."

"Understood." Shepard folded his arms over his chest; emotional manipulation was a possible reason, but he didn't have the heart to voice the cynical opinion.

"Tali looked exactly like her mother, but she inherited her intelligence from me." That felt insulting, but perhaps quarians held different views? "Her mother was the kindest woman you would have ever met. Beautiful, a strong warrior, one of the elite War Dancers. My Tali grew up to have her strength, but my intellect helped shape her as well." The voice paused, but Shepard held his peace. He had a feeling only a very few had heard this story.

"You know of our Pilgrimage, our rite to adulthood. Ever since our peoples have met, the tradition has become less – obligatory, a trait that has been acceptable to most of my people. Whenshe decidedto go on Pilgrimage outside the Rila'Keel (2) – the regions the Flotilla has established – I knew I had failed her."

A curious statement, hinting at deeper meanings. But, ultimately, not Shepard's concern. Time to go on the offensive, harsh though it may be.

"Spare me the platitudes." Shepard interrupted. "What happens in your house is a matter of your family; not mine. If you need a chaplain, there's a good one on the Normandy, but again, it's none of my business. All I want from you is a lack of interference from now on. I will look out for your daughter, but treat her as she is: a soldier."

Quieter growls whispered from the earpiece, then died away. "Very well, Shepard. I will leave her in your care." The accent grew thicker, adding menace to the admiral's voice. "But let her come to harm without a very good reason, and there will be no place in the galaxy you can hide from me."

That kind of statement required a moment of respectful introspection. Despite the idea of an angry father threatening one of the most accomplished killers in the galaxy, bar none. "Your bargain is acceptable," he had to fight down the amusement from his voice, but it was completely worth it. "Shepard out."

As the last vestiges of static left his ears, he checked his omni-tool, selecting a message received a short time before.

Shepard; no, I do not know an Admiral Zorah. Nor have I experience in Flotilla operations.

Anderson

There it was, in black-and-orange. If Anderson had been where Admiral Zorah had claimed, he would have possessed extensive knowledge of their operations. Shepard knew some, but only due to a stint with a khelish War-Dancer group …. However Anderson's phrasing indicated a lack of involvement in quarian operations; unusual for an N7 graduate of his class, but not improbable. There were few enough of them as it was.

That smacked of the Admiral's intent being part of a larger game. Circles within circles. Now I have to interrogate Tali. Damn.

Moving on, Shepard reached his cabin. He still needed to speak with Admiral Hackett, then check on what Navigator Pressley had discovered. Not to mention file reports, debrief the squads, check the Normandy After-Action reports … he sighed.

At least he wasn't bored. Insanity lay in the other direction.


SR-1 Normandy

Captain's Cabin

Shepard glanced at the first entry, skimmed over it and continued down the list. His face stiffened by the fifth page, and began to frown after the first dozen pages. It downright scowled at the twentieth page and subsequently, grew downright murderous.

"You wanted to see me, Commander?" A flanged voice interrupted his thoughts.

He looked up, easily identifying Garrus's dark blue armor and facepaint. The turian had recovered well, and apparently repaired the damage his armor had taken. "I just received the report on Saren's financial situation. It's … bad."

The turian glanced around, seeming to take note of the decorative weaponry once more, then pulled a crate to Shepard's desk. "How bad?"

Numbers danced under Shepard's fingertips. "I'm only halfway through the summary, a fifty page summary mind you, but I can tell you exactly how Saren's been making money." He fought to control his voice, regaining mastery after a moment's struggle. "Legal ventures that fund illegal gain."

An intent look came to Garrus's expression. "How so?"

Shepard flipped open a file, transferring it to the main screen of his desk monitor. "Twenty odd years ago, Saren became a majority shareholder in an asari communications company. He pushed through a number of reform policies that created massive profits … before bankrupting the company. He took that money and blamed anyone but himself for the crash, and bought more majority stakes." The numbers flipped, steadily increasing in multiple columns. "I think he used that as a test run, a method for checking ideas for what worked and what didn't. The next time, he used his Spectre status to … help. Immunity to five slavers in return for 'services rendered.' Given the business branches Saren pushed his companies into, I can guess what they did."

"Branches?" Garrus looked at the numbers, "Looks legitimate to me. International Communications, Rider Safe-System, even a couple …" his eyes narrowed, "Subaran. I know that one, a turian owned company, run by a few Volus ministers off the Citadel. Very legal so far as I know."

"It is." Shepard clicked a control, increasing the spreadsheet's range. "Adult entertainment is a legal, profitable means of business. Almost every communication company has a variation; whether by selling or producing. It's been that way for humans since the twenty-first century. If morals aren't a problem, the best way for a company to boost profits in that sector is to ensure their studios can get actors for cheap." He gave the turian a meaningful look.

Realization dawned on the turian's face. "So the five slavers – "

"There is no proof, here at least, that the slavers are connected to the industry. But I do know those slavers. I killed three of them, when they entered Alliance space twelve years ago; they had a cargo-hold full of colonists." Shepard pointed at the screen, "But what is relevant here is that after Saren began making money hand over fist that way, he diversified. Brothels. Stripper joints. Anything involving adult entertainment and requiring a steady, cheap source of labor."

"Spirits," Garrus cut himself off, swearing under his breath.

Shepard grunted, agreeing. The electronics in his hands hummed as more power rushed through the systems. Data flowed across the screen, multiplying again and again. Years of collected information could be stored in a data chip the size of a thumbnail, an awesome thing to contemplate.

"Where did you get all this, Shepard? Did Saren actually use his name for this?"

Shepard shook his head. "Saren used secondary accounts, after his first three iterations. After Tevan Communications went bankrupt, he divided his funds under his own name in Sey'kan International and several subsidiaries. The money was traced from the very beginning, so I have trails to a lot of places … but …."

A taloned fist smacked against the metal table. "The Attican Traverse."

Unhappily, Shepard nodded. "The Traverse. No regulation, no records, and anyone can do almost anything out there."

Both of them contemplated the implications. The Traverse was essentially a no-man's land. Multiple entities claimed ownership, but no one actually held it. Pirates roamed its borders, and only military vessels – or well-protected convoys risked transit without Relays.

Garrus stirred. "There's always Omega."

Shepard hissed, "I'd prefer to avoid Omega."

"It's the most organized place in the Terminus Systems. Records have to be kept if you're going to make money, and it's the biggest profit center there."

"No." Shepard said firmly. "Another option."

An interruption in the form of Joker paused their conversation. "Um, Commander? Alenko wants to talk with you in the Hanger deck."

"I'll be there in a minute," Shepard glanced at the paperwork again before reaching for the switch. "Thank you."

He sighed before pushing the data sheets over to the turian detective. "If you'll keep looking, see where he's getting the money. Pressley has another set, working on a link to Noveria." Money didn't come from the void, it had to grow. Starting with seed money took years, decades even. The amount Saren was throwing around had to be ripped off from an account that had been working for … Shepard stopped.

That kind of money required centuries to build. As in, investments built with direct intent by a long-lived individual. Like a certain asari, known to have associated with Saren recently, whose daughter was now aboard his ship.

"Garrus?" Something in his voice must have changed, since he jerked towards Shepard. "Just a possibility, but would Matriarch Benezia's finances have a chance of being connected here?"


Hanger decks across the galaxy shared values in many ways. All of them were massive, compared to other deck-space proportions, and were usually full of people that absolutely knew their tasks superseded everything else in the vicinity. To paraphrase, it was a life of the quick and the dead: watch where you walked, or risk being flattened.

