Gravity shear.
In modern engineering parlance the term's technical definition refers to a juxtaposition between separate platforms in any construct, where relative 'down' changes. Larger vessels, such as the T-509 Super Transports have modular gravity plates, allowing cargo to be transferred with ease. When employed, a launch platform sends the requisite cargo 'up' towards the freighter, which then is guided 'down' a slide. Even if the inertia shown is at ninety-degree odds, the altered direction of mass obeys as can be expected. The casual reader will instantly recognize how the ability to shift gravity itself benefits any large-scale industrial process.
In the Alliance military, 'gravity shear' holds a similar meaning, but with the additional twist that only bored minds can devise. When a ship travelling at supra-luminal velocities enters the strong gravity field of a planetoid, safeties force a deceleration of the vessel, shredding the engine. To the observers, the engine was 'sheared' apart by gravity, thence becoming a feared phenomenon amongst space-travellers.
Modern literary terms have a different interpretation, traced back to the late 2100s. This definition was developed by the asari, which some of the more romantic-minded members attribute to seeing a new species so close to their own. Translated in entirety from the original language, 'Gravity shear' suggests two stellar bodies that are twins in every respect, save one. That single difference creates a dichotomy so great that mutual destruction is assured.
Shepard's meeting with Saren illustrates this definition quite well. Asari and humans look identical, save for the critical difference of gender and perhaps the absence of hair (now a thriving fetish in certain deviant asari communities). Likewise Saren and Shepard could be considered identical, differing by their belief systems.
Attributing such differences to species or cultural divides is an insult to both the subject and the attributor. Core concepts transcend trivial barriers like race and species. Honor, loyalty, betrayal, metaphysical concepts with no material component shared.
Therefore, the final confrontation between Shepard and Saren can be seen as the clash of ideals, the single. Critical. Difference.
~Dr. Arnold Pavenmeyer, Project Ragnorak
Serpent Nebula
Widow System
Citadel Presidium
Shepard let himself just … stand … amongst the squad that had followed him so far, living in the moment while others made ready. Rearming was all he'd needed – with perhaps more than a little help from the medical nanites flooding his body. Part of his seeming invulnerability came from the tiny machines, repairing damage, incorporating nutrition, stabilizing his fragile, organic self when the galaxy sought to destroy it. By now he estimated he contained enough medical nanotechnology to pay for a dozen Nightstalker armor sets, or perhaps on the high end, three battleships. The precise quantity of engineering wasn't the main cost; having nanites so attuned to his own physiology was a tedious process involving years of constant exposure.
'I am a living weapon,' he looked at the back of one hand, where a ceramic shard had sliced a shallow cut. It was healed, a faint, pink line all that remained. Standard medical treatment could be expected to do such a thing, but the closest treatment center was Huerta Memorial Hospital, halfway across the Presidium, and even that would need a good ten minutes with a prepped room. 'Never noticed that before. Has anyone else been exposed to specialized nanites this long? Not just a weapon, I'm a fool. Nothing more than a fool. Who knows the long-term effects?'
Shaking free of such maudlin thoughts, he took a step closer to the Presidium Lake, looking upwards. For five thousand years the Presidium had stood as a symbol for progress, authority, and judgement. Generations of asari had grown old and passed on under its majestic appearance; over a hundred salarian generations in the same temporal arc.
He squinted. At the tower's peak, Sovereign's squid-like form wriggled, treating the massive structure like some form of massive interface. For all anyone knew, the tower was an access point, like the auxiliary steering columns found in freighters. It made sense; should the usual bridge position be destroyed, a backup control center was present.
'Enough waiting.' Shepard shouldered Excalibur, the specialized sniper rifle that had served him well over the campaign.
Further off he could hear the sounds of open battle. The geth had been driven back, first by Alliance muscle, but now were being kept back by the quarians. Even from this distance he could hear their battle-song, an alien sound like nostalgic rage, rising and falling through human hearing. The haunting notes made a shiver run up his spine.
"Lieutenant," he gave a nod to the Canadian biotic a brief nod. "How many are ready?"
"Two hundred." Alenko lifted his omni-tool into view, showing the numbers. "The geth are pushing, but C-Sec is pulling out the heavy hardware. After the Council left, they focused on securing their headquarters, then on a sortie, I think. If we have another fifteen minutes, I can get a few hundred more available."
"No time," Shepard felt a deep sense of urgency at the projection. "We've gotten lucky this long, but Saren isn't one to sit on his heels."
A wince from the turian detective drew his attention. Garrus shook his head. "Sounds painful."
"Human custom in some areas," Shepard checked his rifle once more, almost an obsession he realized. "Shuttles and elevators ready?"
"I'll pass it along." Alenko raised one hand to his helmet. "One minute, and we can launch."
