A warship of military construct such as the Normandy, incorporating multipurpose design elements necessitating the designation of frigate, possessed a great deal of space, compared to ships designed to fight only in space. It had to, given the number of weapons, armaments, vehicles and power armors required for deployment in multiple environments. Foodstuffs alone for half a hundred Alliance men and women took up megatons of space, not to mention the esoteric hardware needed to repair a vessel considered so cutting edge it bled superconductor fluid.
Leaps through the Relays, bypassing Newtonian space, reduced the amount of survival supplies in galactic-wide regulations. Vessels departing more than a few dozen lightyears away from a Relay were required to carry enough for each passenger to live for six months – a very small space indeed when hibernation pods were devised.
Alliance ships behaved differently. The blessing of the Hawking drives freed their paths from Relay routes, but cursed them with slow travel rates. A Relay-assisted leap would take hours, while the Hawking engine took the same distance in a week.
Prosaic evaluations made for dismal reality to such shiny expectations; space aboard the Normandy was small. Cramped. Crewmen hot bunked in tubes, hoisted vertical and tucked out of the way. As soon as one shift ended, the next crewman would wait until the previous occupant exited the sleeping capsule before entering it himself.
'Well … all except for a certain Captain.' The commanding officer could be Captain, but Shepard's particular colonial branch had hailed from the segment demanding otherwise, memorializing a time when Destroyer-class vessels and below had not needed a full Captain's rank. 'Already too much responsibility. Gotta live with it.'
The hanger housed his place of workmanship, the Star Forge setup replacing a gift sent by salarian interests. On any ship space was at a premium, which forced ingenuity to serve. No open fires were allowed, but induction forges had been created long before the Relays had been discovered. Element Zero substituted for an anvil's bulk, flaring the surface's density at every hammer stroke.
Shepard reared back, hammering his target again and again, taking out his frustration in careful, methodical violence. In truth, all things being equal, opening his cabin to crew would increase the available space – but would expose his weaponry to potential thieves and reduce overall morale. Soldiers needed to see their superiors in better conditions than their own, almost as much as they needed those same people to share their troubles.
'Almost done. A little more …' he put it out of mind. There was only a little bit left for this beautiful construct, deemed 'archaic' by the galaxy at large. Omni-tools replaced hardware on hundreds of worlds, but a good blacksmith could replace a thousand flash-forged omni-tool parts in a few years.
He swapped angles, approaching the artifact from a wider stance. Smaller, gentle strikes coaxed obedience into existence. His thoughts channeled back into part of the frustration. 'Stupid social humans and their stupid hierarchy.'
Every organization had a headman, whether it was a CEO, President, King or Chief. It came ingrained within every human, even –perhaps in particular – those whom rose against governments. All humans fought to become recognized, no matter what their belief system. It had served him well, and forced him to serve as well; but that cycle was ending soon. Just like the labor for this tiny wonder.
A final few taps cemented the concept in his hands, and he lay down the tool. Hammers, ranging from the tiny planishing implement to a massive twenty pound monstrosity were arranged on the wall behind; only the fact that the device was so useful to the mechanics aboard kept its minimal space safe. Projects started since the Normandy's entry to supralight travel stood in organized columns; a series of daggers, pointed hilts still waiting for proper material, all lying beside a proper glaive blade.
He'd felt the urge to make something larger. What he'd use it for was beyond him.
Leather, expensive and rich, felt cool on his hands. It wasn't quite the proper way to assemble a combat knife, once known as a seax, but that only added to the weapon's charm. Its long, blued length resembled the ancient Bowie knife, but with less of an aggressive cut above the centerline. A tang modified for gauntlets extended from the hilt in half-inch stubs, its lower body curving forward at an angle.
"You done yet?" Wrex's low rumble almost skewed Shepard's attention.
"Just about," he made the final wrap, and attached the last bit of leather. A quick dousing of adhesive, and exposure to drying catalysts finalized the tool. "There. Done."
An impassive paw reached out, waiting.
Shepard handed it over, letting a smile touch the edge of his mouth. "Thoughts?"
The big krogan hefted the knife, working it around with surprising dexterity. It spun a quick arc, creating a gleaming circle before stopping. The hilt smacked into his other palm with a meaty sound, describing faint arcs through the air as he performed a series of strikes – some martial art Shepard didn't know. Unsurprising, given Wrex's age.
"Got something I can try it on?"
Wordless, Shepard gestured at a pile of scrap metal, rejects from his work over the past few days.
Eye ridge raised, Wrex selected a softer half-ingot of pig iron, and struck. The blade's edge bit deep, almost severing the metal in full. The eye ridge rose further.
"What kinda edge you making?" he turned the blade over in his hands. The second ridge joined the first upon seeing an utter lack of damage to the blade.
Shepard shrugged. "Monomolecular edge. I work it as close as I can, send it through the processor," a quick nod indicated a glowing portion of the Star Forge, "Then I finish it up. Not a truemono, but this will last longer."
"Huh." Wrex flipped the blade around again, then used it on another chunk of metal. It sliced as easily as its predecessor, leaving the faintest discoloration on the knife's edge. "Pretty good work. Kinda small though. Top is a little uneven."
"It's been a few years since I've practiced," Shepard said. "Been focusing on other things."
"Uh huh." Knowing eyes met his own. "Got anythin' to do with that pyjack you kicked off your ship?"
The smile that came to Shepard's face was nothing like its precursor. This one was full of enough malice to fuel a Salarian's greatest political aspirations. "I'm sure I have no idea what you are talking about."
Wide lips drew back from teeth as large as a human thumbnail, humor in a krogan-sized package. "Right. None o' my business anyway." He made a small gesture with the weapon in hand, changing the subject. "So. How much you want for one of these?"
"What, that piece of crap?" Shepard's upper lip curled slightly. "I'm making a series for the squads. Better quality. Wanted to make them all myself, but making them mono-edge is too hard for me right now. At least inside a week. You'll get one free in a few days."
The bulky krogan moved forwards, setting the knife back down on the workbench's wide surface, extra care evident in his motions. "Lots of 'em, huh."
"Three-aught-two gauge Eezo-steel," Shepard picked up the abandoned blade. "Tougher than carbon fiber. Better tensile strength than diamond. Inconel spine and solid nine-ten steel edge, better than four-forty. Better than W-two and aught-three. Once the Singularity's done with it, you could shuck tank armor."
Anticipation gleamed in Wrex's eye. "Sounds fun. And pricey."
"Eh," Shepard waved a hand back and forth. He was surprised at the level of chattiness he was feeling at the moment. But many had been the years since he'd last plied his craft, not for something so whimsical as a simple knife. "Quality hardware. Plus I know a few tricks to get around firmware limitations."
"Huh." Wrex looked thoughtful. "Now you're sounding like a salarian."
Shepard bared his teeth in a mocking grin. "I can do krogan too. 'Urg. Cuts well. Should take down a few pyjacks before it breaks. Not strong enough though, can you make it bigger? I want to chop a turian dreadnought in half.'"