Grey metal plates rang under his boots; that was another feature common across the known cosmos. When ships continually blasted off and onto a flat surface, there was little point in coloring it. Some of the more luxuriant cruise liners had ferro-ceramic plates embedded, and there were varieties available that turned landing into an art form. That kind of platform required a treasury the size of a medium-sized colony. On the Normandy, scuffed yet durable armor was enough. It was bland, but cruiser-grade armor was as common as hydrogen, and didn't require a dozen artists to argue about placement, lighting, and who received the greatest amount of credit.

A mechanic, pulling a heavy cargo-shifter, bumped into Shepard, cursing before trundling onwards.

Shepard raised his eyebrows at the man, before continuing. Even Commanders were subject to the Law of the Deck: he with the bigger load had right-of-way. Maybe a little of that upper-class mannerism wouldn't be out of place, he considered. Nah. Honest opinion over flowery garbage any day.

He spotted Gunnery Chief Williams – Ashley he corrected himself – working at the ordnance platform. The dark hair, deeply tanned skin and highly defined forearms were a giveaway. She waved at him, then returned to her work; what looked like an Armageddon shotgun exposed before her predatory movements.

"Sir, over here," Alenko called from just beyond Shepard's peripheral.

He wandered over to the Lieutenant's position, noting that it sat squarely next to a container roughly the size of the man. "Kaiden, got here as soon as I could. What can I do for you?"

Kaiden gestured at the tall thing. "Actually, sir, it's this. It's addressed to you, but I'm not getting anything matching our manifest. We checked the inventory at the Citadel … but it's not showing up."

"Oh?" Shepard leaned closer, examining the covering. "Who spotted it first?"

"Um," Kaiden checked his pad, "That would have been Technician Caswell Hudson."

Him again. Shepard nodded again. "When you have a chance, send him my way, yes? For now, let's see what this is all about."

The packaging was very well done, fiber-plast sealed with polycarbonate adhesives. Overall, he'd have judged the size as roughly half as long as the Mako, and half as wide too. More impressively, the side facing him bore a biometric reader, rendering the whole thing operable solely by the programmed recipient – presumably, himself. The more extreme versions could detonate if accessed by the wrong person … "Lieutenant, has anyone tried opening this?"

Kaiden shrugged. "Pressley started to, but it gave him a warning."

Shepard drew back sharply. "A warning?"

"Aye sir, a yellow blinking light and a 'please stand back' sign." He retreated a few steps, "No offence, but I'll be standing back here. Sir."

Chuckling, Shepard waved him off. "Probably a good idea. This shouldn't take long."

The panel beeped under his touch, molding to his fingertips. Salarian expertise had taken human security measures and added a healthy dose of paranoia. Nanotechnology, increased their capabilities to almost mythical levels … such as now. Nano-vials perforated Shepard's fingertips, confirming his identity on a genetic level. Each whorl on his fingertip was recorded, and matched with his past known signature.

The polycarbon seals melted, leaving only the easily-torn fiber-plast protecting the innards.

It ripped away, revealing the gleam of high-quality steel. Powerful barrier emitters regularly showed through the metal in even rows, centimeters apart. The construct itself appeared split into two sections, one as tall as himself with what looked like a safe door built in, while the other half came up only to his hips – creating a long flat desk-like structure with anvil-shaped protrusions.

"I don't believe it," Shepard's jaw dropped. "A Jay-Pee twelve-fifty E-zee?" He checked an embossed signature, lining the topmost edge of the safe-door. His eyebrows jumped. "Master grade?"

Kaiden approached carefully, "Um, sir?"

Shepard ran his hands over the flat surface. No trace of his hands remained, despite their dusty nature. I haven't seen one of these in over a decade. Why here, why now?

"Shepard?"

He came out of it, straightening. "Yes Lieutenant?"

Kaiden looked somewhat embarrassed, "Sir, what is it?"

"Oh," Shepard writhed inwardly, twisting between the urge to jump up and down in delight, and ranting about the suspicious nature of the object. "This, Lieutenant is to the blacksmith what a Stradivarius is to the violinist. A Julianne-Powerdine StarForge, E-3 version. E for Element Zero enhanced."

Hammers, rows of variable-weight hammers called his hands from their place on the backboard, masterfully worked lengths perfectly suited for an equally experienced metalsmith. He could tell, just from looking, that the anvil surfaces were precisely even, down to a molecular leveler's standards. Enough element zero existed inside the forge to power a small freighter, yet was compressed to a fraction of its normal size. Element zero held astounding capabilities, and when used on itself, made theoretical physicists hunt for the nearest exit. In his hands, the power to create would be astounding; decades of waiting or no. Except …

"There has to be a note, or something," Shepard started searching the smooth metal. "Who sent it?"

A new voice spoke up, "Technician Hudson reporting as ordered, sir!"

Shepard looked up sharply. Hudson was of average height, dark hair and a somewhat … padded … appearance. Answers, at last! "Technician, what do you know about this package?"

The smaller man glanced at the anvil, then back at him. "A salarian delivered it to the hanger about two hours before liftoff. It wasn't on the invoice, but he had a service order and everything."

That was more than strange. "Did this salarian happen to leave a note?"

"What? Oh, yeah," one hand dug in a side pocket; "I was going to get it to you as soon as I came off shift, but then we had to get to battle stations and –"

"Understood." Shepard growled. "That was completely ignoring procedure, Technician. You should know the protocols involved. Security depends on that; yes?"

Hudson stepped back, gulping. "Sir, yessir. Sorry about that sir."

Shepard glared another moment, turning the situation over in his mind. While nothing had happened, something so large, and clearly nonstandard should have triggered more alarms than a combat drill. Without thinking hard, he could recall three assassination efforts using the exact same method. Unofficial record, of course.

"Thank you. I will be speaking to your watch command about this," He lowered his tone, narrowing his eyes at the man. "I'll be watching, Technician."

Hudson saluted again, holding it and stammering until Shepard jerked his head to the door. "Dismissed."

As the technician fled, Alenko stepped up beside Shepard. "Commander, that might have been a little … harsh."

"It was." Shepard returned his attention to the device at hand. He picked up the digital tablet, where Hudson had dropped it, and lifted it into place. "This is a warship Lieutenant. The sooner he learns it, the better things will be for him. Speaking of which," he left the tablet in one hand, not looking at its contents, "what did you think of the squads' performance on Therum?"

Alenko brushed an errant lock from over one ear. "I filed my AAR report an hour ago, did you get it?"

"Off the record," he bypassed the side-step attempt. "Your honest opinion."

The biotic sighed, glancing over his shoulder. Shepard nodded, waving Ashley over. "You too, Williams. Opinions on Therum performance?"

Ashley shrugged, "Could have gone a lot better. Geth aren't really on the training sequence, but we got through 'em alright."

Alenko winced, but nodded slow agreement. "It could have gone better, but it could have gone worse."

Crossing his arms, Shepard scowled at the table. "Agreed. But I think it could have gone a lot better. I received the last AAR's, went through them. And one thing keeps popping up, they weren't ready. Not for a planet like Therum, not for geth. Why?"

"Why?" Ashley sputtered, "Geth? Who in their right mind would expect geth? They've been hiding for centuries!"