Shepard quelled the uneasy feeling, focusing on the required matter at hand. "Do it."
Serpent Nebula,
Widow System,
SSV Normandy SR-1
Anderson's jaw tightened. The geth flotilla was pushing forwards – moving into visual range. There was nothing he could do; the Normandy's stealth capabilities meant it would be untargeted by deliberate efforts, but intent meant little if a geth suicide vessel chose a vector through their position. Only the Normandy's stealth systems kept them from sight, the rest of the fleet relied upon the nebula's amorphous particulates to hide.
"Fleet barrage contact," one of the sensors specialists spoke up.
He shifted focus to the main projection, and the overwhelming number of targets present. As he watched, multiple dark red points faded to orange circles, navigational hazards, with potential for carrying weaponry.
"Report."
The officer adjusted a screen. "Successful hits on seventy-three-percent of targeted enemy ships. Seven geth dreadnoughts are offline, sir."
Anderson felt a wolfish smile appear. "Good. Targeting report?"
A second officer spoke up. "Targets painted. Seventh Fleet reports missiles away, dreadnoughts are repositioning. Thirty-Second elements are proceeding to escort the Destiny Ascension."
"Good." Anderson adjusted his view, just in time to see enough projectiles to resemble a good sized meteor storm enter the geth fleet. Small explosions marked where the synthetic race's active defenses proved their efficiency, eliminating the incoming missiles. Some passed through, impacting barriers in multi-colored displays, mass turning to energy in as violent a fashion as human ingenuity could contrive. Here and there, he could see geth ships turning aside, whether due to damage or in an effort to confuse incoming fire he didn't know.
"Second mass accelerated barrage incoming," the same officer intoned. "Splash in three. Two. One."
This time Anderson could witness the myriad trails almost as they passed, phantoms pursuing unsuspecting victims. He felt an uncharacteristic smirk worthy of Shepard cross his face. "Hate being forward spotter, but damn if it doesn't feel good."
"Contact." On the tactical board, more red dots faded to orange. After a free initial barrage, there were almost no geth ships on par with Alliance battleships, leaving cruiser and destroyer analogues intact. Those too were being targeted now.
Anderson tapped his communication board. "Fifth Fleet, it's as clear as you're going to get."
A burst of static answered him, followed by a hoarse growl. "Many thanks, Normandy. Keep a weather eye out for stragglers."
From the direction of the Gate, the carriers picked up speed. Their escorts, destroyers and cruisers, followed suit. Unlike before, the mists comprising the Serpent Nebula warped in strange patterns, particles reacting to the vessels altered gravities as the Hawking Engines came to full-power.
"Well that's it," Anderson clenched his hands on the guard rail ahead of the main projector. "Hope the Council appreciate the sacrifice."
Pressley looked up, calm expression reassuring as it ever was. "The majority of geth heavy hitters are down, sir. We will have far fewer casualties because of it."
He shook his head, but didn't speak. Shared exercises and trust-building experiments were one thing. But to engage in open warfare within sight of a potential enemy like the Council …? Perhaps his paranoia was growing too much like Shepard.
A flash of light heralded the Fifth Fleet's advance, slipping through the geth defenses. A number of the alien craft rabbited to FTL, almost at the same time.
"Shenyeng is hit," Pressley noted. Then his face blanched. "Madrid is hit. Emden is … gone. Sir, the geth are in range."
Anderson took a moment to view the blue icons fading to orange – there was no ballistics data, except for a single large mark. "Kamikazes. Damn."
"Warsaw is burning," another bridge officer reported. "They're launching escape shuttles."
He had to force down the helpless feeling. A navy man knew such an end was possible, in the depths of space. Someone who preferred ground-based tactics could the fight the inevitable with his bare hands; but in space? Humans had to rely on their mutual cooperation, one of their species greatest curses.
"Bring the main gun online," he growled. Officers around him jumped to obey. "Pick a target. Joker, prepare to go evasive."
Another geth vessel blurred out of sight, followed by the somber chiming noise of another Alliance vessel erupting into vapor-filled wreckage.
"Come on, come on …" Anderson's knuckles clenched white around the rail. Another cruiser vanished, matching the increasing pressure his hands exerted on the rail. Multiple enemy vessels were shifting, changing their bearing to focus on the Muspelheim. He switched to a camera feed aimed at the mighty vessel.
The battleship appeared to understand the danger, pushing its engines to greater power. Cyan light emanating from the propulsion units brightened, gravitic output fluctuating the very fabric around its superstructure.
An instant later, streaks of light appeared, changing from near-energy to matter, and of greater importance, disorganized matter. Element zero fusion cores erupted around the Armageddon-class capital ship, shards of metal slamming into its shields. Anderson keyed a recognition algorithm on his terminal, and found the approximate mass of the debris field was similar to the mass of the geth cruisers, one of which no longer held position near the Citadel.
