The benefits to a ship the Normandy's size, Shepard decided, exceeded the negative aspects. He ignored the technician nearby, and studied the plain, gray metal interior of his ship. Corridors were shorter and narrower than what could be found on a Kilimanjaro-class dreadnought, but there were fewer people as well. Fewer hiding places, less surface area.
Small could be defined as safer in many languages, after all.
However … as he stared at the Communications Room door, he could not shake the sensation of danger. Standard privacy fields, created by the exclusive laboratories of Haim and Beckler, stopped most sounds from escaping. Further modifications available to only a high-end customer added to the room's security: nonsense vibrations, insulation properties, refraction generators and scrambling systems inlaid within a quantum-lattice pattern inside the walls of the comm room itself. He could feel the deceptive countermeasures attempting to compensate for the conversation that was occurring within – sensations he'd honed to a fine point, for dealing with biotics. Liara had entered the room over an hour earlier, just after he'd re-boarded, and hadn't been seen since.
Shepard felt a half-snarl build, then recede. Nonsense vibrations took specifically designed micro-beads, embedded in every surface. More gifted espionage practitioners could get around a privacy field with surface-level microphones, which is why he'd added the precaution. Everything else was sheer paranoia on his part; defenses against laser-reflection methods, sub-atomic spectrum analyzers – everything. If the rest of the ship was destroyed, the Communications room would remain.
Well, that and some of his private cabin. But very little advertised that fact. What brought him frustration, however, was how Liara had immediately left, skipped the post-operation briefing, and appeared to have no intention to converse with anyone except the interested party on the other side of the impervious doors.
An active, direct, and above all, supposedly coincidental link between the Normandy and a Councilor's private channel didn't improve the situation.
"Sir," the technician began. "I can override –"
Shepard held up a hand, stopping her in her tracks. Giving a sidelong glance, he noted her brown hair, brown eyes, and Second class marking. Of the limited personnel aboard, that left one candidate. "Barret, your enthusiasm is commendable, but I believe the topic is … sensitive. Best to simply wait until the doctor is ready."
The face he couldn't recognize turned to consider him. "Very good sir. What about that Spectre trying to come aboard?"
He shrugged one shoulder, lifting it in a gesture common to both Gallic and Asari dismissals. "He will board. We will talk. He will leave."
Faint tremors drew his attention back towards the door. Larger ships could suppress the physical tremors, but the Normandy lacked the massive infrastructure necessary to deploy inertia dampeners for every little thing – even a cutting-edge vessel had limits. Those were exceedingly generous limits, as the Normandy was a repository for superior technology, and should have at least muffled a greater percentage of the noise.
Shepard closed his eyes, concentrating on the sensations vibrating through his boots. A sudden shock tickled the bottom of his foot before lapsing completely. Ten seconds later, another sharp vibration made its presence known. There it is again; but … that can't be just walking. Stomping, perhaps. Or throwing things; but that's completely out of –
"Shepard to Pressley," he touched an earpiece, stopping himself mid-thought. "Can you tell me which Councilor is on the channel?"
The Navigator's voice quickly responded. "Councilor Tevos requested the call about twenty hours ago, Commander. Doctor T'Soni agreed to call the Council chambers after you got back – of course, there could be someone else using the same channel?"
Another, sharper vibration shook the floor boards. Faint motion caught his attention, a spherical depression appearing on the double-doors – a swiftly growing depression. Hairs rose on the back of Shepard's neck at the sight.
Instinctively, Shepard stretched his hand towards the depression, watching carefully. The fine hairs covering the back of his hand rose, standing at attention as it approached the opening, answering the ancient laws governing the universe. "Biotics. Strong user, has to be Liara."
Barret glanced at his arm, body posture indicating mixed awe. "You can sense it? You have …" her skin reddened. A blind pig could have smelled the change in her thoughts. "Some kind of a – you know – bond?"
"Static electricity." Shepard lightly tapped the metal bulkhead. Stinging sensations raced across his fingertips, eliciting a startled yelp. "Ow, stung myself. Definitely Liara."
"Should we … ah … interrupt?" the technician shifted her feet, tapping them one at a time against the metal decking. "Sir?"