Shepard pinned her with a withering stare, "Eden Prime. A little less than a week is not much time I admit, only a few minutes are needed to prepare zapper mods. Only the engineers had overload queued for battle, the heavy marines were still using armor penetration mods, and the entire company acted like a ten-mile hike was going to kill them!"

"Higher gravity," Alenko reminded him.

"High grav my left foot!" Shepard tossed the tablet back down, "If they wanted high gravity environments, they should try Dakuuna!" He took in a deep breath, then exhaled for a count of five. "No, they need to learn how to fight, and fight well."

Ashley leaned a hip against the anvil, folding her arms. "You're one of the best, Commander. In any other comparison, the marines would be considered supermen. You? You're a superman's superman."

"Gah." Shepard turned away, running fingers through his hair. It was short by design; shorter hair meant no one could grab it in a fight. "All it took for me was practice, lots of practice. I can't get them up to N7 standards, but in a few months, I bet you I could have the company up to N5. At least."

She pushed away with a jerk, "You mean that?" Interest colored her voice. Beside her, Kaiden's body language became just as attentive.

The hanger became quiet, Shepard noticed. Heads were turned, not in his direction exactly, but enough so every word he spoke could be heard. Scuttlebutt, the fastest thing in the universe.

"Let me get something clear," both hands rested on his biceps, slightly widening his stance. His knees flexed slightly, giving him a better angle to continue glaring at Ashley. "This is the SR-1 Normandy. Every soldier, every sailor, every technician is the best at what they do. I will not tolerate substandard performance – even if I have to train each and every soldier to an acceptable level. Am I understood?"

"Sir, yes sir!" The woman saluted; he couldn't read her posture – it had been trained to respond too precisely for that – but a glimpse of teeth hinted at enthusiasm. He turned to Kaiden, who likewise held an unreadable position. After a moment, the lieutenant nodded.

"Right then, I'll contact Hackett. We need more live-fire missions if we'll beat the geth." He snagged the tablet back off the anvil once more, "Williams, firing range. I want each squad able to take a wing off a gnat at a hundred yards; you're targeting trainer and in charge of the Armory. Alenko, technical support. Show them how to overclock a shield emitter, jury-rig overload rounds, how to fix it afterwards, every trick in the trade."

Kaiden raised a hand, "Sir, you might want to get Tali, I mean, Specialist Tali'Zorah in on this. She's better than me in some aspects of electronic warfare."

It took only an instant for Shepard to see the sense of the idea. "Make it so. Williams, see if Garrus wants to help the snipers."

"And sir?" Ashley chimed in, "what about hand-to-hand?"

"Good thought." Shepard gave her a grin filled with teeth. A thought twisted through his mind; an old ditty about women and their best friends. Morbid humor, an ever present friend, came to his aid. "Diamonds may be forever, but so is a crippling injury."

The way she froze was highly amusing. He chuckled at the reaction before finally reading the tablet. Off to one side, Wrex had a wide grin on his face; gone by the time he paused to take a better look. He finally scanned the short notice.

Commander, please accept this small token of appreciation. What you have done, and will do, aids far more than you realize.

It was unsigned, but a faint overlay glimmered across its surface, visible almost only because of his visor. The design was distantly familiar, the mark of one of the major salarian clans. Shepard took a closer look, memorizing the shimmering pseudo-image; next time he had a chance, he'd go over the registry. Just to be sure, he took a picture with his omni-tool; given the salarian penchant for minutiae, the tiniest detail could mean the difference between radically opposed families.

The gift made no sense. Past and future tenses; someone knows my record – possibly the restricted version. But future?

A different thought came in, Excalibur is one thing. Emrys has proven himself a colleague, I can work with him. Vaguely phrased gifts from unknown givers … from someone with enough power to sneak it on board a top secret warship? Whoever it is, obviously wants something. That much was absolutely true. Had the Normandy not been so advanced, the device would have increased its value half again. Courting. Someone gives an extravagant gift, and expects something of equal value in return – something I should have expected when I accepted this gig.

Note to self: look up salarian gift protocols.

Manipulation made him ill. No, the very thought of someone pulling strings made him grow angry. Ease of long practice helped him direct that anger in a productive manner. Dismissing Alenko and Williams took a few moments, and within minutes, he'd made his way to the communications room.

"Commander," Hackett's familiar gravel voice emanated from the speakers. "I presume this is an emergency?"

"Yes and no, Admiral." Shepard scowled at the intake. Visual communication would have been better, but took up far more bandwidth; using voice only made for a more economical gesture. Politics, but a game he could play – sometimes. "My squads are green. Rusty. If we're going after Saren, they need more seasoning – particularly if the geth are going to be involved."

Hackett sounded pleased. "Excellent idea, Shepard. I caught that as well; the geth appear to be … toying with us. Not a good sign."

"Agreed." Shepard glanced at another notice. "On a side note, a salarian just delivered a bribe attempt."

The elder man's reaction carried through his tone. "What?"

"A rather expensive gift was pointed out to me a few minutes ago. Worth roughly five hundred million credits."

Dead silence met his statement. "You have a – significant public," Hackett finally managed.

Despite the lack of visual connection, Shepard raised one shoulder diffidently. "The highest bribe I've seen yet. Maybe a few come close if you include intrinsic value, but this one is certainly rather unsettling."

"Did they compromise you?" A note of concern entered Hackett's tone.

"No," for a moment, he wondered if the Admiral was worried about Shepard the man, or the loyal soldier of the Alliance. It was a reasonable thought … if one cared to ponder motives overly much. "The perpetrator obviously looked up my first occupation, and perhaps drew a conclusion from a few of my more public visits. They sent me a mini-smithy, one of the StarForge series, one of the latest models."

"Ah."

"The disturbing aspect is that an unknown object, very possible to have been a weapon of mass destruction, was slipped aboard one of the most advanced warships in the galaxy." Shepard glanced around the room, belatedly realizing he'd failed to scan it once more. With the revelations the package had given, it was almost a guarantee the Normandy was compromised in some way … unless he was being too paranoid? No. He activated the scan protocols.

"Good point." Hackett's tone shifted to a musing quality. If he'd been a betting man, Shepard would have wagered the admiral was stroking his chin, "A message then?"

"It's salarian," Shepard gave the unknown gift-giver an extensive series of turian hand motions. In some quarters, it was a language all of its own, but what he'd learned from the turian military adherents seemed mostly pejorative. "You can't understand them, not completely. It's a multi-level statement; proof they can get through, a sign of respect by the monetary value and physical size of the gift, a taunt that something that big made it through security …" he found a chair, and collapsed into it. "On the other hand, it could be a snare, a trick designed to get me in legal trouble. I'm not as fluent in salarian as I should be, but I'll know more later."

"Very good." Hackett approved. He changed the subject a moment later, "Speaking of understanding, was the report correct? You didn't use a restraint collar on your asari prisoner?"

Shepard felt his hackles rise. This was going to be a long conversation. "If you are referring to the pirate we captured a number of days ago, you are correct. I don't use slave collars. On anyone."

A sigh emanated from the speaker. "Commander, there is a difference between what you do and what slavers do."

He restrained an exhalation of his own, preparing for the lecture certain to follow. Some days it didn't pay to get out of bed.


3.37 hours later ...

Shepard stood behind Joker's chair, staring out the window. The Relay network held intricate coding permissions, granting Council and military vessels priority, but even so there was a great deal of traffic. Streams of vessels cascaded through the Relay, using its acceleration sequence to hurl themselves across the galaxy, trusting ancient technology and forces no one understood fully.