He blinked. 'How …?'
Another explosion occurred, but this time it was further away from the Muspelheim. The computer analysis suggested Alliance drone parts mixed among the geth materials.
'That's what was supposed to … never mind.' He returned to target selection, and chose a cruiser a little further away from the main body than the rest. The fire came back into his spine.
Highlighting the ship, he approved the firing sequence, sending it to the gunnery crew. "We have a target. Guns: Fire a salvo one through three on my mark. Helm: Go evasive after the third shot."
He waited a heartbeat. "Mark."
Chorused acknowledgement met his order. With an almost sinuous motion, the Normandy came about. A single, timeless moment etched itself across Anderson's mind, the stealth frigate isolating an unknown alien ship, ignorant of its imminent demise. Strategies rolled across his thoughts with an intensity every brainstorming session with the development Red Teams failed to impart. He could see packs of stealth vessels roaming the galactic arms, enemy vessels dying before knowing they were targeted.
He swallowed. 'This will change Council warfare forever.'
A heartbeat later, the Normandy's main gun spoke, accompanied by the comparatively soft hiss of launching missiles. Pressurized gas ejected the instruments of death outside the stealth frigate, no hint of light or electromagnetic pulse betraying the ship's presence.
"Shot out, weapon away." The gunnery officer barked.
Even as the somewhat report resonated through the air, the deck shuddered, adapting to new maneuvers. Joker's voice echoed from the helm. "Altering approach vector, coming up three-one-seven, going port fifteen hundred kay."
Ahead, the single cruiser was caught unawares. The solid projectile of the mass-accelerated round penetrated geth shielding, shearing off sensory attachments along its underside, scoring deep channels throughout its brief existence. The missiles followed suit, striking unprotected hull in rapid sequence to tear apart exposed gunnery platforms and even puncture the hull. There was no puff of venting atmosphere – geth vessels operated in vacuum it seemed. But the intense electronics disruption made a burst of static echo on open channels.
'Learning, we're learning,' Anderson nodded. He made a mental note of the technique. 'Either missiles or railgun, from stealth. Or reduce missile count. Good. Next target.'
Serpent Nebula,
Widow System,
Citadel Presidium
Shepard didn't like feeling dependent on someone else, but there were circumstances which made the necessity palatable. Approaching an enemy position from above often required air support. Approaching from space needed an entire ship's crew for dropping off. Being injured meant medical personnel had to put him back together – and a subsequent records hack to remove any sensitive information.
"Doing all right, sir?" William's voice sounded chipper. Her Menelaus armor pounded up the side of the Presidium tower like an old children's tale steam engine, not just thinking it could, or knowing it could, but doing it on a regular basis. "Not shaking you too much, am I?"
Shepard swung back and forth on William's back, clinging to what was left of his dignity with both hands. Mag-clamps secured part of him, but old-fashioned duct tape secured the rest of his armored torso to the power armor's back. "Just peachy."
"Good!" the armored marine sped up. "Then you don't mind I have a picture of this, do you? My grandpa would love to see it."
He looked to one side, noticing Alenko bounding up the wall with them. The Lieutenant had a cheerful smile, natural biotics, and a specialized application running on his omni-tool, a visual capture mode pointed in his direction.
"Sure." He would find a creative vengeance on the pair. Nothing too humiliating, but enough to express his displeasure. "Don't mind at all."
Pleasant thoughts of future retribution had to be shelved when the massive Reaper limb slammed into the Presidium tower overhead. The walls shook, testing the strength of the Alliance infantry's hardware.
"Woo-yeah!" Williams sounded enthusiastic, as if relishing the obstructions. "Cannon to the left of them, hey?"
Personally, Shepard felt the comparison to a suicide mission was in poor taste. But he said nothing.
"Coming up, sir. Painting target." Alenko slowed his pace, letting the light infantry jet ahead, in a literal sense. One was darting away from the tower, needing only a touch of her maneuvering thrusters to operate in the minimal atmospheric region. Her omni-tool was glowing ruby-red, pointing a tiny dot on the widest range of windows above.
"Heavies ready. Launching." Below, slower moving soldiers had their own secondary weapons free, launchers poised. Orange-hot flames made a momentary appearance, before their miniscule payloads streaked out of sight.
He felt the impact shake Ashley's massive, armored form. High-yield explosives penetrated the blast-proof barriers, creating an opening just large enough for the heavier, power-armored marines to enter. With a wordless shout, the group pounded up the last dozen meters, heaving themselves over the edge and into the deliberation chamber.