A satisfied smile threatened the structural integrity of Shepard's face. It felt as alien there as a krogan at an asari soiree; proclaiming forgiveness for all. The widening dent in the metal felt half as foreign by comparison, yet it didn't seem to faze the technician. "A private conversation? Between a regent, her official ward, and potentially a subject neither wishes to address? No; it would be a diplomatic incident waiting to happen. Better let them – discuss – their situation."
Another figure joined them, stepping from the shadows like a wraith. Security team pips, accompanied by the dark hair and eyes; Caswell Hudson. "Talk? It looks like they're trying to kill each other! And the Council is halfway across the galaxy!"
Shepard's smile vanished into a frown; he made an effort to hide it from his face. "Bill the Council for damages. Submit a complaint too; can't have anyone just provoking my crew now."
"Um, Councilor Tevos could be considered the most powerful asari in the galaxy," Barret ventured. Her tone indicated respectful disagreement; a sort of innocuous manner of speech all servicemen learned to use when superiors were present. In time. "I'm not sure she could be classified as 'anyone'."
His smile grew again, matching the depression's growth in the door. "Even better. Leadership from the top. Add twenty percent to the bill for damaged morale. Put in a card table with the proceeds."
Hudson laughed aloud, before slapping Shepard's back.
Shepard ignored the overly familiar action, pulling his omni-tool out for use. The reports on his private terminal had been encouraging, but needed confirmation. As he read, he felt Hudson's presence inch closer, threatening the safety in his mind. Proximity sensors in his omni-tool darkened the screen, sensing the presence of unauthorized personnel. This wasn't the first time Hudson had attempted the action. If anything, the efforts had become more and more blatant as time went on.
"Mister Hudson," he didn't move his eyes, but the man froze all the same. "Soon, I would love to have a little talk with you about personal space, and perhaps a few other things. Do not let me detain you."
Only then did he let his eyes flick to the younger man's face. Unlike his brother, he could not read the expression; but few knew that. He could however, determine the man's posture, a sudden stiffening shoulders, his raised chin. Hudson exhibited the signs of relaxed indifference, someone whom had nothing to fear, even inviting inspection. All the characteristics of an honest man.
In all his life, Shepard had met very few honest men. None of them had managed to demonstrate every 'trust me' manner of body language. Only trained espionage agents knew how to trigger the little cues mankind had developed.
"Sir, yessir." Hudson's face maintained the impenetrable recognizance Shepard had grown used to seeing. But the voice remained as calm and controlled as an arctic breeze.
Shepard watched the man's back retreat. Baited. Now to see if he'll pull enough rope to hang himself.
His thoughts were interrupted once more as the double doors hissed open, grating to a halt upon the indentation. Metal froze in place, shrieking in an attempt to push past whatever foreign element had blocked their normal passage.
Liara stormed out of the room, blue corona enveloping her entire form. She barely looked up at either of them, and stomped her way through the side passage towards the secondary cargo area. A voice from the room's interior called after her, loud and demanding – synthesized, but effective nonetheless.
Shepard cocked his head to one side, both to witness Liara's posture, and to better hear the vocal qualities of the abandoned conversation. It felt … important. Self-important, carrying a great opinion of itself, and more than willing to demonstrate. But it also felt flustered, as if the intended target had completely missed the importance of an obvious subject. He nodded slowly; subtlety gone bad, resorting to volume to compensate. Much like certain drill-sergeants; stature substituted for volume.
"Well," Shepard directed a half smile at the technician. "Time for a little diplomacy."
The voice grew louder as Shepard entered the chamber. Councilor Tevos's familiar form appeared on the projector. "I said we can work things out, you don't – ah. Commander. I assume Liara sent you?"
He gave an elegant half-sidle, copying a typical young asari Maiden's motions. Asari body language held volumes of information, every small gesture meaningful. Just how a body carried itself across the floor replaced entire conversations; an occurrence possible only with a culture accustomed to sharing thoughts in the literal sense. Fascinating to study, better for intimidation. Or just messing with someone's head.
Look at me, he said without a word; among asari, exaggerated shoulder positions, a head flick, demanded attention, rather than elicited. His footsteps changed into a model's catwalk, one over the other, swinging the hips in a decidedly non-male human fashion. One hand twirled upwards, elaborately brushing across his waist before stopping where a sword would hang. I am attractive, intelligent, and more than able to kill you. My patron is more powerful than yours.