He shifted focus, studying individual ships. A Volus cruise-liner, massive as a battleship with none of the defenses and all the luxuries its counterpart lacked. Salarian messenger ships bucked lines, making daring movements to move their cargoes just a few fractions of an hour faster. Quarian messenger ships kept up the pace; a much more common sight than the previous thirty years apparently. Access to chiral worlds under Alliance auspices had boosted the quarian economy beyond its previous two centuries; members of the Flotilla were often seen in Alliance space. Not exactly welcome, but not pushed away either, more than the Council had done. Progress, of a sort.

The sight of interstellar traffic was soothing, ordered chaos. Chaos was something the galaxy needed in greater supply; the ultimate complacency was death after all. Too much chaos however, was death as well; philosophically, any explosion could be defined as a situation where maximum chaos was achieved.

"Whoo, look at that one," Joker's nimble fingers highlighted an asari cruiser, ahead of them in queue. Vrolik's Syndrome made the pilot an effective prisoner of his chosen profession; once he sat in the custom-fitted chair, he did not rise until long after his shift was complete. The normal co-pilot – Shepard searched his memory, finding the name filed away in its depths – Addison Chase, was in her usual position. Neither was aware of his presence; he was wearing soft-soled boots, and had taken care to proceed along the edges of the passage.

"Nice lines, but a little beat up," Addison responded. A different ship enlarged on the screen, this time a turian freighter. "Now that one has potential."

Joker laughed, "Whaddya talking about? No armor, and its shields are barely rated for outer edge Terminus."

He let the chatter wash over him, turning to retrace his steps. Confusion seemed rampant throughout the galaxy, chaos in its most basic form. After finishing his conversation with Admiral Hackett, he'd checked his mail, and discovered yet more discrepancies. The lawyers on retainer from Earth had been switched, and his account transferred to a new set of partners. Legally speaking, he should have been informed over a month in advance … but if he hadn't sent the forms Udina had given him, to triple check their validity, he would still be unaware of their removal.

Further checks indicated a simple service error, delaying the required notification by a month, if it ever reached him.

The other firm, based from the Citadel, had sent him a notice, regretfully conveying their condolences. His representative had apparently undergone too much stress, and chose to permanently remove the stain on his honor. 'Chewing a bullet,' as the old phrase went. Surprising; the last time they'd spoken, the woman had given the impression of being at the top of her game.

Strange.

Shepard took another turn along the passage, soundless in movement. He'd planned for difficulties, for issues to crop up. When one dealt in chaos for a living, only the insanely stupid failed to believe chaos would follow him home. A career such as his practically guaranteed it.

Now, there was the Mindoir firm, his first choice and one supplied with the best the galaxy had to offer. By someone other than himself, of course. Fake identities were simple to facilitate, if you knew the right people.

Fortunately, the new representatives had done nothing major in the duration, except a number of legal papers he'd signed, regarding being a Spectre. Everything went past his omni-tool prior to approval.

He shook his head, reversing course past the CIC. Strictly speaking, Ambassador Udina held proxy approval, in case of long assignments; the Power of Attorney in legal terms. Again, only the criminally stupid would believe nothing important occurred without his presence. Udina had proven to be a friend of humanity, and secure with small tasks. Given the high-value projects running, he desperately required one man to approve legal ventures in his absence. Without it, his sometimes months-long absences would render hundreds of decisions useless, and waste literally billions of credits. So far, it had worked.

Things were catapulting ahead though, proceeding far apace. His own goals were modest, in comparison to the convoluted paths his contemporaries seemed to be taking. Using liquid capital as a measurement stick, Shepard ranked in the low regions – around the low-upper class. Granted, he owned more than entire colonies, but the measuring stick counted asari with more financial reserves than the entire Hanar Primacy. Hardware, however … he wielded power amongst the most potent of influences. Nanotechnology he owned was still proliferating at exponential rates. If he were honest with himself, the reserves he held were small, but had grown at rates surpassing all expectations. And he was the master of the most crucial aspects of its creation and development.

The Salarian Union had done very well with their early investments, and the asari had been right on their tail. He had personally benefited from both interests. The funds he had been charged with overseeing had grown, even if eclipsed by his own personal fortune.

Shepard rounded the turn, climbing out of the stairwell. Enemies. Too many, and getting too deep. When had he counted foes last? The top of his list right now had to be Balak, slaver and pirate chieftain. Or perhaps – no, Haliat was dead. Wasn't really much of a threat in the first place, although the nuke had shown potential … What about Saren? The man had sent hitmen for him personally, how could he have forgotten?

Shoot.

He needed to write this down; thinking was acceptable, but there came a point where contemplation was more harm than good, with no way to weed out bad ideas. The best place was back at his cabin, with its extended boards and high-powered computer systems. The Alliance still held on to the belief that independent systems segregated from omni-tools held key positions. Salarians scoffed at the idea – non-integrated systems added nothing to efficiency, even detracted in many cases.

Humans knew better than to connect every system like that, not just 'link' but hardwire every system into a massive fluctuating morass of potential consciousness. The quarians had learned that lesson too late, and still persisted in connecting everything.

Shepard headed back through his cabin, ignoring Garrus still hunched over the desk. The turian was a detective, an exceptionally good one if the records were correct.

Projectors hummed into life across the aft and starboard walls of Shepard's cabin. A simulated marker coalesced into his omni-tool hand, intangible, but 'felt' through the implants in his hand. Time to get to work.

Spectre Saren, he wrote in large letters at the top of one screen. Hesitating a moment, he moved over to the next screen and wrote: Matriarch Benezia. The Council was able to throw accusations as they wished – within reason – but a humble investigator from another sovereign power needed to be more circumspect. Counting an individual as an enemy, one so powerful as to sway the Thirty, was political suicide; but there was no room for that in an objective analysis. Like any other investigation, the main task was to obtain as many facts as possible, then remove extraneous details.

It felt better, just having the two names down. Quickly, he divided each name into two columns, jotting down the names of major associates, expanding the columns as he worked. As words spread across the screens, the tingling sensation began niggling at the back of his mind. It was a familiar feeling, the thrill of scenting a trail others missed. The awareness of a hunt. He loved it.

Money trail: Therum, Noveria, Omega, Citadel, Palaven, Feros, nanotech.

The list grew, then shrank before growing again. Logic decreed Saren would have access to the nanotechnology money, but only through Matriarch Benezia; a different column. Feros was already under examination for financial irregularities; but the likelihood of ExoGeni giving up data on just the request of the IAC (3) fell between slim and fat. No, he'd have to visit himself.

Noveria was the same. While nominally independent, it had to comply with both Council and Alliance regulations – in part – in order to do business. Spectres held authority there as well; the curse of being beholden to none, yet subject to all.

Something is missing though, Shepard thought. What is it … the silent room almost echoed his thoughts back at him, like the rebounding Chila beetle. It's too quiet. Music.

"Computer," he waited until the acknowledging chirp answered, "Play some music, from playlist: Introspection. Random selection."

The room hummed softly, the sound fading as the room's audio seals engaged. Exposing his predilection for music wasn't a problem, but sharing it with the general public felt like a violation. Soon, the upbeat tempo started thudding in his ears, major chords falling into place. He smiled, allowing the action in the privacy of his own room, before resuming work.

His list expanded, rotating out of sight as the names grew. Terrorist groups, can't forget those. If Saren was throwing money around, he could be also funding terrorist attacks ad nauseum. Remember to check with Wrex, he might have more information.