To his surprise Wrex broke out in a low chuckle before leaving. "Lemme know when something my size is done, Shepard."
Shepard just shook his head, wry smile stuck in place. Then he returned to his own work. There wasn't much time left before the Normandy left FTL, and he'd be buried under the deluge of a week's worth of communications.
Besides, everyone was looking at him as if he'd grown a second head. When was the last time he'd cracked a joke in public? Staying locked aboard the Normandy must have been driving him insane.
Sentry Omega Cluster
Shepard stood on the bridge, waiting. FTL drives operated on multiple levels of efficiency, based on proximity to the ephemeral 'Light Barrier'. Civilian grades averaged three thousand times the once inconceivable limit, constant acceleration for half the distance followed by constant deceleration. On the opposite side of the spectrum, professional courier vessels were rated to travel from Earth to Arcturus inside of a few days without Relays – velocities that boggled the mind.
Military vessels ranged throughout that difference. Generating a null-mass field strong enough to encompass an entire frigate, let alone a Wrath class battleship, was expensive in terms of power and manufacturing capabilities. It was fortunate the Normandy was such a small frigate, possessing relative drops of mass in the trans-Newtonian physics being sidestepped.
A smirk crossed his face at the thought. A little frigate? Experimental eezo engines combined with Hawking engine technology? The combination rendered distances ten times greater took a fraction of the time longer. It was a promising direction for future ship development.
"Coming out in two." Joker's voice, the man once again socketed in his seat of choice, clicked over the Normandy's internal comm system. "All hands brace."
Around Shepard the crew double-checked safety harnesses. Outside the light patterns resulting from travelling faster than starshine shifted from regular streaks into geometric jitters, then back to points of flight.
"Reversion complete." Odd terms, from an era when it was believed that even approaching lightspeed would increase mass to infinite qualities. "Stealth systems engaged, half a klick off target. Hoc system's main sequence dead ahead."
Shepard squinted. The system's primary star glow, so similar to Mindoir's own, was just different enough to emphasize the alien nature of their surroundings. Five planets orbited the white-yellow star, the smallest one within sight of the Normandy's external cameras.
"Talk to me, Pressley."
The balding Navigator's hands made precise movements across his screens. "Two gas planets, two rock. One gas planet close to Hoc, tidal lock. Good place to hide drops."
"There's something written on that furthest one," a crewman noted. His screen blurred, then refocused on the outermost sphere's surface. "Scans are picking up some kind of … writing?"
"Batarian." Shepard gave it a single glance. "From the Terminus, probably."
Crewman Rahman – Shepard noted her dark hair and light brown eyes – made a few passes across her own board. "What does it say?"
Shepard snorted. "It's Bey'salt,the main Batarian trade language. In Basic it boasts about one Captain Zaysh's strength and libido. The smaller script's written in one of the slave languages, questioning the ancestry of humanity in general and that of everyone associated with the Jotun trade network."
A collection of amused snorts went around the room. Shepard decided against mentioning that no such trade network existed – just an elaborate scam that had bilked millions from slave traders with less brains than ready cash. Or that the proceeds from such scandalous behavior had gone towards a revolution on the Hegemony's flanks.
"Where's our target?" he said instead.
Stars wheeled across the projected field as Pressley readjusted the main viewer. "Here. Third planet from Hoc. Virmire. Less than one gee, average surface temperature 32 Celsius, atmosphere's a bit thin. Good oxygen content, low on trace elements."
"Pretty." The flanged voice of a turian intoned. "What do we blow up first?"
Shepard glanced back at Garrus, an involuntary laugh almost escaping. "That can be your motto. Dress it up in old Levan, stamp it on everything you own."
A sardonic head tilt, made in all apparent seriousness, met his words. "As you command, sir."
"Large metal object in geosynchronous orbit around Virmire," Pressley continued. "Two objects, one registering as a definite station, the other … sensors give a ninety percent probability on it being Sovereign."
The lighthearted mood vanished. Shepard took the feed on his own personal screen, scanning the data himself. "That's it all right. Saren's on it. Or near it. How much you want to bet they're waiting for us?"
Garrus's presence slid into his peripheral vision. "No bet. Are those geth ships?"
One of the sensor crew, blonde hair and a scar on his left hand identified him as one Marco Grieco, poked his head up. "Passive sensors are painting over two hundred possible geth ships. Hard to tell though, there's a debris field. Unless we go active, or get a lot closer, it could just be wreckage."
The mood chilled further. Normandy was a stealth vessel with serious weaponry. But even the best hardware would have trouble if a dozen ships came after it.
But Shepard's teeth gleamed. "Perfect. Adams, how's the stealth drive doing?"
A strained voice responded. "Everything's holding together. All gauges in the green. Heat sinks are dumping a little slow post-FTL, but we'll have that fixed in an hour."
"Excellent." Shepard pulled up the projection, and enhanced the target area. "Joker. Stand by for infiltration route. Pressley, get us as close as you can to that station. They can't see us; they can't hear us."
The Navigator called down another screen and began running calculations. "Aye aye, sir."
Shepard took the break to call up the Normandy's address system. "All hands, this is the Commander. We are now running silent. Repeat: We are now running silent. Turn off all nonessential electronics, make sure the Comm station is powered down, and think quiet thoughts. That is all."
Within seconds multiple screens dimmed, red light shining instead of the usual white illuminations. All around he could hear devices power down, silence growing ever more present. Two minutes saw the elevator slow to half-speed, the main gun fall to half-power, and the Aitan emplacements to go full offline. Omni-tools faded, a faint blink showing presence on wrists, but personal sensors, broadcast protocols and even gaming simulations deactivating.
Five minutes later, Pressley looked up. "Section heads report in, all running silent. Course plotted and triple checked."
"Good." Shepard dimmed the main projection, less of dampening its potential electronic signal output and more preventing people from going blind staring at its brilliance in the half-darkness. "Make sure we record this. The first real stealth mission we've managed to land so far."
"Aye sir," the older man twitched his fingertips, sending the course onward. "Exit strategy is available at any point, sir."
"Good man." Shepard stepped off his dais, moving around the projector's pedestal towards the cockpit. "Eyes peeled everyone. The more data we gather now, the better we can hurt them later. No active sensors."
By the time he reached the cockpit, the Normandy was sliding through the inky blackness of space, an invisible predator stalking prey. Diffusers, normally pulled back out of the way, covered the engine outputs so the faint blue glow visible from the cockpit went unseen. Not that he could've seen it from there anyway, the armor shielding was in place over the transparent titanium panes.
"Commander," Joker was serious for once, focused on the board. Flight Lieutenant Chase sat at his side, double checking the course and making small adjustments. "I take it you don't want us to slalom our way through the geth minefield?"
"Mines?" Shepard glanced at the sensors again. "How?"
The pilot shrugged. "They might not go boom, but they stop us from zipping around. Go through too fast and your shields get shredded, and that's on a good day. Guess the geth figured out a response for their own suicide tactics, huh?"