Shepard cut himself free as soon as William's form was inside. He tumbled free, landing in a spinning crouch, pausing just enough to regain his bearings.
"Watch for suicide geth," he warned. A series of the robotic infantry was in sight; he took a brief moment to bring the scope to his eye, inhale once, and squeeze the trigger. The largest unit lost cerebral cohesion, along with the majority of its cylindrical head. "They can pack a punch."
"Shield wall," one of the lead power armored marines responded. In near synchronized movements the eight foot tall marines responded, extending an arm surrounded in high-capacity projectors; rectangular shields of translucent orange almost their full height materialized, already catching geth counter-fire. "Nice to have enough room to finally pull it off, eh Chief?"
"Oorah," Williams was still near Shepard. Instead of holding a shield, she was in a half-kneeling posture, rotary carbine spinning up on her main arm. "Alpha, watch left, just like in practice. Heavies are coming up."
Above, Shepard could hear the whining sound of light-infantry jets, keeping them mobile. He ignored them. He left the geth soldiers to the squads brought in for that very purpose. Instead of the Normandy's average dozen marines and specialists, it was more of an even exchange, the elite geth versus hundreds of the best the Alliance had to offer. If he trusted them to do their job, they would trust him to do his.
A flicker of motion attracted his attention to the Council podium. A long, thick pipe lead to the central stand, a pair of turian-articulated limbs stuck out from behind it.
"Target spotted," he tagged the position in his HUD, sending the location to the rest of the Alliance. "Fire on my target!"
Wasting no time, Shepard sighted in on the podium's center, eschewing the exposed limbs. He'd seen the constructs at close range before, and knew their external layers consisted of nothing more than light polymers. The structural elements were a possible issue, but the penetrating power of a custom machined sniper rifle gave him a sporting chance.
The shot traversed the distance in less than half a second. Shepard sent a second round after the first as the scope steadied; a third shot was impossible under current conditions. Even the most advanced technology failed to account for tunnel vision, and Saren's form was already moving after the first shot.
Then, the hail of fire began. Shepard could see individual marines popping out of cover, releasing a long burst on his target before hiding once more. Before his eyes, holes appeared in the revered Councilor platform, reducing its pristine surface into resembling something like an expensive cheese grater, in his opinion.
"'ware topside!" someone bellowed over the comms.
Shepard trained his rifle upwards, targeting the renegade SPECTRE's flying platform. The construct sailed into view, but a trio of quick-thinking heavy marines tagged it with their own target lock, and a miniature firestorm obliterated it from sight. Additional rockets flew into the maelstrom, armor-penetrating warheads growing the fireball for a few heartbeats.
"Check target, does anyone have eyes on target?" Shepard queried the battle-net. "Full-spectrum scan, they can jam everything but your eyeballs, boys."
"Negative, Commander," Alenko's voice filtered through the earpiece. "Sending recon."
Shepard felt something twinge. It took him a moment to recognize it as panic. "Cancel that! All fliers stay away from the Podium! Acknowledge!"
A humming boom echoed from the far side, behind a brilliant blue orb shooting upwards from below, striking one of the light infantry. The aerial figure tumbled, rotating just enough to show the biotic technique enveloping one side in matter-disrupting energy. A moment later, the soldier was lost from sight, dropping like a stone.
"Dammit!" Shepard pulled hard on his control, shoving emotion back down under cover. "Cover me; I'm going in."
He heard confirmation, then the deep boom of a non-Alliance rifle. He twisted, and saw Garrus, wielding his Mantis in an easy fashion. The turian gave a casual salute, and lifted his rifle again. Down-range a pair of troopers fell
Ahead, one of the geth troopers exploded, fire and shrapnel deflecting off the forward-held shields. Shepard tensed, then relaxed as the orange projected barriers held firm. In reality, he supposed improvised explosives did not possess the same potency as dedicated munitions. Maybe it wasn't the nanites in his blood?
'Focus!' he darted forwards, replacing the sniper rifle with his dependable Pioneer sidearm. While Mercy's solid weight filled his grip, Its twin Forgiveness rested in a secure vault on Mindoir, both former weapons of his father. Its presence seemed appropriate, although for the life of him he couldn't figure out why. 'Philosophy. Useless now. Fight.'
Ahead, the geth recognized him. He could see it in their artificial frames. When a computer identified a greater threat, it ignored other variables, with some degree of randomness, and concentrated on the biggest recognized problem. The last time he'd done this, the geth threw everything in their arsenal at him.
He flashed a blood-thirsty grin at the mobile units. 'Got me some backup, boys. Not just me this time.'
Obeying instinct, he cut left, sprinting to an oversized planter, waited a heartbeat, and then slid right. Bullet sang their death-song over his helmet, an almost comforting melody by now. An ECM grenade was in his hands, and out in an eyeblink, creating a cloud of baffle particulates.