A thought struck him. What was it Benezia said? Return of the … what?

Shepard sank to a chair, thinking furiously. Saren was after the Beacon. The one downloaded into your head. Presumably, he also received the download … and is using it to do something with the … thingies.

"Computer, pause music," he spoke aloud. "Open file –"

"Oh, spirits thank you!" An unfamiliar flanged voice broke in.

Shepard spun, one hand deftly plucking a salarian-design assassin's knife from the wall. On the desk, Garrus tentatively lifted one hand from the side of his head, uncovering the tympanic membrane. "Is it over? Please tell me it's over."

For once, Shepard didn't have to pretend anything. "What are you talking about?"

"That hideous racket!" Garrus carefully uncovered the other side of his head. His sigh of relief seemed overly enthusiastic … turian humor almost always contained elements of stoicism.

"A joke, yes?"

The turian chuckled, "In part. What was that … I hesitate to call it that but ... music?"

Shepard blinked. "Polka. Steady rhythmic sequence in two-four time and a series of modulations in the repeats."

"Poe-kah," Garrus tried out the word. "Can't say I've heard much of that before."

Lifting one shoulder dismissively, Shepard returned to his work. "Computer: open file on Feros excavations. Sub-folder: exhuming research."

The responding beeps barely preceded the images projected on his wall. Skeletons, weird alien shapes … but strangely familiar. "There, image three dash five seven. Enhance."

Despite the room's temperature control, Shepard felt a cold chill penetrate. The picture on the wall grew; a flat, convex skull with four eye sockets, long empty. Sinusoid openings spread sideways well below the orbits but above where the maxillaries would be on a human. It gave the impression of gleeful malice, particularly with the canines involved.

Hands stretched upwards, but glowing yellow eyes devoid of hope. Memories, not his own, smashed against the barriers of Shepard's mind. Fleeing civilians, inhuman joints bending against the mode, cries of terror. Too many to count, too many to hear. Millions of voices crying out for salvation. Nothing could be done.

Shepard broke free, brutally shoving the images back. But one last form, seared against his mind's eye, forced itself on him. Reapers of the harvest, taking that which had been planted.

The obscene figure faded, leaving him to draw one shuddering breath after another. Shepard became aware of a taloned pressure on one arm.

"Shepard! Are you … " the hand dropped. "Thank the spirits, you're back."

It was a bit like travelling, Shepard had to agree. Whenever the Beacon data came to mind, it overwhelmed him, carrying him to a time not his own. But in this case … in this case, it helped with the present. "Computer, bring up the footage from Eden Prime. Same segment selected by Captain Anderson."

Part of his working field cleared itself for a video segment. The broadcast from Eden Prime appeared, frozen at the point where the massive skyscraper–ship had entered. It took only a brief moment for Shepard to compare the monstrosity to what kept appearing in his dreams. That's it. A … Reaper. Saren isn't working for himself, he's found a bigger backer.

"Commander," Garrus's tone seemed exceptionally careful. "What, exactly, is that?"

Shepard studied the image. "That is Saren's ship. If the Beacon data is correct, it's a Reaper, one of the devices that destroyed the Protheans."

He didn't need to look back to know the turian's disbelief. "A … Reaper? You're saying Saren found a fifty thousand year old ship, and used it to sack Eden Prime for a Prothean Beacon?"

On the surface, it was a logical question. "Something as advanced as a Reaper needing Prothean technology now, seems pretty ridiculous. But, let's play a game: what do we know?"

He did manage to catch a shudder that ran across the turian's frame. At his questioning eyebrow, the turian offered a half-twitch of one mandible. "My father – used to use that phrase."

"Sounds like a good man." Shepard took the frame in which the Reaper was visible, and transferred it to a new document. "So far, we have identified Saren's flagship as a potential Reaper, either a lookalike or remnant of the force that destroyed the Protheans. We know that Saren began a financial empire roughly fifteen years ago, and gained the assistance of Matriarch Benezia about two years later. We also know Saren holds large percentages of Alliance businesses, and significant holdings in …" he tilted his head in a batarian gesture, "other places."

Garrus looked at the walls, covered in Shepard's handwriting. "You've done this often?"

"Now and again," he pasted the image of Sovereign to the Saren file, and added a note; more data needed on Saren's flagship. "I am … somewhat … the equivalent of a Spectre in Alliance space."

"So I heard," the turian stepped forward, "mind if I add some?"

"Be my guest. I'll be back soon, have to check on the crew. And talk to Anderson."

The turian wrote a note on the board, humming approval. "Take your time."


Ironically, the rounds took little time. Ashley held position on the weapons deck, checking and double checking every modification. From what he could tell, she was giving envious looks at the 'gift' sitting to the left. Envy of an anvil; an interesting concept. Further down the side, the quarian squad had their armaments field-stripped, steadily working on the delicate innards. Their body language indicated he'd been seen, but understood to be casual. At the rate they're going through the work, they'll have the entire company's loadout cleaned by third watch. It made sense, in a way. He'd practically promised to train them to N7 levels … and they were working hard.

He took another path, down into engineering. Adams – easily recognizable with his placid voice and long fingers – gave him a casual salute. The three quarians on the engineering team also saluted, quivering in place until he dismissed them with a nod.

Tali'Zorah almost bounced up to him. "Shepard! Good to see you!" She activated her omni-tool, "The Admiralty sent approval for my posting to the Normandy. Not that they would have said no, but I have full approval and combat pay!"

"Good," Shepard wondered if his … chat … with a quarian admiral of the same name had made a difference. "Pay from the Flotilla, from the Alliance in your contract, and the deposits you've helped us find will be a decent amount when we're done."

The twin reflective points of light inside her helmet became even brighter. "Really? I mean – thank you! I was hoping that – that is to say, I didn't think you'd – never mind." She lunged forwards in a move worthy of a ninth tier Wardancer, 'glomping' him, to borrow his sister-in-law's term. "Thank you so much!"

Hesitantly, Shepard let his arms drop behind the little quarian's back. Such a social people. He'd seen the marines performing the same action on each other multiple times, in celebration or merely exuberant emotion. For himself though, a rather quiet individual, the experience was … overwhelmingly emotional. There had been no possibility to get away, she'd moved too fast … awkward, yet reminiscent of old memories. When was the last time he'd been on the receiving end of a hug? Years since I played with the children. Do they still remember me?

The sensation of cold metal straps and faux-leather on his hands jolted him out of reverie. Holy guacamole, where are my hands? In one terrifying moment, clarity struck. They came off the small of her back as if it were red-hot. Muted chuckles from Adam's corner did nothing for regaining his composure.

Gently, he patted Tali's shoulder, disengaging with care. "You're one of my crew, Tali. Anything less would be dishonorable."

He caught the other quarians stealing looks at him, one giving him a polite nod. Apparently his behavior was appropriate; there hadn't been much interaction with naval elements in his tour. Quarian crews were fairly close-knit, and possessed the most gregarious natures he'd ever seen. It should have been obvious.

The route brought him back to the comm room. Wrex had been working on an omni-tool, and frowned on contact. Alenko on the other hand had been eager to talk. So much in fact that Shepard had barely enough time to finish the report.

Hope Anderson can use it. The news about the Reaper sounded … fantastic. Monsters from the depths of time, destroyers of civilization – here? Still, legendary terrors are legendary for a reason.