"What are … oh. Feros." Shepard realized. He took another look at the sensors. "They set up a debris field, and make random adjustments through it?"
"Looks like," Joker agreed. "Chase, check three-nine-seven. It's not drifting away now."
The young woman pawed at her board. "It's moving relative up. Adjusting course."
A glowing line on the screen between the two pilots made an almost invisible twitch, becoming their new route. On its flat surface it was difficult to tell, but Shepard could make out the icon representing the Normandy following its length with almost religious fervor, slinking through an enemy flotilla.
"I wonder if this is how those old submarines used to work?" Joker flipped a few switches for reasons Shepard could not determine. "Pick a target, launch a few torpedoes. Drop back underwater."
"We could do it," Chase seconded, sounding thoughtful. "Make it an old shoot'n scoot. We have close to two hundred Javelin's, and the main gun. Could wreck a world of hurt on any one of 'em. Except maybe Sovereign."
A sense of eagerness tapped at Shepard's senses. That craft, a possible Reaper, had tried destroying a human colony. If it were a Reaper, then it was responsible for a great deal more. "We have better ordnance for that."
He could hear the grin in Joker's voice. "Just say the word, Commander. I'll get us close enough to tickle its tentacles. Uh … unless you're going to use a nuke or something."
"Better than that, too." Shepard smiled, envisioning the monstrous creation evaporating in a ball of nuclear fire. "Almost twenty years ago, the Revenge Fleet engaged with the Hegemony over Kar'Shan, after the Hegemony stole a Forge station. One of the Alliance's capital ships ruptured, releasing an unshielded Hawking engine." His smile would've looked better on something reptilian that lived deep underground. "Off the record, we have two weaponized versions on the Normandy."
Chase twisted, body language screaming disbelief. "That's illegal in both Alliance and Citadel space!"
He returned an even look at what he could make of her eyes. "Then it's a good thing we're in the Traverse."
She held his gaze, then broke away. "Glad it's above my pay grade," she muttered.
He returned his gaze upward, noting the positions of geth vessels. Random movement was very seldom random in truth. Seed variables created a 'random' algorithm based it off a predetermined variable, unless incorporating an organic base as a start point. Out in space, with no perceived threats, it was probable the geth were using more predictable a predetermined program. Then something caught his eye. "Is Sovereign moving?"
Joker hissed. "Rotating. Nothing to worry about, we're under stealth, there's nothing that can see us here." Long seconds ticked past while the massive vessel spun in place. The massive cephalic-like segment was becoming more and more visible by the moment.
"Um." Joker hesitated. "He's rotating in our direction. And stopping, facing us. Maybe something to worry about."
"Commander," Doctor Chakwas's voice echoed on his earpiece. "Matriarch Benezia is having a reaction. She's speaking about a Light shining on her, but is resisting. I'm giving her a sedative."
Facts clicked through Shepard's mind. Benezia's resistance to Indoctrination, her Maiden's failure to resist. The constant stream of nanites she'd ingested for the past thirty years, and the utter lack her Maidens had of the ludicrously expensive technology. How a new course of nanotech had reduced the commanding influence after Noveria.
A solution presented itself.
"Joker, drift us towards Virmire, keep it random. Adams, you there?"
A brief burst of static punctured the side of his head, resolving into the head engineer's voice. "—here Commander. We're getting heavy sensor stream our direction."
"Can you set up a Faraday cage in one of the cells? Highest priority."
Confusion was evident through the line. "I … think so? We'd need an insulator layer, and then we could put together a frame—"
Another voice cut in, quarian in timbre and accent. "I can do it Commander. How long?"
Shepard hesitated. "Adams …?"
"If she says she can do it, then she can do it."
He nodded. "Then I need it done yesterday, Tali. Sovereign is sensing Benezia somehow, and we need her shielded."
"Ten minutes, and two helpers." Her voice faded from hearing.
"Godspeed." He turned back to Joker. "Status."
The pilot caressed a panel, massaging a thruster's output. "It's still turning, but going high. I don't think it has a solid lock."
"Good. Chakwas, report."
A calm voice came back on the line. "Chakwas here. Matriach Benezia is now unconscious. I've strapped her to a gurney, and we're moving her to the brig."
Tense minutes passed, seconds crawling as if weighted down and dropped on a high-gee world. The Normandy's random motions evaded the massive ship's focused sensor sweeps, yet Sovereign continued searching. To make matters worse, the geth fleet was becoming active, pitting their own sensor suites against the Normandy's stealth.
"I'll have to remember to write a letter of commendation," he mused aloud. The surrounding geth vessels were pivoting, high-powered sensors exerting enough energy to irradiate any organics dwelling in their hulls. "Not quite the fire test I'd planned for the Normandy. It's a minor miracle they've not done anything else."
"Threat analysis?" Joker observed. "They register an anomaly, and don't care about wasting resources scanning, or something. Although I don't know why they can't just look out a window. They have cameras, don't they?"
Shepard made a small noise of agreement, watching the projected outline of geth visibility cones sweep around and over the Normandy. Even when the screen showed a geth array pointed directly at its location, the sensors kept moving, as if seeing nothing. It made a paranoid man like himself almost crawl at the feeling, while blessing the ship designers.
"Are they moving towards us?" he checked the overall map display. Nothing appeared to have changed, other than the gradual motions, and those hadn't altered in any significant manner. "Pretending to not see us?"
"Commander, the cage is constructed and Benezia is inside." Tali's voice interrupted.
Shepard's eyes snapped to the digital representation of Sovereign's position. It was still scanning, but rotating away from their position, back towards the planet. His shoulders relaxed. "Excellent work, Tali. Sovereign seems to be looking away."
"That's a relief," her modulated voice returned. "I'll stay here for a few minutes, make sure everything is working."
He was already walking back towards the command center. "Understood. Joker, Chase. If it looks this way again, keep me posted."
"You got it, Commander."
Dangerous though the situation was, an undeniable thrill ran up and down Shepard's spine. It was the same sensation he'd once had hunting larger game on Mindoir, or when working on an order's more intricate details – a single misstep, one misjudged stroke could ruin hours or months of preparation. In this case, in disaster for more than just the Normandy's personnel. But the anticipation, of a hunt ending in killing a massive threat? Who knew there would be such pleasures after slating a vengeful thirst for Mindoir's enslavers?
[break] 10 Hours Later [Break]
Three hours later, the Normandy floated beneath the geth space station. Sovereign maintained position off to one side, massive tendrils extending now and again like a living thing. It made Shepard feel uncomfortable just looking at it, yet reluctant to turn away.
"Sir." A quiet voice called his attention, if not his eyes. "Passive sensors are focused on Sovereign as ordered. Do you have further commands?"
Shepard gestured for silence, tapping his personal comm link with the same motion. "Tali. What is Benezia's status?"
"Unconscious." The accented burr of the quarian's voice responded. "Doctor Chakwas is here. Should we wake her up?"
"Please." Shepard nodded at the sensors specialist, who took the cue to study her readouts with almost manic fervor.