The Councilor's white knuckles told him the motion hadn't been missed. Sloppy, for a half-millenia Matron level asari. "Actually, I had an important call coming in Councilor. Since it appears you are finished …."
"I was discussing the upcoming nuptials between –" the speakers popped as the connection terminated. Shepard's hand rested on the panel, conveniently close to the key.
"Oops," he raised an eyebrow for the benefit of the technician. "I must be tired. Hung up on a Councilor. Slippery hands, you know."
Barret flashed white teeth at him. "Yessir. Slippery sir. Should I send up a repair team for the doors?"
He waved her off. "Other things are more important. Get it repaired by tonight, should be a simple enough fix." The signal indicator blinked on once more, highlighting a code he'd seen only once before during the current mission. "Better get moving. Classified channel."
The technician moved so quickly he could have sworn her afterimage saluted.
Why would those idiots be contacting me now? Shepard contemplated. Out of habit he activated the trace program … then on a whim, added another secondary tracker. The trip up from Feros had left him idle, but idle hands were the Devil's workshop. Amazing how a little insight to the Prothean mind made programming … easier. And difficult. Base twelve to base ten is a lot harder than I thought it would be.
The figure resolved itself into the same vague form it had always taken, but seated as if at a desk. Shepard didn't bother to adjust his own settings – or the venom. "Doctor Banes. I find your current need to speak with me – now above all times – highly suspicious."
Blurred arms rose, elbows resting on a platform invisible to the projector. "We both know you are careful, Shepard. Paranoia is a way of life, and you are a master of death."
He didn't rise to the bait. "Your man on Feros told me some very interesting things. Care to elaborate?"
"That would depend," the figure grew very still. "On what you wish to know. I cannot divulge –"
"Take your sanctimonious, jingoistic, mumble-news somewhere the Classics never go." Shepard interrupted. Anger felt more difficult to simulate, after a rousing fight with the creepers. "Why do you want my genes?"
Faint sounds of a creaking chair came over the speakers. "I am afraid I do not understand."
Shepard made a show out of flicking his omni-tool into the active posture. "It's something I've discovered over the years. Confirmed by anonymous sources of course; poor Jeong was simply the latest in a long line of hints. Unnecessary blood tests. Phishing messages requesting genetic template donations, an order of magnitude above other soldiers –"
"You are an Alliance soldier, with all the modifications therein, and a wealthy one as well," arms folded, an expression of rejection. "And you somehow believe we are responsible for such things?"
A vicious grin, reminiscent of a batarian warlord came to Shepard's face. "Records show me as an Ultra-violet target for re-processing. Only four men and two women have been given a rating that high since the Alliance was founded, over fifty years ago. The same center has continually requested my cooperation for 'designing the next generation of soldier.' Your boy on Feros told me his superiors wanted my DNA, and that my father failed them."
The figure froze, staring at him, then relaxed, nodding sadly. "Alas, that is true. Your father was a very good man, a great one in fact. But he lacked commitment. You on the other hand," the arms came out onto the desk, fingers interlacing. "Have that commitment in spades, greater than nearly every other soldier in the Alliance."
"Feros was an experiment." Shepard abruptly changed the subject. "The Thorian became a test subject, the colonists even more so. That wasn't in their contract; I reviewed it beforehand. And made copies."
"Purely not our fault," the man answered smoothly. The shoulders shifted, mocking. "You know we wouldn't incriminate ourselves in such a way. We taught you everything you know."
The figure's sudden honesty elevated Shepard's suspicions. Earlier conversations had involved complex concepts, subtle discussions that neither revealed nor concealed the most important information. Bare minimums had been conveyed, but never enough to satisfy, never enough to convince. Honesty – although a possible tactic for sowing confusion – rarely involved itself with men such as this.
"You want something. Again. The answer is no."
"Confusion has to be rampant," the blue figure shifted his tones, becoming more soothing. "The Beacon gave you an incredible amount of information. Yet, you live, and maintain your sanity against all odds. If you would –"
"No." Shepard folded his arms carefully. "I will offer you a trade: a question for a question. An answer for an answer. I will permit a question, so long as you allow one of similar magnitude, with a similar answer."
The man stared at him through the link. Lack of movement convinced Shepard the signal had been cut – until the image blurred, returning to life. Paused broadcast – a clever trick. "Agreed, provided I ask first."