Citadel, Council Transmission Chamber

Councilors received extra benefits that few knew about, Anderson was coming to realize. Each Councilor had a private room, perfect for receiving petitions from their own people – and others. A personal chef, selected for trustworthiness and a background check that went back multiple generations. Direct access to budgets nominally under the control of peons further down the chain of command. Here on the Citadel, access to amenities rarely found – not least of which: space.

On a space station, room was wealth. The larger the room, the greater the financial reserves. Having vast open rooms on the Citadel was equivalent to displaying a full-immersion aquarium on a desert world. Udina seemed to thrive in the environment, making appropriate noises whenever needed, giving lust-filled looks at the furniture when being conveniently observed.

He hated it. It was so … dishonest. It made sense in a certain angle; shock and awe, minus the explosions.

One such optical detonation was sitting in front of him as he spoke. Ti'la Vanir, personal attendant to the Consort had been tasked with keeping him up to speed. Of course, she'd been more than willing to offer other … services. Some in which she was well-versed, going by her clothing.

That disgusted him.

Polite dismissals had been of no avail, leaving him no option but to watch Udina and the Councilors as closely as possible, avoiding her attempts to flirt by appearing too busy. It was made far easier now that Shepard was communicating with them. The report the Commander had sent was quite illuminating, speaking of Prothean ruins that survived volcanic eruptions with ease, of geth playing with their food, and a connection between Saren's flagship and the end of the Protheans.

Oh, and the asari doctor had been rescued. Almost a footnote after the extravaganza, but an important one.

Shepard's blue-hued image shimmered into being before the Councilors on the massive projector. They had invited Udina's presence in the first debriefing of a human Spectre. Anderson had been invited by Udina to both tweak the Councilor's attitude problem, and for his extensive working relationship with Shepard. Just because the Council had rejected him as a Spectre candidate didn't mean the Alliance mistrusted him.

Personally, Anderson would have preferred to be anywhere but with the Council. He had a strong suspicion what they were about to do; the sinking feeling in his gut all but confirming it, his 'trouble sense,' Shepard had called it.

No, Shepard. He was going to be upset. Irate. Beyond furious.

"Councilors. Captain. Ambassador." The normally erudite commander was remarkably taciturn today.

"Commander," Sparatus nodded a friendly greeting. "Excellent work at Therum. Your men are well?"

"Better," the ghostly image responded. "Some room for improvement, but they show promise."

"Yes, very good." Tevos interrupted; her attention was fully focused on Shepard; Anderson could tell. Whether the distant Commander was cognizant of the fact remained debatable. "And Doctor T'Soni?"

"Dehydrated, but fine." Shepard raised one hand, the glowing sparkle of his omni-tool emanating through the link. "My chief medical officer has a report prepared. Doctor T'Soni has suffered no great harm, and managed to retain most of her research materials. She should be active again in a few days. Fast recovery time, I am told."

Anderson snorted. By asari standards, 'a few days' was incredible speed – considering the situation she'd been discovered in. For a human, the phrase 'malingering' would have been used. Of course, the average asari wouldn't have survived, he grudgingly admitted to himself. Above normal then.

"If I may direct your attention to some of the research," Shepard continued, "My investigation has noted a few points of interest."

"Of course," Valern agreed, "Please, give us an overview."

"Threat assessment." Shepard appeared to not see the politely resistant looks. "It's worse than I thought. Saren's financial holdings are much, much larger than anticipated." A chart appeared next to Shepard's figure, names and numbers scrolling upwards at a blinding rate. "He has investments ranging from Alliance pharmaceuticals to brothels in the Terminus. Matriarch Benezia has … apparently … been assisting with financial advice, and by these numbers –" the list slowed, highlighting two columns, "accounts over three centuries old are being used."

"Are you certain, Commander?" Tevos had a wide-eyed look, one almost begging for help, yet somehow regal enough to deter casual aid.

The ease with which she'd assumed the expression rang warning bells to Anderson's trained eye. The asari Councilor's performance was … over the top. One advantage humans held over their asari counterparts included a significantly higher motion-attentive eye structure. While the asari could see further, and in more wavelengths than humans, the average human – like quarians – could detect microscopic muscle twitches, subconsciously at least.

Anderson knew himself to be far above average.

"It's true." Shepard's voice fell, dull tones. "Based on this, I would recommend sending as many assets after Saren as possible. He has enough resources in Council Space to raise an army. In addition, Saren's flagship – the so called 'Sovereign,' bears a striking resemblance to designs located in Prothean archive references. To their killers, the Reapers."

"A valid point," Valern interjected. "Which must be discussed further. However, there are more topics we must cover prior to that point." A different screen appeared next to his hand, "Commander, the Normandy was co-designed between salarian and human engineers, with turian consultants. You further increased the diversity by bringing quarians aboard. In the hunt for Saren, have you noticed any shortcomings in the designs?"

Anderson rolled his eyes, secure in the knowledge that no one was looking his way. Valern had been one of the clan leaders in charge of ensuring the Normandy was constructed with salarian oversight. The turians had lobbied hard, but ultimately capitulated, in exchange for certain caveats.

Bringing the topic up in a meeting such as this was logical, but detracted from Shepard's points. His eyes narrowed; had Tevos just relaxed? Her shoulders had dropped a fraction … why?

"They are in my reports. One glaring oversight is the limited facilities; one pair of grouped showers on the action deck, and a small set of restrooms on the crew deck." Shepard made a valiant attempt to redirect the conversation, "Returning to the Reapers,"

"Your report will cover the subject thoroughly, I am certain." Valern shot him down again. "Now, pertaining to future activities, has your experience during the probationary Spectre status accomplished your goals?"

Anderson sat back, relaxing just a little. They hadn't gone into how Shepard had gained the knowledge of the Prothean demise … and were proceeding circumspectly. Perhaps too carefully. The image of Shepard was relaxing as well; something he never did in an official briefing. He knows something is up. Lord, let him not kill anyone, please.

"The selection process determined you are unattached, is this correct?" Tevos tapped her device, causing the page to flicker. Anderson could see a small insert on the new page, the face of a smiling asari that looked remarkably similar to … Liara T'Soni … who was on the Normandy.

Slowly, feeling the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders, Anderson closed his eyes. The last time someone had angered Shepard to the point he feared was coming, Torfan had been the public result. There had been other … incidents, but the majority were limited to the Terminus Systems. It was there the Commander had proven worthy of the sobriquet Nar'Sheth. While colorful, the translation failed to grant the full depth of meaning encapsulated by the word.

Shaking his head, Anderson returned to the present, just in time to see Tevos giving Shepard a brilliant, seductive smile. Hellfire.

"Well then, it is fortunate for the both of us," she said. She straightened. "I, Matriarch Ceto Tevos, as acting regent for the T'Soni line, officially invite you, Commander Karl Shepard, to join with the Ancient Line of T'Soni."

Silence filled the chamber, a dark formless void shaping itself around the participants. Shepard failed to respond, blinking at the asari Councilor. Nothing moved; no one willing to draw attention to themselves. Anderson felt a small burst of humor – perhaps the councilors knew the danger of their efforts on a subconscious level? The Commander was a master of that style of intimidation. Body language had become an art form to him.

Tevos smiled again, perhaps taking the silence as overwhelmed appreciation. "Your Ambassador Udina, as he holds the power of attorney during your absence, has very graciously given terms acceptable for such a match. You will be able to help both our peoples by establishing a close relationship with Doctor T'Soni. Anything further is, of course, your decision, but I hope the two of you will see your way clear to establishing a high-profile example of what the greatest of our respective races are capable of doing."