He dove through the fading mist, pushing straight ahead, an insane path, the lunatic's path, that he'd never take with an organic mindset. This route gained him almost a dozen body lengths before he was forced back into cover.
'Not this time, coward,' Shepard checked his omni-tool, and frowned. Its growing collection of grenades was limited to ECM munitions, useful but not what he'd hoped to find. The incendiaries required a system re-boot; unlikely to happen for now. 'Never mind. This time I have an army with me.'
Lightening his mass, Shepard leaped from cover. Miniature pulses of biotic power connected his boots to the wall, changing the battlefield into a three-dimensional place. Hostile fire penetrated through the air he'd vacated, tracking his progress. But the geth focus came at a cost: heavy marines with fully automatic weaponry were already responding, and cut loose with a roar that echoed off the distant ceiling. Most administered brief bursts, heightening accuracy, but a few were able to bring the full power of their weapons to bear on massive geth constructs. A combination of phosphorous rounds, penetrating loadouts and even polonium modified ammunition sparked across the gap.
Shepard put his trust in their aim, almost dancing through the geth obstacles. Increasing the mass of one leg, he landed, reversed course, and put the same boot through the torso of a trooper in the wrong place, at the wrong time. The Colossus armatures were shambling around to gain an advantageous angle, but he knew better than to allow that.
Fluid movements kept him mobile. To stop was to die. Shepard's blade came out in the left hand grip, eezo-hardened steel chopping through geth limbs. Mercy spoke, again and again, powerful shots kicking his grip as if seeking freedom itself.
"Sniper twelve o'clock high," Alenko's calm voice spoke over the air waves. A moment later Shepard could hear the Mantis rifle's thunder. "Sniper down, good kill."
He was almost at the Podium, where the Council stood and judged the masses. The central pedestal was gone, shattered ceramics and melted glass showing where it once stood. It seemed placed in an odd position, farther forward than usual, suggesting Saren had activated it from elsewhere.
'There.' Shepard caught sight of the renegade turian, in the public garden below. His fingers flew over the internal commands for the Nightstalker armor, preparing yet another sequence.
Saren caught sight of him, and pointed a lazy arm his way. Hazy blue waves emanated around the turian's arm, rippling out in one of the most powerful shockwave techniques Shepard had ever witnessed.
He pushed off the wall, activating a pre-programmed sequence, flinging himself at Saren in a perfect forward flip. The move was planned to fall short – fools believed holos of protagonists leaping from on high to deliver justice, and Shepard was no fool. Falling bodies made predictable trajectories, but biotics changed the battlefield. Adding a touch of mass increased his fall, while raising the durability needed to survive the impact.
The turian had a seven inch bent-blade resembling a kukri on hand, as if his own talons were not enough, and stabbed upwards as Shepard landed. While of alien form, it was an excellent tactical choice – a successful strike might have damaged something important. But his blow was a touch slow.
Biotics changed the battlefield in more than one sense.
Shepard's feet touched the ground, and the stored nova blast rocketed outward with a force few organic biotics could match. An asari Priestess surpassing the Tenth Tier could have overcome it, and perhaps a batarian Na'Hesit fanatic would have been swift enough to deliver his own response before impact. But Shepard was too close, and the blast melted through Saren's barriers like an incendiary charge.
Secondary function readied, Shepard tossed his pistol upwards and launched a martial strike with the right fist, another glowing film of biotic energy covering its surface. The fields interacted, and then reacted – detonating with the force of a small bomb. Saren smashed backwards through a supporting strut in the glass ceiling on his way up, yet recovered enough to twist mid-air, descending feet-first.
Shepard was waiting, pistol in hand. Ammunition selected for density and penetration hammered the turian's descending form, cracking the armor and causing internal damage. Or so he hoped; the turian seemed to have replaced a number of vital organs with cybernetic components.
"The gifts of the Reapers," Saren took a step back, tilting his hips. A soft hum emanated from something deeper, and a thin metal covering layered itself over the damaged portions. "After our last encounter, you proved the efficiency of my upgrades. But what I had could be better still, the better to serve and prove this galaxy capable of existence."
Shepard tilted Mercy skyward, loading a new ammunition block with a single, smooth motion. "I don't think your insurance will cover that."
"Droll, Shepard. Very droll," Saren slipped his knife back into its sheath, confidence in every motion. "I did my research after your last appearance. I must admit your unorthodox methods are quite compelling. Tell me, are you pleased to have accomplished so much? Does it make you happy when you look back on an illustrious career?"
"Should it?" Shepard's eyepiece tracked power flowing from the Reaper tendrils into the former SPECTRE, then back out into the Citadel's flooring. He vaguely recalled a similar feature on larger geth constructs on the Feros colony. A quick tap highlighted targets for his comrades as they approached.