"Denied. Every answer you give me, grants you another question. I will go first."
Fury filled the other man's body posture, but faded. He made a sound of frustration, but settled. "Very well. Ask your question."
"What has Armistan Banes done for you?"
A hissing sound, like a surprised cobra, emanated hidden speakers. "A bold question. But not so bold as it could have been, I deem? Never mind. Mister Banes was a financial provider for us. He is gone, sadly."
"The man is gone," Shepard echoed quietly. "And his birth records were strangely destroyed in something the insurance company held as an 'act of God' … completely coincidence as well. Like Admiral Kahoku's death."
"A pity." Blurred light shifted into focus, then out once more. "But I believe it is my turn? The Beacon allegedly gave you knowledge of the Protheans. On Feros, you apparently gained more. How much do you know, exactly, of the Protheans?"
Shepard inhaled a slow breath, letting it sit in his chest for a moment until letting it out again. "Yes, it is your turn, but that was your question." He smirked internally, careful to not let the emotion slip. "My turn. Do you know where the Mindoir colonists, the ones kidnapped by Batarian slavers nearly fifteen years ago, are located?"
"You should have been a lawyer." Unidentifiable features collapsed, rising in strange patterns. "I do not personally … we may know of one … for certain, at any rate. My turn. Once more: how much do you know of the Protheans?"
Shepard didn't have to think. "I know more than any human, turian, salarian or asari does. Tactics. Locations. Histories. My turn."
The figure extended a hand, inviting.
"Where is the one Mindoir colonist located?"
"I believe she is on the Citadel, under the tutelage of a trader in the Foundation, I believe. I could arrange a rescue mission, if you so desired."
"No," Shepard's perfect, white teeth reflected the cyan hue of the projection. He'd been forced to regenerate them multiple times, yet each time it had been a worthwhile investment. The data he'd sought so long, at least one more, in his own hands. He had to get through the week, return to the Citadel. There were dozens of details, hundreds of informants. No one would hide her from him, and live. "I believe I should be going now."
A brief moment of indecision crossed the other man's posture; desire obstructed by something more ... but indecipherable. "Of course. Perhaps another time."
Shepard cut the signal, glancing at the trace as the projector whined down. His eyes widened; for the first time, an actual location registered on the program. A place he'd visited once in fact, years earlier. A relay like so many others? Or an actual broadcast station?
Optimism filled his mind once again. Two leads, the best he'd ever obtained in years, arriving just when he had the power, connections, and resources to follow!
Shepard turned, poised to bark out commands, when the communication link hummed to life again, blinking the presence of a new request. This time from the flagship of the Fifth Fleet. After a moment's silent struggle, Shepard granted it permission.
Admiral Hackett's familiar appearance fuzzed into view. As always, the man wore an Alliance uniform as if it were a recruitment display, just enough creases to betray the fact that he did, indeed, obey the same laws as mortals. But the professional grace normally evident in his motions was nowhere to be seen. The admiral clicked fingers against a haptic interface, sending a visual replication of a message Shepard recognized as his own.
"You let an asari examine prothean technology; functioning prothean technology I must emphasize, and now you want me to give her consultant status? To visit Mars?" Hackett exhaled, fury in his motions. Shepard had to admire how his superior kept the emotion from his voice – even if it escaped through his body. "I couldn't do anything about the T'Soni engagement mess. But you've allowed her access to every archive on the Normandy, given her access to the few functioning archives in Alliance space. Now Feros? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have you on treason charges, Commander."
Shepard stood tall, arms folded across his chest. It was an old trick, indicating a refusal to accept what the other party said; a more submissive stance would have had him grasp wrists behind the small of his back, but not today. "Respectfully, Sir, I have a dozen. First, Doctor T'Soni is one of the foremost minds in the study of the Protheans. At this point in time, she has amassed more knowledge than any two human experts you could name."
Naming himself wasn't an option at this point; he was no expert, just a soldier with a little more gray matter than most. Maybe a lot more … but the principle remained the same.