Shepard's face was purely blank; the eyes looked at Udina, then Anderson for the briefest of moments. In that moment, the entire expression shifted. Anger, frustration … worst of all, betrayal.

Lord help us all. Anderson closed his eyes in prayer. Then he opened them, hastily getting up and almost bowling over Vanir to the Ambassador quarters; more specifically, to the military-grade communicator there. Someone had to do damage control … and perhaps, beg forgiveness.


Normandy SR-1

Communications Room

Anderson vanished from the scene, brushing past an asari that had looked as if she'd been trying to stop him. Most of the other speakers were present, but he had left. Deep inside, Shepard felt a small amount of regret; but was it for himself, the Captain, or the loss? Emotions were confusing.

"Your people are known for their reticence to join the rest of the galaxy as members of the Council Systems," Tevos continued, ignoring the drama behind. "Contracting a union between one of our own people and someone of renown in the Alliance would go great lengths to calming any fears."

Udina snorted, jumping in to Shepard's surprise; the feeling of betrayal he'd felt when Tevos had referenced the Power of Attorney mixed. In retrospect, giving a politician that much power had been short-sighted, but necessary. And also a matter he should consider at a much later time.

"What does the Alliance get out of this?" Udina fired at the Councilor, "Only the Council reaps the benefit of such an exchange. All the Alliance receives, is a minor foothold in asari politics, while the Council gains influence within major Alliance military structures!"

Shepard couldn't believe his ears. It's like they don't think I have an opinion? He watched the turian councilor stare at him for a moment, then return to the debate between the others and Udina. No ... they ... they actually don't think I do. Turians never question orders, and that means Sparatus doesn't expect me to disagree. His gaze shifted to Valern. The salarian kept up a rapid-fire discussion with both Tevos and Sparatus, while simultaneously looking bored. From what we know about Salarian culture, they consider arranged marriages normal; as if they don't have the capacity for anormal marriage – and this one particularly advantageous for some reason. But Tevos? He watched Councilor Tevos speak, gracefully rebutting Udina's points, not just verbally, but physically altering her stance on each topic. Ah. That's it, hubris. The asari have thousands of years on humanity for galactic policy, and it doesn't hurt that they believe themselves irresistible. Plus, he frowned to himself, they've been reproducing with salarians for who knows how many years. Some of that contract idea has to have rubbed off.

"I may agree, if the modification to Shepard's status as a Spectre is made after the partnership is formally acknowledged," Tevos said. She finished her speech by giving a small bow to Udina while tilting her arm slightly in acknowledgement of her colleagues. Very sneaky. If she'd added blueberries to it, she'd make a smoothie.

"Then it's settled," Councilor Valern nodded firmly turning to Shepard, "You will announce your commitment to Doctor T'Soni, after she finishes recovering." His colleagues made affirming noises, particularly Tevos. Shepard didn't like the particular glint in her eye, it said far too much about her interest in the matter.

Even Councilor Udina, perennial naysayer to the Council had a satisfied expression. That's not good. Not good at all. He's actually going to try to force me ... he wouldn't ... The human ambassador caught his eye, and gave him a slight nod, sending a familiar emotion into his soul. No.

Shepard saw red. The usual brief moment of mental discipline failed to make it dissipate, driving the rage deeper. Desperately trying to avoid violence, he twisted sideways to the Council, not bothering to watch their reactions. Fierce concentration, honed over a lifetime of practiced control kept his voice even while he delivered his verdict.

"Go. To. Hell."

He finished the spin, letting his military boots measure the short distance to the Comm room's exit in ringing steps. Behind, confused muttering broke out just before the link shut down. Apparently, they don't expect disobedience, Shepard thought. Too bad. They didn't listen to me about Reapers, or Geth, or Saren. I won't listen to them on some misbegotten attempt at—

"Commander Shepard? Anderson is on the line … he wants to talk to you right now," Joker's voice came over the intercom. He sounded almost subdued.

"I'm on my way to my quarters. Tell him I don't have time right now," Shepard snapped. His steps turned towards the elevator.

"Ah, Shepard, he said to tell you …" the gulp transmitted over the intercom, "um, that 'Shanxi was hard, Saren was harder, but this is the hardest thing he's had to do yet.' Um, unquote."

Shepard stopped in front of the elevator. The doors opened invitingly, beckoning him to the soft darkness and the sweet embrace of oblivion in his own bed. I trusted Anderson, risked my life for him just because he's … Anderson. How could he betray me? He owes me better than this … The doors closed with their faint hum, clicking shut. It sounded like the shears of fate, snipping another thread of life, just outside his grasp. And … I owe him, too? Enough to overlook betrayal?

He pondered the doors for a moment more. It always comes down to what we do with the choices we're given. One door closes, another opens … do I trust Anderson enough to give him another chance to hurt me? Deep down, he already knew the answer.

"Fine," Shepard sighed, "Just … do me a favor. If the Council starts calling again, don't tell Garrus, and hang up on them. All right?"

Joker's chuckle made the intercom resonate, "Gotcha Shepard. Telemarketers on a higher level, right?"

Shepard pushed back into the comm room. At the far end stood a hologram of Captain Anderson, facing away from the door. He didn't move while the door hissed, or when Shepard approached.

"Joker said you wanted to see me, sir?" Shepard asked politely.

The hologram turned to face him. Shepard almost took a step back. Anderson's familiar face, one he'd just seen less than four weeks previously, one of the few he still recognized, now had dark circles under the eyes. His shoulders bowed like the weight of entire solar systems burdened his back.

"Shepard, thank you for seeing me. I know it had to have been a difficult decision." Anderson tried to smile, but it never made reached his eyes.

"You've done a lot for me, Anderson. Yes, I am … hurt?" He rolled the unfamiliar sensation around his tongue, trying to understand it better, but it still felt wrong. He tried again, in a stronger voice this time. "I'm hurt, Anderson," he felt a glimmer of satisfaction when Anderson winced. Shepard clenched his jaw, trying to dispel any further sign of weakness. "I'm hoping you had a very good reason for what you just did."

The older man sank to an invisible chair. His head sank in one hand. "It's been a long couple of months." He looked up at Shepard, weariness evident in every move. "I stalled them for weeks, you know. Played every card I had left, burned a lot of favors." He snorted, "In the end, it didn't matter. I even called in Admiral Hackett, had him send you on a few emergency missions. He will have a few 'high priority' ready for you inside a few days … I'd hoped they would forget this crazy idea. That they'd choose someone else." His head sank lower, "They wouldn't listen, Tevos especially. The only thing that mattered to them was having a celebrity human matched with one of their damned asari lines."

Shepard pulled one of the chairs to the front of his mentor and sat. What do I say? He closed his eyes, feeling the Normandy's engine hum gently. The vibrations felt soothing to his tired feet. "I never imagined myself getting married, Anderson," he caught the other mans' eye, trying to convey the sincerity of his words. "You know that's what they want. I'm a soldier, but my brother became a businessman back on Mindoir …."

He examined his boots for a moment, imagining the life his brother had built for himself. Without his big brother. "He's done an admirable job of carrying on the family line, even if it's under a different name … six kids, with another on the way." He shook his head, "I came out here to stop the same thing that destroyed my home. From letting anyone do it again. Slavers, raiders, rogue human test groups," he slashed his hand through the air; "I stopped as many of them as I could … and did it well."