"You defended your people in the best way you knew how," Saren's hips tilted again, in the fashion turians associated with reassurance. "You gave me many setbacks I will admit, but how could I hold a grudge when you did so in the defense of your own people? I employed machines and the under-privileged. You brought in a team of minds that has destroyed my financial empire. And yet, in the end, I proved the victor. In victory, one can afford generosity, can he not?"
A small chime in Shepard's ear drew his attention to a miniaturized projection. Relays locked. Network not processing incoming Relay jumps. Please hold for a staff member to assist you.
He held back a snarl.
"Confused?" Saren took a casual step back, just as a rocket hissed past his face. It detonated against the far wall, leaving a burnt mark on super-hard materials. "Perhaps I should explain. I knew you would come for me, and that my goal was here, the Citadel. I admit your presence was early, the geth tell me you destroyed a battalion's worth of hardware all by yourself. But in the end, I have the superior allies."
Shepard cast a baleful glare at the squid-like machine repositioning segments of the Citadel's upper stories. "Sovereign, a trusted ally? I wouldn't trust a Reaper to pour water on me if I were on fire."
A polite rasping sound emanated from the turian's trachea. "Defiant in all times, just like a holo-novel. Except we both know you're no hero, Shepard. There is something wrong with you, just like me."
"Sure," Shepard checked his supply of explosives. Most remained with him, and what he'd expended was being replaced. The problem was that Saren's consumables were being replaced at a faster rate, if Reaper tech was as good as he feared. He wasn't sure if the turian could detect sarcasm; it wasn't like he was hiding it. "We're the same. We kill people for the greater good, and follow orders from a higher power. Right."
"Exactly!" Saren looked as if he wished to applaud. "I knew you'd understand! The goal is the most important thing, no matter what the means."
"And there we disagree," Shepard let his arms relax. "You see the ends as justifying the means. I see the end as worthless, if the means are wrong."
"Then you disagree with your species' history," Saren countered. "How many monsters have paved the way for greatness through the bloodying of hands? In order to rise, you must step upon those who oppose you. To succeed, even your own people will provide themselves as sacrifices."
"Like Benezia?" Shepard retorted. "Or the krogan? You copy your masters, Saren. Lies and trickery, all for yourself. You're not doing this for the Council, this is for Saren Arterius and Saren alone."
"This is for the good of the galaxy!" the turian's claws came into fists. "Everything I've sacrificed is to prove to the Reapers that some organics can be trusted, can be useful to them. The galaxy will live on with or without our civilizations Shepard, but I intend that our people will continue living."
"Sacrifice?" Shepard was increasing aware of the geth numbers, raining in from the sky. Their backs were turned to Saren and himself, pushing back at the Alliance units – arrogance in the extreme. The specialist team that had traveled with him so long was coming, he could feel it. "You sacrificed others. All you've lost is a reputation and any claim to honor; everyone around you dies just to keep you in the Reapers good graces."
"Alike we are once again," Saren's hands dipped then rose again, emulating an asari Maiden's dismissal. "Everyone around you dies, like the leaves surrounding ripened gipan. Once the seed is ready, the unnecessary withers and fades."
Shepard felt his teeth grind. The massive tendrils extending from Sovereign pulsated, dark miasma drifting from its surface like dry ice. Time was running out, where was the Fleet? "You feed allies to the monsters you call gods. We are nothing alike."
Serpent Nebula,
Widow System
Citadel Region
The Normandy made a graceful arc beneath a geth cruiser, bomblets spinning free. Slow-drift flotsam failed to trigger the cruiser's shields, and the defense turrets ignored minimal threats. That was, until magnetic pulses activated, pulling the bomblets against the alien hull, and detonated. Ordinary vessels would've been crippled by the electrical pulses short-circuiting anything in proximity to the hull. Geth vessels held a certain vulnerability to the tactic, stopping in space but still focusing weapons upon allied craft.
Anderson kept an even expression, no matter his frustration. "We crippled their engines. Sensors, another target."
As the small frigate darted away, he took another look at the map.
Ahead, the Fifth Fleet approached the Citadel itself. Half of it was damaged from geth assaults, but the rest seemed intact. The quarian accompaniment were pulling feats he'd scarce credit such old ships, but were suffering losses as well, more geth approached from deep space; messages from other Relays suggested reinforcements from other areas. Every ship they destroyed seemed to be replaced by two more, frustrating in the extreme.
"Sir, Muspelheim is ordering a cleared lane," Pressley spoke up, loud and urgent.
Anderson inhaled a sharp breath. "Joker, get us out of here."