Above, Sovereign hung in space, extensions working to bring what looked like pallets from the geth space station to smaller vessels. Of course, if the scale was to be believed, each package was triple the size of a Kodiak class shuttle. On occasion the vast machine would spin in place, sending its piercing sensor array in a swath across the immediate vicinity before resuming its labors. From the angle underneath both the station and the supposed Reaper, it looked like a hideous arthropod, spooling out threads to entangle the unwary.
"Chakwas here." A new voice broke over the communicator, crisp in its reassuring aristocratic timbre. "I am about to introduce the nullifying agent."
Shepard gave a nod, although he knew she couldn't see. "Proceed."
Again he focused his attention on the monstrosity responsible for so much death. Its untiring movements continued unabated, transferring materials in part, before raising a Destroyer-size limb to deliver an actinic burst of light to a geth dreadnought – welding a plate that seemed half the size of the Normandy at the least.
"It's repairing them … working like a Hephaestus station …." specialist Rahman commented, fingers flying on her screen. "Look! Sensors are identifying those package things as geth units; infiltrator, destroyer, prime. Some of the readings are a trio of those Colossus types. That station has to be some kind of factory. And Sovereign also appears to be ... repairing? Moving stuff? It's like the thing is a big repair platform."
A chill went down Shepard's spine. Now that the obvious had been pointed out, it resembled some of the images he'd seen in the odd dreamlike visions. 'Those squid-like things I was imagining on the Citadel. Wasn't imagination, some kind of Prothean warning? It has to be connected. But how?'
Another flash of insight burrowed through his consciousness. 'Keepers, with teeth. They looked different at one point, weren't always like what they are now. Miniature Reapers? How come the Protheans don't have anything on them? That data cache's held everything from Reaper classes to Indoctrination detectors and those weird plasma rifles.' A heartbeat of understanding his own stupidity washed over him. 'Unless they were killed too fast. The Citadel was ambushed. Is an ambush. Anderson – no. Hackett needs to know."
Knowing something that had eluded the seeming omniscient Protheans was a heady feeling, heady, yet terrifying.
The communicator buzzed to life. "She's coming around, Commander."
His eyes snapped back to the bane of his existence. The pattern failed to change, objects were still transferred. Better resolution through the Normandy's sensors revealed still more transport vessels, gliding away from the station and entering passing geth frigates; not quite as fast as the Reaper's transfer rates, but unending.
"Incoming from the asteroid side." Pressley's voice redirected everyone's attention. "Looks like a barge."
Shepard adjusted his viewpoint. A ship looking as if it were designed by a mentally deficient elcor with a stick glided towards the geth station, rising as it approached. As they watched, it dipped, vanishing behind the superstructure. A heartbeat later it emerged, looking no different than it had before, but out a different direction, but sensors indicated a lower power output with similar performance as it headed back towards the asteroid field.
"Raw materials." Shepard realized. "Pressley. Put Rahman down for a commendation. Get me one of the quarians up here, maybe they can tell us something about geth protocol."
"Yes sir." Pressley's expression said nothing, but his tone carried a proud smile.
"Commander? Chakwas. Benezia is awake and cognizant."
He straightened. "Matriarch. How are you feeling?"
A few seconds passed. Then, "A bit disoriented. I fear that Saren's grasp is not quite so easily shaken."
A frown flickered across Shepard's face. "You mean the Reapers?"
"Do I?" confusion was evident. "I do seem to remember such a connection, yes. But … it feels as if an Eroméni attempted to erase my memories. Or some of them, at least."
Shepard filed that particular titbit under things to investigate later. Probably with the captured Furies in other cells in the brig. "Sovereign is less than a kilometer from the Normandy. Are you safe where you are?"
More seconds slid past. "I … believe … so? Another dose of the cleansing nanites should help as well. I shudder to think what might have happened were the original materials still present."
The thought made Shepard shudder in actuality. A Matriarch, considered to be one of the most powerful representatives of her species, with over five centuries combat experience and another three in pure training, loose on an Alliance frigate? 'Definitely need to update those protocols.'
"Stay where you are, and try to get comfortable. We'll see about expanding your space when there's a little more time. Tali? Are you there?"
"Yes, Commander."
"Report to the CIC. We're surrounded by Geth, and I need an expert to interpret what's going on."
"I'm on my way." The only way the words could've gotten out faster was if an FTL transmitter were involved.
Thirty seconds later the quarian emerged through a vent, squirming free. Shepard was impressed, despite himself; the only route using that particular vent involved two sharp turns and a filtration grate – and was too small for someone of his stature.
"As you were," he commented drily.
Tali slipped the vent cover back in place. "Tali'zorah reporting, captain!"
Shepard gestured at projections littered across the CIC's center. "We're recording everything, but you might have additional insight. In particular, would you know of a weak point on that station?"
The quarian's glowing eyes locked on the displays; Shepard could almost see their computations dissecting the data while she listened. "I'm not sure, Sergeant Kal'Reegar might know."
Shepard sifted through his memory. 'Quiet, competent. Delta squad. On loan from the Flotilla.'
"Get a copy of the data and work with him on identifying a weakness," he glanced around, noticing several male crewmen slumping. Perhaps they'd hoped to work with the young quarian? No, it was better that the task be completed as soon as possible, and not pander to an emotional lure. "Better yet, get him up here and work on it together. Pressley, assign them a workstation."
The Navigator responded, and began shuffling crewmen to comply. Some looked disappointed, which forced Shepard to turn away before his smirk was visible. 'Might be going soft, but I'm not that soft yet.' He took another squint at the Reaper, studying its form once more. 'Perhaps Liara can make better sense out of this.'
Opening his omni-tool, he tapped out a download command. "I'll take this to Doctor T'Soni." He announced. "Pressley, you have the con."
Striding into the port doorway, he was about to enter the medical area where Liara had set up an analysis laboratory, when reality smacked his senses. 'Fool. Send the data on ship network. You have better things to do than chat with the civilians.'
Still, he couldn't help but feel a nagging sensation of losing something precious … but what escaped him. Punching the data packet through ameliorated the sense of loss, but not much.
'Back to work.' He switched focus to the unfinished blades on the forge below. It was well below the Hawking Engine's heat absorbance capacity; he could finish up the work he'd started. 'If it's important it'll come to me.'
A full six hours sleep did wonders for Shepard's awareness. By the time ship's morning rolled around, he was back in action … in a general sense. Paperwork, the necessary evil since bureaucracy was invented, had him tethered to his desk as effectively as any injury. The minimal hardcopy versions required a personal touch, signed with the pens stored in his cabin. Others were of the larger, digital variety, processed through the Normandy's networked systems.
'I wonder what we'd do with Council-style computers,' Shepard mused in an idle moment. Excessive requirements involving triplicate redundancies brought out the lazy man within. 'Take out the central computer, and the whole ship is dead. Isn't that how the first salarian ship was discovered, thirty odd years ago?'