"Second," Shepard lowered his arms, only to wave at a nonexistent individual to his left. "Doctor T'Soni is an asari, as you pointed out. She will live for centuries studying the Protheans and their technology. In one century, she will have more knowledge in her mind than any two universities, concerning that. And," he dared looking the projection straight in the eye, "she will bear a grudge if barred from Mars. Asari portray themselves as a cultured race, egalitarian and patient, but you and I both know they can hold a grudge unmatched by anyone except a krogan. Even then it's a tossup; asari have more patience than many krogan."
The image of the Admiral shifted, betraying slight nervousness. "And what of your … status? Are you certain your own emotions are not affecting this?"
Shepard snarled, a guttural sound he'd found himself imitating from the turian practice fights. The blue image jumped. "Apologies; that was uncalled for. No, I do not believe my mental faculties are in question. What I do believe is that we need allies, and we will need them soon, and in high levels of Council government. Liara is the heiress of a powerful asari faction, and allowing her access will show the Council we are willing to play ball with them. If she abuses this privilege, her access could be revoked, but I would be extremely careful about doing that. Have you heard the phrase: 'Indian Giver'?"
Hackett's image paced a step to one side, returning to the original point before facing Shepard once more. Hands clenched, but relaxed in a defeated sigh. "As always, you make good points. It's too late to try hiding anything on Feros from the Council … even if ExoGeni wasn't so foolish. I trust you are taking measures to ensure compliance?"
This time a vicious smile curved Shepard's lip. "I'm doing far more than that. After Jeong's attack, I contacted my attorneys through a secure link. They have orders that will exceed anything the Alliance can do … and legally as well. I would ask you leave their fate in my hands."
The blue image pondered for a few seconds before nodding. "Again, good points. You have a capacity for reaching them that we do not, damn intervention laws. By the time bureaucracy cut through the red tape, there'd be nothing left of the colony. Unless I missed my guess?"
"Nossir," Shepard clenched a fist, imagining it around the throat of the party responsible. He didn't have a name, but felt it appropriate all the same. "This is in my report as well, but ExoGeni was shipping Thorian samples to multiple test sites outside Alliance jurisdiction, including a group called Cerberus. As soon as my business on the Citadel is complete, the Normandy will be proceeding in that direction."
"Good. Keep your powder dry." Hackett responded. He hesitated, "I'll go along with this on Doctor T'Soni. But watch your back, Shepard. The lack of progress with the asari is making you enemies, but not very public ones."
"Let them come," he growled back. "So long as I can last out the year, they're welcome to try anything they want."
The blue projected head swiveled in his direction, snapping forward with the speed of a striking snake. "A year? Shepard, are you planning something?"
Wincing, Shepard mentally slapped himself. Now whom was becoming sloppy? "In a way … this mission, it is more dangerous than almost any other job I've been on, and I'm including the stuff off the books. Saren has the resources of a full-fledged asari Matriarch, and the entire capabilities of the geth. He's tried to kill me multiple times now, I'm sure of it. Jeong claimed to be working for Intelligence, but the last trace Intel had on Jeong vanished on Feros, after the Saren visited three weeks ago. If Saren managed to sway that man while he was in Intelligence, I'm dreading what will happen on Noveria. If something goes wrong, I'll be dead inside eight months, less if I'm unlucky. If I do manage to survive … I'm heavily considering of retiring."
Silence filled the link for a full minute before the admiral on the far side moved. "I'd be lying if I said I approve … but you've done more for the Alliance than almost any other man. What will you do?"
He shrugged, looking down at the floor. "Do a little more searching. One of my contacts fed me a lead on one of the Mindoir victims, out in the Brasila district. They have pretty loose restrictions on labor forces, but aren't anywhere near my neck of the woods. There are just three more, sir. Three."
Left silent was the apparent former colonist on the Citadel. But what the Admiral didn't know, wouldn't need to be regulated.
Hackett sighed, bringing a hand up to his face. "I know Shepard … but perhaps Anderson can talk you into better sense."
Shepard refused to answer, focusing at a point over the projections left shoulder.
His silence was not missed. "You are planning to talk with Captain Anderson first, aren't you?"
"I have no intention to disseminate critical long-term data, Admiral." Shepard maintained an impassive expression, but felt he must have betrayed his emotions on some level, based on Hackett's falling shoulders.
"Shepard … Anderson was sworn to secrecy. If anything had gotten out, unsecure channels, espionage, there could have been enough blowback to turn the galaxy into one big war zone."