Almost before the words were out of his mouth, the ship danced upward, rotating on its own axis as it climbed.
He looked at the battleship's designation. The Muspelheim was the largest ship in the Alliance fleet, barring the carriers. It was the first of its class, the Armageddon grade battleship, likely named that by someone with too much testosterone and too little sense. It massed half again what a dreadnought boasted, most of it weaponry and armor. Right now, the massive warship was dueling four geth cruisers at long range, holding them off while whittling down the shields of a late-comer geth dreadnought.
Behind the battleship, three Alliance dreadnoughts lurked. While long, they lacked a battleship's defenses, electing to commit power into the main gun. Each dreadnought could obliterate a city at half-strength, but their target seemed far more durable than an unshielded dirt-bound edifice.
'Spent too much time in space,' Anderson shook his head. 'Starting to think like a squid.'
The main guns of all four vessels fired, launching hyper-accelerated rounds at the target. For reasons Anderson didn't understand, the Reaper was obliging, unmoving for long stretches of time if one ignored the meandering way its tentacles waved.
All four rounds struck home. By enhancing his view, Anderson could see the ripples across Sovereign's shields, dissipating the energy, yet the multi-megaton impacts did no physical damage.
"Normandy here, going closer. Transmitting data." Anderson knew Joker had heard, given how the deck tilted despite active inertial dampeners. "Guns: load torpedo tube one with CK-314. Authorization: Anderson One Seven Seven Six."
Pressley stepped up beside Anderson. He gave the captain a long look, then nodded. "Executive Officer concurs. Authorizing City-Killer three-one-four. Permissions code: Pressley One Nine Four Seven."
A flurry of acknowledgements responded. Anderson felt a slight sheen of perspiration building, and wiped it away. "Thank you, Mister Pressley."
The older man had no expression. A single nod indicted he'd heard.
Anderson focused on the Normandy's progress. Weapons of mass destruction were a contentious subject with most people. It was unreasonable to expect everyone on the ship to trust his judgement without reservation. Shepard left large shoes to fill, it seemed.
"Sir, geth craft incoming, bombers." a yeoman pawed at her board, eyes alight with excitement. "They appear to be shedding debris?"
"Clever bastards," Anderson growled. "Joker, new approach. Space is too big for that."
The Normandy tilted in response, gravity plates under the deck humming to keep its crew stable. "New course, headed for the big icky thing, zero-five-one mark three. Hope you didn't eat heavy today."
A terrific flash of light flared into existence outside, visible through the external cameras.
"What the hell …?" Anderson twisted to the screen. "Sensors, report."
"Frigate-class geth ship," one of the officers responded, voice pitching up. "It looks like they overloaded their core? But nothing's showing a kill solution on it."
"Easy, easy," Pressley's steady voice proved a calming influence. "Think. Geth are programmed for logic, they wouldn't do something like this for nothing. Is it a distraction?"
Anderson felt a sense of approval as a half-dozen heads tipped back over displays, passive scan results given new scrutiny. "Mobile mines, maybe. They have bombers scattering debris around the most obvious approach routes. It'll be hard to pass, for a few days maybe."
"Sir, the Muspelheim is reporting geth suicide attacks." Another officer stood up straight. "Negative … effects?"
The projection created a nauseating effect as it swung through the depths of space, focusing on the megalithic vessel's location. Debris showed where former assailants had once been, trailing back past the battleship's stern. Already a trail of processed metals, electronics and atomized combustibles marked the ship's progress, fading in the nebula's multi-hued vagaries.
"What on Earth …?" Anderson studied the image. Under his gaze the vessel plowed on, main gun launching a scintillating lance of destruction as it pushed on.
"There," Pressley's finger stabbed at the ship. "A geth cruiser just vanished – projected arrival here."
The screen blurred as an unknown effect obscured its output. Seconds later half of a ship reappeared, fresh debris splintering in all directions. One of the side-mounted Aitan batteries was already spitting its static discharge, playing lightning over the hulk's remains. Compressed gas detonated in the ship's remains, sending the once-cohesive mass of alien ship into a slow spin.
Anderson watched the battleship power through the remaining material, as if shouldering past a forest's low-hanging branches. Its main gun fired again, launching its projectile at the menacing object attached to the Citadel's pinnacle.
"Quarian dreadnoughts are now in range," Pressley observed. His words were met with the sight of the narrow, long vessels opening fire. A lack of atmosphere prevented true flash from occurring, but the super-conductors involved possessed more than enough power to project into the ion-carrying nebula. "Sovereign's shield is weakening."
"Hackett to all ships," a hoarse growl cut through the communicator. "We've made contact with Sovereign. Minefield is being established."
Presley looked startled. "A minefield? That's effective only around planets and chokepoints."