For a beat he toyed with looking up the relevant history, but refrained. 'Too much work to do. Let's see, report from Williams; uh huh. Right. Intact, nothing missing, no hint of location. Good. If the Alliance doesn't know, no one can betray it.'
Another thought struck him. 'Did I send Emrys that report on Reaper Indoctrination, and Benezia's reaction? If we can inoculate people from Reaper influence …?'
The report itself would need classification above classification. If caught, it would be an automatic charge of treason … which wouldn't stick in all probability. But it was the principle of the thing.
'Arcturus command … yadda yadda, progress report. Any movement ….' He paused to look at the video feed that now had a constant lock on Sovereign. It had not ceased to move since their arrival, transferring supplies between station and transport vessels. 'Bad. Millions of geth units at this point. Enough raw resources tapped to build a dreadnought. Wish we had that kind of work force.'
Another report popped up, this one from Tali. 'Observed patterns in geth behavior. Received transmissions, translations … interesting. 'Old Machines' … and a … 'True Geth' designation? Heretics?'
He shook his head. 'Social upheaval in AI simulacrums. We can't get it right in ourselves, can't even get it right in an optimized artificial intelligence. Wonder what that says about the creators, if the created just continue the same flaws?'
Putting aside the philosophical point, Shepard continued.
A chime sounded, low-high tones signifying civilian status. Shepard cleared his monitor of the classified material going into reports, flipping over one of the electronic devices dedicated for the same purpose. After brooding on the matter, he replaced it in the drawer instead, which left a permanent image of Mindoir's horizon visible.
Shepard stared at the picture, entranced as always by the vision. Verdant fields stretched away from a town, the first skyscraper in that world's existence rising in prominent view. Structures of lesser height clustered around the monolithic building like chicks around a hen, a colony in its earliest business stages. Eden Prime had urban sprawl surrounding skyscrapers of eclectic taste, New Oldtown – he shuddered at the name – possessed an eccentric view against any building over three stories, resulting in underground bunkers and an almost uniform layer of warehouses a hundred miles in diameter. Mindoir appeared almost dowdy by comparison, although things had changed.
A second chime brought him out of the momentary reverie. He raised his voice. "Come."
The door slid aside, permitting the lean features of the only turian aboard to enter. It felt like a lifetime since he'd first seen a turian aboard the Normandy, a nightmare appearance to someone waking from the sleeping tube's enforced slumber.
"Commander," the turian leaned against the doorframe, a habit picked up from humans no doubt. "Got a minute?"
He waved a hand. "Feel free."
The turian ambled into the room, grabbing onto a chair, flipping it around so he could sit in it reversed. Metal-dense dermal layers tended to reduce flexibility, but made awkward positions far less uncomfortable for the species as a whole. "Still have the displays up?"
Shepard glanced at the weapons mounted over one wall. He gave a small chuckle. "Never know when you'll need a good weapon."
"True," Garrus agreed. He settled deeper into the chair. "I have to admit, I never expected to spend this much time on a human ship."
Shepard raised an eyebrow. While the turian had been a constant presence, they had not quite reached the point where one would drop by for a chat. Reviewing his memories, Shepard considered their prior interactions. 'He's been learning. Like a good detective, watching and waiting. He was sent on the ship as an observer. Perhaps this is the evaluation?'
"I hope it has been a comfortable journey." He leaned back in the chair a little more. "Quarian foodstuffs have improved since they started leasing colonies, but I'm afraid it's not quite up to food from Palaven."
"Please." The turian's hand rolled a sarcastic rebuttal, with the twitch indicating jocularity. "I've spent weeks on stakeout eating nothing but crunden and pressed tubers. The stuff your quarians have is healthy. With all the workouts your Secondus is giving out, I've lost weight. Think my hips are a bit more firm though, so it all evens out."
Shepard paused. "Alenko isn't my Second."
"No?" Garrus's mandibles tapped a small rhythm. "He's served that role though, as has Ashley. Although I have as well at times."
"You're a hell of a shot," Shepard folded his hands, happy to avoid the topic. "Marksmen practice by a trained Turian veteran. Honor guard quality no less. I'm not sure what C-Sec was doing putting you on the ground when they needed a sniper."
One mandible twitched aside. "They may have tapped me from time to time. Consulting basis of course."
"You've kept your skills sharp then," Shepard said. "Takes dedication."
Garrus shrugged. "I am turian. We're not big on down time. Not like you humans. All this sleeping, playing, flirtation … turians would go mad. That's not including how many regulations you have for off-time activities; I'm surprised I've not gone insane."
"You haven't. At least, I don't think so …?" Shepard swiveled his jaw a little, suggesting what he said was in fun.
A light chuckle confirmed the jab hadn't been in vain. "I'm considered a little different. Was asked to join the SPECTREs at one point, but you know that. I guess that's part of what I've liked about my time here. You humans aren't too different from turians, but … the little differences add up."
Shepard sighed. "I've seen that from time to time."
"Perhaps you do." Garrus sounded unconvinced. "A turian in your position right now would be running drills, and planning attacks. If he were off duty he'd be blowing off steam through practice fights or ... more practice. With a willing female. With your skill and appearance, there are a number of human females that would be very willing to do either. I've seen a few quarians making eyes too."
This time made a noncommittal grunt. "And you? I saw a few women eyeing you up. Going to take any of them on?"
"Humans? And turians?" Garrus scoffed. "I don't know what fantasy you've been reading Shepard, but that would be a very bad idea. Interspecies issues aside any time we, how do your Marines say it? Knock boots? If we ever knocked boots I'd need a very thorough shower and she would need a visit to the medic. Reverse chiral structures may be fine for plants, but protein structures start destroying everything it touches."
Shepard winced. "Gangrene, we call it. Early stages, at least."
"Whatever," Garrus exhaled sharply, nasal passages squeezing the airflow. "My point is I'd rather not inflict rotting cuts on a human, or have a painful, burning rash all over my very personal self."
He couldn't help it. Shepard laughed. "I don't blame you."
"Pah," Garrus shivered. "Poor writing romance options aside, do you know why the Council wanted us here? Aside from the obvious."
Shepard sobered, raising a hand to count off his fingers. "Check on the salarian task group, that's an actual goal. Test the Normandy's stealth capacity. See how obedient I'll be after the rachni issue. I'm presuming they wanted me out of their way for a while too, the limitations of Alliance FTL are rather well-known."
"Good." Garrus sounded relieved. "My read is the same. Once you're out of communication, they can take action about the rachni without interference. But, I'm guessing, and this is just a guess mind you, that the new rachni homeworld isn't well known with your superiors?"
Innocence had always been a hard look for Shepard to pull off. He tried anyway. "It might be hard to find, now that you mention it. Paperwork is always piling up in Arcturus. Never know what gets lost in the shuffle."
"That's what I thought. Then you know what the Council will do once you're back in range?"
He lifted one shoulder, dropping it in a very tired fashion. "They'd put me on trial if they could, but everything has been legal; the Alliance won't surrender me to the Council, and the Council won't risk another front. They're not stupid, just slow to act."