A growl fought its way out of Shepard's throat. "And yet, with the Reapers coming, that's exactly what is about to happen. How did that work out for you?"
Warning filled Hackett's voice. "Commander …."
Shepard's arms rose, folding themselves once more, refusing to back down. "I don't trust people often, Admiral. When that trust is broken … I take it personally."
The older man sighed deeply. "I don't blame you. Not much, anyway. But you can't let revenge rule your life; it will hurt you the most in the long run. Anderson pulled every trick in the trade to get out of it, but you know he won't break his word, once given."
"Then he shouldn't have given his word." Shepard retorted.
"He had no choice!"
Shepard felt his back drop; fighting felt pointless. "Aye, that's where we disagree, Admiral. There's always a choice. Maybe not a good one, maybe not an easy one. But there has never been a situation where only one option is truly available. Those asari Intelligence, the Furies, they remove free will; they will pay for that. I'll make them pay."
Hackett's body language became alarmed. "Exactly how many people are going to suffer your wrath, Shepard?"
A small grin escaped Shepard's control; he couldn't help it. Nearly two decades of planning, eliding Alliance psychiatrists, the best mental analysts the galaxy had to offer – and now the goal was almost complete. "Don't know yet, Admiral, but from the Hegemony to the Alliance, to Asari Intelligence. It depends on how far up the chain this goes. I believe Alliance comm systems are tapped, and I'm not telling SAIS what I've got planned."
Hackett's form grew still. "Infiltrators?"
"Maybe. Don't really care. Normandy is secure, I've triple checked now. All the fail safes check out." Shepard shrugged, a practiced casual motion. Whatever his actual feelings were, betraying them to unknown viewers held primary position as bad idea. "For SAIS, I know who they are, and they know I know. We'll spend a few days dancing around each other, they'll try something desperately stupid, and I'll … eliminate them."
A growl made its way across the link. "Good. You have my full support."
Shepard froze. "Admiral?"
The elder man leaned forwards, both hands resting just beyond the projectors' limitation. "I said: you have my full support. I told Intelligence to keep their hands off this mission; they knew it, and now you know it."
Slowly, Shepard's hand rose in a respectful salute. "Aye sir. Thank you."
[break]
Once more Shepard turned his steps back towards the primary cargo bay. The fact that it doubled as a miniature hanger did nothing to alter its designation, unfortunately. Traffic increased as he approached the lower level, marines taking on their secondary roles, crew accomplishing the myriad of tasks required. A ship, like any complex machine, needed maintenance. Unlike organic bodies, machines and sentience was required.
The quick-time steps of a marine fell on the deck plating. He turned slightly, to catch William's familiar height approach. The woman stepped closer, speaking in a quiet tone. "Williams, sir." She stepped back, talking in a louder voice. "Headed down to greet our guest?"
Shepard felt a smile curl at the side of his mouth. For once, he let it. "Indeed. You don't need to announce yourself, you know."
Teeth glinted before fading from sight. "Aye sir. I'll keep it in mind."
Chattering sounds, people discussing banal matters reached his ears next, then vanished, doors closing. He strode to the larger frame, squaring himself, ready for yet another metaphorical battle. The twin-set doors hissed open before him, releasing a gust of oil-stained air, and the racket of machines. Casually, he waved down the salutes popping out of the crowd, returning them when necessary. Thankfully, the crew maneuvering heavy equipment had the sense to keep their hands on task.
"Ah, you must be Commander – pardon – Spectre Shepard." A high-pitched voice cut through the noise.
Shepard tracked it to its source, a tall, heavily armed salarian. In contrast to the armaments, the armor was so light as to be nonexistent. Flexible mesh, tinted the same hue as standard Spectre gear, covered not just joints but the entire thoracic cavity. Smaller mesh, tiny chains woven into intricate patterns he recognized as clan markings, covered the weaker abdominal region. The minor shifts in their movements however, bespoke of hardened plates beneath the seemingly flimsy protection.
"Charmed." Shepard let his evaluation take in the rest of the room's dynamics. The salarian had approached from the wall opposite of the shuttle dock; a place out of the way, yet in position to observe the entire hanger bay. Predator instincts appeared intact. Belatedly, he held out an open hand, data stream racing across his eyepiece. "And you are Spectre Guerrier. Good work on Illium; there was a definite conflict of interest with Dalatress Lathamar's securities. The loophole you found made a definite impact across entire systems."