"Now … I got lucky on Elysium. Even luckier than people think. You know how close I came to joining the Long Patrol."

Shepard guessed Anderson had sunk to his usual listening pose, more out of habit than anything else. He still had a gaunt expression, but the listless depth had vanished. "I know, Shepard. You're a private man, I've always respected that. More than that, it's one of the reasons why the Alliance admires you, why Elysium has statues of you, ready to put up the moment they get permission. You don't let people know when you hurt … that makes them think you cannot be hurt." The captain gave Shepard an evaluating look, "I think I know why you're so opposed to the idea. But can you say it out loud? Can you hear yourself say it?"

Shepard paused, considering. "First of all, they're asking me to go to that injured person in the medical bay, who doesn't know me from Adam, and tell her that her regent just sold her off; wants us engaged to be married." He stood up, flinging his hands in the air, "Who is this Liara T'soni? And if she's so important, why is she so far from her people?"

The gray steel bounced his voice back in a minute echo, "Second of all, even if I were to accept this, there is no guarantee she would." He swung back towards Anderson with an expression that would have scared a krogan. "There is no power in the stars above or in the earth below that would compel me to force an unwilling woman to marry me." Unthinking, he adopted one of the old intimidation tactics, gliding towards Andersons' hologram without a sound. "The first person to suggest I do something like that, be it galactic leader or garbage scow cleaner, will receive a present from me. In between the eyes. At maximum velocity."

"Third and most importantly," Shepard imitated one of his bullets, staring Anderson directly in the eye. "I will submit myself to no one else's will. I will not be a slave. Ever."

"You submitted yourself to Alliance Command by becoming a soldier, you know." Anderson shrugged at Shepard's glare, "It's what Udina will say, and you know it."

"That was completely different, and he knows it." Shepard paced to the back wall, "I willingly gave myself to the Alliance military. I allowed them to discipline my body, teach my mind," he raised his hands, "I used to make decorative plates for newlyweds with these hands. These hands once turned blocks of metal into ancient weapons for museums, very difficult to do, you know." He lowered his arms, "Now, they know how to kill. How to grant a reprieve for those who cannot defend themselves. Because I allow it. No one controls me but myself."

Anderson tilted his head thoughtfully, "You mean, the Council is not a legitimate authority to whom you acknowledge fealty?"

"The Council is a waste of my time. They've wanted Humanity to become a vassal race, subservient to their laws for decades. They have reason for doing so, longevity being chief among them, but give up our freedom? Lick their boots like a well-trained bloodhound?" Shepard shook his head, "We're not some mindless krogan, or ambitious ammonia-breathers. We have our own fleets, judge ourselves by our own standards, and give aid to anyone who will receive it, by our measurements."

Anderson leaned back in his chair, "Yet, we're facing a new threat. One that you above all people should know we cannot face it on our own. I read your report, and I know your theories. By ourselves, we'd hold off the Reapers for a while, maybe even beat them a few times. But you know we're not as advanced as the Protheans, and they lost their war long before we knew they existed. Without the Council Races, the Alliance will die as surely as you're standing there."

"Don't you think I know that?" Shepard ran his hands through his hair, hunching slightly. Wish I had my rifle … no. I have to be able to calm down without it. Calm, Shepard. Easy does it, if they catch you, they'll turn you into something you hate. Straining himself, he forced the monsters in his mind to recede, "I dream about Reapers every night. Every. Night. What they did to the Protheans is burned into my head so firmly I sometimes forget I'm human, and I feel nothing but anger, fear, rage towards the Reapers. Doubly so for anything that gets in my way."

"Then you know we will have to patch things up with the Council, somehow." Anderson had a glacier calm; Shepard knew that tone. It meant a time for decisions had arrived. "Shepard, no one will force you to do anything against your will. That is one of the foundational rights in the Alliance Charter. That said, you know we sometimes have to consider the needs of the many, over the needs of the few."

Anger lashed at Shepard's thoughts, seductive in its simplicity. "I don't have much I need, Captain. What I eat, I earn. Where I sleep, I don't care. Until you brought me on board the Normandy, no one answered to me for life, and I answer to no one but those I choose. I do have morals, and I will not break them for the sake of idiots that can't count to twelve with both hands and feet!"

The sound of a hissing door lock cut into Shepard's speech. Since he couldn't feel any change in atmosphere, it had to have been on Anderson's side.

"Anderson, that was a brilliant – is that Shepard? Shepard!" a holographic representation of Ambassador Udina appeared behind Anderson. He moved swiftly in front of Anderson, intent on reaching Shepard, "That was an incredibly canny move Shepard! The Council is having fits! There's no telling what concessions we could win –" he turned a worried eye to Anderson, "He's still refusing, isn't he?"

Anderson raised an eyebrow at the ambassador. Shepard was glad he could tell that much from the older man. "He was just giving me his reasons for refusing, ambassador."

"Well, that can wait. We need to go over potential benefits, if you don't mind, Shepard?" Udina reached for the control.

"Not at all." Shepard met Anderson's gaze, letting every ounce of betrayal he felt make itself known. "We're done here."

As Anderson winced, Shepard knew his more hidden meaning had been heard, even if Udina had not. No one controls me. Not Batarian slavers, not jumped up drill sergeants ... no one. The hologram went out as Udina terminated the call.

He stared at the deactivated terminal. One of its lights flared, then faded into darkness, taking his energy with it.

I'll have to keep her here for now, that much is clear. The Council wants me to marry her immediately – or something. Handfasting maybe? Either way, it will not happen. He walked back out of the room, once more headed to his private cabin. Old thoughts, some he hadn't allowed to see the light of day surfaced gently. Sometimes I've wondered, what it would be like. To have a girlfriend again, perhaps a wife someday.

The door chimed, letting him in. Idly, he noticed Garrus had left, leaving a neat stack of notepads on the desk and an orderly chart on the board. The cabins' stark appearance brought him back to reality. Forget it. I have a target on my back as big as the Citadel, nightmares I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, and more than a passing talent for violence. No one deserves to share such a life. No one would want to, once she finally understood the implications. Deal with it.

He moved back to the drawing board, activating the electronic marker application. Twenty colonists, three from Mindoir. Five thousand rescued in less than fifteen years; this should be simple. Get back to work Shepard, get back to work.


(1) Da'Kazuut: Literal translation: Living container of excrement. Considered an exceedingly foul term among quarians.

(2) Rila'Keel: Literal translation: Home of the body; not the actual homeworld of Rannoch, but likely referring to quarian colonies or stations.

(3) IAC: Inter-galactic Auditor Committee


A/N: Hey all, good to see you. Parts of this chapter were written over a year ago, worked on for the entire duration. That last segment, for example was given some help by suggestions from Dracco and thepkrmgc. Nightstride did his usual stellar work on beta'ing; any mistakes seen are mine. Also, thanks to F13D for his suggestions, really helpful!

Story suggestion: Dancer in the Dark by ElectricZ (StoryID: 12062078). He has some other - fantastic - stories, but you'll find them with this one.

One more note: I'm making Codex entries for as many species as I can, including a version of Biotic analysis. While I admire the works I've seen, it is my humble opinion that the information could be more logically published. And in a lot more scientific manner; fewer colloquialisms for example. My question to you: post, or don't post them?

Like? Dislike? Review! Your comments help shape the story ... even if it takes me over a year to incorporate them. Usually. I do this for free, after all.

See ya down the lane!