"Right," Garrus nodded again. "So this is the part where I tell you the scans are done with Virmire. Passive's have pulled in as much as they can."
A tired sensation went along Shepard's spine, triggering a slump. "Let me guess. Saren has a geth base down there."
The turian grimaced. On humans the sight was ugly enough, on a turian the action seemed comparable to the horror flicks some of the crew adored. The rest considered the appreciation of terror a mental illness, although an innocent one.
Shepard let out his air in a sudden breath. "That settles that then. Just to double check: we are outside Council Space, correct?"
"Correct."
"This is not a Council ship, or beholden to Council regulations, correct?"
"That … is open to interpretation." Garrus dipped his head, raising it again. "I'm a citizen of Council Space, so I must obey its laws. But you are subject to Alliance law, as you know."
"Good." Shepard rubbed his hands together. "I have a special dispensation from both the Alliance and Council to do away with pesky laws, in the Terminus systems at least. We're almost out of the Terminus Systems, right?"
This time the turian seemed wary. "Right …."
"Legal then." Shepard forced his hands back to a neutral position. It would not do to exhibit too much enthusiasm. Ensuring the destruction of slavers, rapists and killers was one thing. But what he was pondering now would be considered extreme for a krogan warlord a thousand years prior. "Of course, it does not matter how legal things are if someone in power decides to make me guilty of something."
Garrus's wariness turned to disgust. "I've seen that happen. Investigations, elections, crooks with in-laws that would get 'disturbed' if their darling niece sat in confinement. Innocent are punished and the guilty run free."
"That's why there are people like us, then." Shepard leaned back, studying his hands. They were calloused, worn from long service. "Although I've thought from the beginning that someone with this much power is a bad idea."
"Oh? How?" the turian's auricular region would've perked up if able. "You have done a great deal of good in my opinion. Stopped those Cerberus people, taken down slaver rings, eradicated Saren's network. Your power has done people well."
"And that's why I'm keeping it," Shepard answered. "Saren is an example of power gone bad. If I were to give up all power, how would that stop evil from continuing? No. I'll keep the power I have until I'm no longer fit to wield it. That way I can at least make sure some criminals are punished."
"Good that someone is," Garrus's flanged tones dipped into the infrasonic, sending shudders down into Shepard's abdominals. "Which … reminds me. I'm sorry, but I have to change the subject."
Shepard raised his hands. "Feel free."
Deft fingers pulled up the turian's omni-tool, cycling through menus inscribed within the traditional turian script. It was an angular method of writing, utilizing triangles and dots; headache-inducing to those without an aptitude for geometry. "Before I left, Councilor Sparatus sent me a message through some backchannels. It had a geography lock, responsive to the Relay out here. It unlocked a few hours ago … and you need to see it."
The SPECTRE raised an eyebrow, but settled as a miniature projection rose from the turian's wrist-mounted implement. That alone suggested high-quality hardware, and even higher value recording equipment.
"Detective Vakarian. I, Sparatus Julian, by the authority vested in me as Councilor of the Turian Hierarchy, am overriding your current limitations for the duration of the Saren incident. Your authority in Council Space is equal to that of current SPECTRE Commander Shepard."
Garrus paused the video. "Before it goes on, this is big. Councilors can't grant SPECTRE level authority without unanimous approval, outside of emergencies. Even then it is put under review. Most who try, lose their position. He's taking a risk with this one."
"I have spoken with Councilor Valern, and have learned disturbing things about Virmire," the miniature figure continued. "I understand the initial reaction would be to obliterate Saren's base from orbit. I would do so myself; efficient and effective. However, that base contains information I'm not sure is available anywhere else. To that end, I am instructing you to use whatever means necessary to convince Commander Shepard to infiltrate the facility if possible. Valern assures me the Tasks Group on the ground are well away from the facility; once you've retrieved as much information as possible, destroy Saren's facility as completely as possible."
Once more Garrus touched an icon, pausing the projection. "Again, this is important. We're out in the middle of nowhere, but authority for orbital bombardment on a Garden world is almost never given. I looked it up; it happened three times in the last five hundred years." He resumed the recording.
"If you believe showing this to Commander Shepard is the proper course, then do it. If he is watching, then know this: your so-called 'Reapers' are not the only threat in the galaxy, nor the only galaxy-wide threat. Valern's groups are chasing down rumors, one of which lead them to Sentry Omega. What that threat is I cannot say here. Return to the Citadel as soon as possible, if not sooner.'
The miniature image winked out of existence, motes of projected light making a starburst image before also fading from sight. Garrus collapsed his omni-tool, and leaned back, letting Shepard think.
Shepard appreciated the silence. Without moving he reached to the wall, picking up an older weapon forged in his earlier years, a flanged mace. Its head had a diameter of less than a finger length wide, mounted on the heartwood of an old tree that had once grown on Mindoir. He tapped the heavy steel head, running his thumb over where the flanges had been brazed into the central tube. Medieval blacksmithing looked primitive, but gave results.
"Sparatus talk to you often?" he reached for a polishing cloth, and started working on the miniscule amounts of tarnish visible.
"Not often," Garrus looked relaxed, but in the same way a predator rested. "I've heard from him two other times. Private communications, you understand."
He gave a silent nod. "Everyone has that right. I could call SPECTRE oversight, but he just gave you that, didn't he?"
An unhappy twist worked its way through Garrus's mandibles. "Yeah. I'd show you, but would rather you trusted me on this."
Shepard took a breath, and let it out. The scent of oil, inherent to the polishing cloth, tickled his nostrils. It was a comforting scent. "I'll do that then. You've proven yourself trustworthy."
A delicate shift shifted the turian's attitude from wary to relaxing. "Thanks, Shepard."
"Of course," Shepard put his hands down, and turned a smile up to full power. "You know this means you're now going to be in charge of half the ground team."
The turian's round eyes widened, then closed. "Spirits. I walked into that one, didn't I?"
"You did." Shepard stood up, clapping the seated being on the pauldrons. "I think you'll take Delta squad. Mostly quarians, so if things go bad you can share food supplies. You're a Council law enforcement officer, they're former Council race. About time the two of you get reacquainted."
"Commander, I know you mean well," the turian's body language exhibited uncomfortable in the extreme. "But I do not think this is a good idea."
Again, Shepard had to stop and think. Although experienced, the detective understood Council relations. "You might be right," he acquiesced. "Would you prefer working with Alpha squad?"
"It's not so much prefer as believe," A gusty sigh accompanied the statement. "I would prefer the quarians be on good terms with the rest of the galaxy. I would love to fight alongside them; did you know the Quarian Republic once was considered the second largest military power in the galaxy?"
"Is that so?" Shepard rubbed a blemish from the weapon's blunt end. "They have the largest fleet in the galaxy right now."
"Numbers, yes." Garrus admitted. "But their entire population balances on a talon's tip. Ships over a century old are common, but the Flotilla has ships dating back to their evacuation that started that old. If they wanted to attack, they could destroy their first target, and likely two or three others as well. But they have no infrastructure to support prolonged conflict. As soon as the shells begin flying, their food supply is only coming from their own ships, and as soon as one of those ships is destroyed, the entire fleet is in trouble."