Large, intelligent eyes studied him carefully. "Indeed. I noticed Mindoir-based holdings increased by nearly twelve percent that quarter. Very astutely observed."
Against his will, Shepard found himself liking the salarian, and feeling suspicious at the same time. "You are kind. But enough with the polite chatter: why are you here?"
The salarian shifted, legs twitching. "Saren, of course. I know his patterns. Studied under him for two years. My knowledge encompasses Saren's practices, although I do not believe he shared everything with me."
"Good." Shepard glared at the clock, and checked the calculator on his omni-tool's projection. "But, what can you do for me here?"
Guerrier cocked his head to one side, canting it forwards, chin back. "On your vessel? I am a Spectre; my skills are considered exemplary, even to elite members of Salarian Task Groups. I am proficient in software, armed and unarmed combat, and …" his pupils shrank a minute quantity, focused on Shepard's own. "I am well-versed in Council politics."
Shepard paused, then shook his head. "I have the best soldiers in the galaxy on this ship: Alliance marines; I'd take on armies with them. My squad could take on a planet by themselves. The only benefit you'd bring directly is your knowledge of politics … and I have contacts that can give me the same benefit. What I want is for you to join my task force, and destroy Saren's financial empire. That's the best asset you can give me."
He could sense a heightened pride around him. Marines knew flattery when they heard it, but they also knew honest pride – the latter seemed to spark something in them.
Caesar had his Tenth Legion … I have my Marines. What does that make my squad, the Fulminatas? Shepard pretended to ignore the shift. Even Williams, daughter of a highly respected general, seemed to be falling sway to his words.
"Very well." The salarian twirled his tri-dactyl hand, twisting a strange salute out of it. An off-branch portion of Shepard's memory identified it as an obscure order's recognition, a society devoted to murky knowledge. "You are the field commander; I will go where you believe my skills will be best utilized."
A Spectre, accepting suggestions? Shepard almost waited too long before returning the salute. Guerrier's eyes glowed. How typical though; a salarian using knowledge to hurt his foes. Wasn't the Silent Step supposed to be a founding member of that group? Lux Obscuris or whatever it translates too?
He faded back as the salarian retreated to the alien shuttle. Mentally, he checked his inventory, physical and otherwise. Weapons, check. Need to restock toxins, need that nano-tech package from Kaidan when he gets back – should check on him.
It really had been too long since Kaidan had made a progress report – but supra-lightspeed travel did not permit communication.
Udina's up to something, but that can wait for now. If I can get Saren's empire to topple, that should cause enough chaos to cover a lot of things – or uncover just as much. A slow, tooth-filled grin struggled its way across Shepard's face. It's not the end of the tunnel, but I can see the light. Finally.
"Shepard." A flanged voice broke in on his concentration. "You sure about sending a Spectre off like that?"
Shepard turned his smile on Garrus. The turian's mandibles flipped upwards in response. "Yeah. Authority isn't an issue, not for me. Besides, I think …" he studied the open stars, now visible through the magnetic containment field at the end of the hold. "I think things are going to be getting fun."
The turian gave a small mock-groan. "Wrex will be pleased."
A/N: Greetings and Salutations! A short chapter, but a good pivot point. The middle juncture, where the entire story begins picking up speed towards the end.
But, you deserve an explanation for the long wait: I've been hectically working on my graduate degree, which essentially means more time hitting the books and working at the lab. As a Biology grad student, I'm specializing in Molecular Biology - which is frankly one of the most difficult things I've done, and that includes violin. At any rate, while the PCR is cooking, and the books lose their necessity for a short time, I'll be writing. Not sure when the next chapter will be out, but I will finish this story or die trying. ME2 and ME3 still need to come out after all, no?
Special thanks to Nightstride, the faithful beta that has put up with my slowly-improving style for over three years now. Also, thank you reviewers, especially Guest Jotun. I read your review, and was inspired to set up this last scene. In the last chapter, 1138 was definitely a nod to George Lucas, great catch!
Yeah. Reviews do that much for my contemplation. I've even started three other stories; but won't publish them until I've gotten a lot closer to finishing them. Thank you all for your support. Hope you liked this chapter!
Chuck