"What about the worlds they lease now?" Shepard asked. "The Alliance agreed to lend dextro-base worlds to the Flotilla almost twenty years ago. Would that affect things?"
"Above my pay grade," Garrus shrugged. "All I know is what was taught at the Academy ten years ago. The Flotilla has been very careful to stay outside Council space – krogan aren't the only ones that can carry a grudge."
Shepard hefted the mace, letting its weight make a delightful impact on his palms. "All the better to start making bridges now, no?"
"Yes," the turian agreed. "But not on a critical mission like this. I've worked with Delta squad before, and we're … tolerating each other. No friendly fire at least, and that's a large step forward. But I don't think they'd deal so well with a turian commanding them. Turians have a reputation you know."
The restraints clicked into place as Shepard put the weapon back. "Fair. All right, you take Alpha squad, I'll take Delta. A HALO drop, comm silence, and then meet up at the salarian camp. But I think we can rough out a few more points before getting the squads started on prep."
Garrus hunched forwards, grinning. "I know this one: Proper Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance. Did I get it right?"
Shepard waved the turian towards his desk where maps and his own records of the Normandy's supplies resided. "In the gold Vakarian. In the gold."
"Approaching drop point one in ten seconds." Joker's voice boomed through headsets, a strange sensation as both Shepard and the squads accompanying him were standing in pure vacuum.
All around them the stars shone a steady multi-colored brilliance, watching over their actions as they had a thousand others for uncounted years before. Shepard gave the scintillating points a nod – with luck, they'd watch over his future actions for a long time. 'Will probably die young without kids. But worth it now. Mindoir is safe.'
Next to him Garrus waved an arm at Alpha Squad, pin wheeling it towards the planetary surface over sixty miles below. His elongated helmet, shaped for turian physiology, gave the appearance of a predatory bird eager to pounce, fitting for the sniper.
"Team Two your window is here; someone ordered a takeout for twelve. Good luck down there!" Joker's announcement coincided with a blinking red light hanging over the hanger's exit lip – less than three strides back the mag-con field prevented atmosphere to escape, and engineers could be seen watching for last-minute failures.
Their concerns were unfounded. Garrus jumped first, a light blue glow enveloping his body as the eezo auxiliary attachments reduced his body weight, redirecting for optimized atmospheric entry. Behind him the entire Alpha Squad leaped after, tucking into line with professional ease.
"Commander, you're up in ten seconds." Joker's voice continued. Atmospheric flight would've required longer, but the difference of thirty seconds in atmosphere was reduced to far less when the altitude increased. "Give 'em hell for us!"
Shepard made the traditional running leap, feeling the armor reduce mass as he pushed off. Tucking in, he waited a half breath and uncurled, onboard stabilizers taking the command for what it was, slowing his tumble into a head-first dive into a gaseous ocean. Somewhere behind he could hear one of the quarians broadcasting music for electromagnetic interference, a theme song to some film starring a Kryptonian, by one John Williams if he remembered aright.
He shook himself back to the present. Descent from orbit in a shuttle was commonplace. Descent in ships between the Kodiak and Wrath classes were less common, but more frequent than not. The Wrath class battleships almost never landed after launch, and Dreadnoughts were so large as to need shipyards built in space.
Conversely the concept of falling from orbit in nothing but armor and a few attachments held an attraction. Across Alliance space clubs existed for the sole purpose of raising funds so that its members could afford rental space on convenient space stations, file flight plans, and licenses to perform the very actions Shepard and his squad now needed.
Radio silence now reigned over their position. Solar wind provided sufficient interaction with their armor to prevent sensor readings. Even astronomers with the best telescopes would fail to see their tiny forms in the depths of space.
'Outer layer.' Shepard felt a miniscule tug on his armor. Resistance would only grow from that point onward as the air grew denser. 'Half an hour to go.'
Falling through the air sounded exciting, but held minimal attraction once it actually started. Once terminal velocity was achieved, there was a feeling of weightlessness, and the entire squad had experienced true weightlessness in the cold vacuum of space. Shepard hoped the sensation didn't prove so soothing that squad members fell asleep in the descent. Maintaining adrenaline for thirty minutes was unhelpful, but utter somnolence was not much help either.
'One thousand meters.' The readout triggered another reaction in the armor. His mass increased, pivoting a slow tumble. Landing feet-first was of infinite preference to landing headfirst. 'Eight hundred. Six-fifty.'
Deceleration pushed blood to Shepard's head, wrenching his stomach in ways no human was designed to undergo. 'Wonder what a human designed for re-entry would look like?'
The impact was a touch heavier than anticipated, forcing Shepard into a half-crouch, one fist contacting the ground to dissipate the excess kinetic energy stored by onboard piezoelectric systems. It created a miniature shockwave blowing small debris away from his position.
'Damn.' He straightened, noting with some amusement that the quarian members had managed to avoid similar touchdowns. Lieutenant Adam Jensen managed to make the landing look easy, his helmet already pulling back to show dark-tinted eye-wear protecting his vision. The man was a genius with technology, but paid for it with cybernetic-induced sensitivities.
Hand signals exchanged, Shepard took point. Standard protocols for STG camps forbade beacons – understandable given the constant presence of enemy air support. But there were several positions Garrus had acquired from the Councilor, which they'd check first.
Shepard moved with speed, appreciating the armor's atmospheric control more and more. Virmire was a temperate world, but had a wide belt around its equator filled with jungle elements. Water dropped from above, adding itself to puddles and streams on the jungle floor; vines stretched at knee height, smaller specimens dropping to ankle levels to discourage carelessness. Mud deeper than a human's thigh bogged down progress in a literal sense, and thick foliage prevented good vision in any direction.
The largest local lifeforms seemed adapted to need armor. Crabs larger than a varren sauntered through the underbrush, vines sliding over their shells with ease. Shepard could track the most common routes by the tree's scarred bark, and myriad pinpoints oozing water underneath. Unused to intelligent life, or of any larger life forms, the crabs did not scuttle to cover, or even change their routes. One had the temerity to attempt seizing the nearest quarian boot, resulting in a musical stream of curses and Shepard applying his ulfbhert in an unorthodox fashion.
'No Viking ever stabbed a five hundred pound crab,' he considered. It was better than thinking of the ancient warriors laughing at the sight of an apex soldier poking at a crab-thing, trying to find a weak point.
But armor adapted for jungle warfare had advantages of its own. Density reduction allowed gravity-defying jumps, thermal vision scanned for larger life forms and the paths they followed.
At one point Shepard found himself hurtling through trees two dozen meters above the ground, following one of the quarian pathfinders. Their natural agility lent itself to arboreal travel, strong legs supporting their entire body weight at angles difficult for Shepard to imagine doing without the armor's help. They traveled at far faster velocities during those times.
But soon they located the first likely position – and fortune smiled upon them.
Camouflage tents blended in the terrain in a strict sense, opaque sides visible to trained eyes. But the salarians had taken the extra steps in moving local plants into position, redistributing the foliage in ways that broke up industrial-produced outlines. Vines hung from tree limbs onto bushes, creating a true three-dimensional depth that fooled Shepard into thinking there were no occupants in the area … except for the single salarian standing in the open, looking in their direction with his arms folded.
Shepard took back the lead position, slowing their approach. Pursing his lips, he whistled a rising series of notes, catching the salarian's attention.
The large-eyed alien's carbine swung in his direction, lowering with equal speed. Then the salarian made a series of gestures, culminating in a splayed hand pointing downward.
"He sees us, and wants one representative to approach," Shepard translated. "Keep your weapons down, and don't do any active scans. We're surrounded by trigger-happy commandos hopped up on stims."
"Better you than me, nehya." The foremost quarian muttered. He straightened. "Uh, sir."
Shepard chuckled. "Don't worry. Call me det kazuat, hagarr'hizs or bosh'tet if you want. (1) So long as you stay alive around me, you've earned that right."
The quarian's silvery eyes blinked behind his faceplate, then vanished in a full-body shrug. "Yes sir."
"Bosh'tet," Shepard answered, eliciting a reluctant laugh from the quarian. "Just keep an eye out and don't start shooting unless you see geth."
"Tasi nedas," Jensen stepped forward, nodding at the trees. "Better hurry. Salarians aren't known for patience."
Shepard rolled his eyes and set out. He reached the edge of the camp, and stopped arms held loose – no sane man offered to disarm himself in a salarian encampment. They'd consider it blatant trickery, and spend the next two hours running scans. "I'm Commander Shepard, En-Seven of the Alliance Navy and SPECTRE for the Council."
"Yes, yes, we know who you are." The salarian had a scanner out, parsing its results. "SPECTRE Vakarian told us you were coming. He and the krogan are waiting for you outside the target zone."
"Wrex and Garrus are here?"
"No, already said they are waiting by the target." The salarian seemed irritable. "You will wait here until they return. Bad enough to have a krogan on site. Will not compromise opsec with more galdrin."
Shepard mentally translated the term as neophyte, with a pejorative twist. "You've been here longer, you'd know best. Mind if I call in my squad?"
"Yes, yes." The salarian finished his scans. "Bring them under sensor baffle. You are responsible for the quarians?"
He folded his arms. "They're my people, yes."
"Good." The salarian gave a sniff. "See to it their fingers stay away from sensitive material. There is no place for thieves here."
The last bit was pitched at a volume where the approaching squad could hear – Shepard could see backs going stiff at the accusation. In turn he twitched a shoulder, keeping his voice calm. "Understood. I'll be watching for any poor behavior, and treat it accordingly."
The salarian sniffed at his veiled statement, and walked away.
Nearly two hours passed until the tramping of feet announced the arrival of the second squad. Form the camp one could see Garrus slide through the jungle like a knife, while Wrex managed to brush through with barely a sound. The humans behind both, however, were less agile, breaking branches and stepping in puddles to make sounds erupt through the trees.
Another salarian, this one bearing the pips of command, swung into sight. He looked cheerful, wide lips turning up at the corners as if in perpetual amusement. His large eyes found Shepard.
"Commander!" he bounded over. "Good to meet you. Commander Kirrahe, STG Reconnaissance division. Apologies for the wait, hope your stay was not uncomfortable?"
Shepard cast a glance at the first salarian who looked irritated. "Your courtesy is unparalleled. If you'll pardon my asking, what's the situation?"
Kirrahe directed a stern look at the now somewhat worried looking greeter. "You may wish to sit down. Short version: Saren's base is there, and he's making what he calls a cure for the Genophage. Analysis shows it's just a cloning center, and a slipshod operation at that. All it produces are half-grown krogan, and brainwashed specimens as well. The rest is … problematic."
Shepard raised an eyebrow.
"Saren is investigating something he calls 'Indoctrination'," the salarian produced two fingers in an air quotes. "Whatever it is, it has ensured I'll be instigating stronger security measures back home. Agents I've known since the crèche were telling everything they knew."
Shepard noted the distinct past tense terminology, and did not question. "It's real. Probably nanotech based, at the start. Matriarch Benezia is on the Normandy, being treated with medical nanites and sitting in a Faraday cage. Her Maidens were brainwashed, didn't have the nanites. Not much to go on …."
"But better than pure data-blind," Kirrahe finished. "Thank you. I'll include that in the report. Do you know why we were here?"
Shrugging, Shepard made eye contact with Garrus – for a brief moment. It seemed the more time he spent with someone the harder it was to make out their facial features. "Reapers and … other things."
"Exactly." Kirrahe stepped closer, looking aside. "The Dalatress convocation has become aware of certain artifacts that induce mind control. Large spheres that detonate if approached by scientific equipment, yet compel individuals to perform experiments."
A frown expressed itself on Shepard's face. "Sounds like Indoctrination."
"On the surface, yes." Kirrahe bobbed agreement. "But no nanites are involved. One study was started, and halfway completed when … whatever it was discovered the fact. Thus far all we can say for certain is that it uses a combination of subsonic and electromagnetic influence to compel obedience. Victims suffer amnesia, and complain about being stuck in a 'cold, wet place'. Some have been that way for decades."
Shepard's gaze lifted in the direction from which his other squad approached. "And Saren's base has one?"
"Had one," Kirrahe corrected. "Our first investigation discovered a chamber with the sphere, and his research. The sphere detonated, and now we're trying to find a way to destroy the base. But we need to do a final sweep; there is a research lab we have not been able to penetrate. Perhaps you and your squads would be willing to help make a final push?"
This time Shepard looked at his squad, and considered. Then he smiled. "Get in, get out, and blow the place from orbit. I have a stealth ship sitting outside atmo, ready for action."
"Excellent!" Kirrahe clapped once. "Then let's get to the planning. We'll only have one shot at this, and Saren is suspicious. It will take planning, timing, and brilliance to pull off – but as the saying goes, it's good we're the ones doing it: someone else might get it wrong."
(1): Det kazuat: Literal translation: Redacted. Crude profanity suggesting the subject is a container filled with excrement.
Hagarr'hizs: literal translation: Forever Children, suggesting mental damage or retardation.
Bosh'tet: Literal translation: Unknown father, aka 'bastard'
Credit to Calinstel and Admiral Zaal'Koris for baseline terminology. Credit to Fainmaca for 'Wardancer' concept.
A/N: Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! This chapter would've been out earlier, but my beta Nightstride pointed out some rather obvious plot points I could've taken ... and in combat, every enemy point must be conquered. Hope you enjoyed, are seeing the (admittedly too slow) diversion from Canon, and have a bit of entertainment in a game I still love to play now and again. Apparently they're doing a rework of the original? Yay? Maybe?
Best of luck to all of you, and attack the New Year for all the benefits it will bring! I mean greet. Greet the New Year. The last one was interesting enough.
Excelsior!