"Like a Relay," Anderson glanced back at a monitor showing the alien device. Its shimmering center spun in idle circles, rotating in random directions. "The entire Relay network is a series of chokepoints, don't forget."
Far away, on the other side of the fleet, a geth dreadnought appeared. Around its flanks a trio of cruisers and accompanying destroyers blinked into existence, FTL drives fading from their efforts. Their guns opened up, targeting a quarian cruiser flanking the furthest elements of the Fifth Fleet. More geth vessels began to appear, skidding into sight from all directions.
"Damn machines," Anderson growled. "Sitting out in the middle of dark space, just waiting to drop in."
Another Alliance vessel began to burn as he watched.
Pressley looked grim. "I hope Shepard is doing better than we are."
Serpent Nebula,
Widow System
Citadel Council Chambers
A faint humming from behind Shepard alerted him to a change in the environment. One of the Councilor podiums rose, making its slow, jerking path upwards.
"What is …?" Saren appeared to ignore him for the moment. "Sovereign?"
Shepard took advantage of his distraction to lob a grenade at the turian's feet. It landed on a combat boot, sticking to the surface like a limpet.
Embodying the same eerie motions Shepard recognized as prothean technology, the podium spun in a graceful arc, stopping to rest at the feet of an asari in combat field gear designed for academics in hostile research environments. He knew the Councilors were absent, which meant there was only one individual that could both be present, and possess the requisite knowledge for such a feat.
A dull roar of a hyper-accelerated round boomed, a split second after Saren's head jerked to one side. It was followed up by an iridescent burst of blue light, lofting over the Council's open chambers like a beach ball, drifting to make contact with the turian.
Shepard winced, and tapped the activator set into his gauntlet. An almost pure-white blast of his own joined the biotic technique, while at the same time his thumb made contact with the detonator.
Biotics was an interesting field of study, one that many kept on their research notifications. New techniques came and went with alarming frequency, but some were created and remained a staple for generations.
"Positive warp, negative push," Shepard closed his eyes. "Season with 'nades to taste."
The resulting explosion shredded Saren's concentration, making him stumble. The grenade detonated a split-second later, fracturing the omnipresent shield. A heartbeat after that, something large, weighing over a ton, and possessing the hard-won combat expertise of who knew how many centuries rammed into the former SPECTRE.
Wrex's impact would've knocked the wind out of anyone, in Shepard's estimation. But the krogan followed through, clutching the turian to himself in a mockery of endearment, carrying on the charge to make a very credible effort at planting Saren's upper torso through the armor-grade barrier making up the Council's private chambers.
Just as the old warrior pressed his shotgun to the turian's underjaw, Saren managed to lift a hand, pulsating a mass-dispersal technique. The gun slipped as it went off, its owner too massive to be thrown completely. The blast went off inside Saren's shield however, causing the first visible damage yet.
There was a metallic sound, and Wrex was shoved backwards, toppling like an old cedar. He looked down at the blade sticking out of his chest, and chuckled. "Missed both my hearts."
"We got you're back, Commander!" a metallic sounding voice boomed. A heartbeat later rapid-fire phosphorous rounds burned through the air, making contact with Saren's shield. Tracing the glowing streaks back, Shepard could make out the powered armor worn by Williams, and a trio of similar-armed marines. Alone, each could rip apart a standard armored vehicle with half of their armaments. The fact that Saren still stood was a testament to the enhancements he'd undergone.
"What is it with you humans and your death machines?" Saren's shoulders lowered, a faint whine emanating from somewhere inside his frame. "What kind of world would spawn a race capable of such a thing?"
Shepard raised his pistol once more. It seemed fruitless to do so; his Pioneer was an upper-tier sidearm, one of the most powerful of its kind. But when compared to a rotary carbine capable of chewing through a Mako lengthwise?
He slapped the weapon back. 'Be smart. Why is he still fighting? Why isn't he running? He'll be outnumbered …?'
The answer came when he refocused on his eyepiece. Dark energy flowed through the metallic tentacles spreading across the Presidium floor, wisping into Saren before rebounding into the Councilor's main platform.
A flash of inspiration came to mind; strange insectoid forms manipulating the panels, other functions of the Citadel rearranging themselves to their command. Shepard ignored the ornate robes worn by the bug-like creatures, choosing to identify each podium being used – podiums matching the same main input panels used by the Councilor's at each meeting. Panels that were hardwired into the Citadel's mainframe, with direct links to the Relays, sending and receiving messages from anywhere the network reached in real-time.
"Liara, Kaiden," Shepard assigned targets. "Take out the receivers. Full effort. Everyone else, keep Saren occupied."
Saren took a moment to understand, but when a dull glow began to illuminate the lengthy dais, a strained effort entered his body language. One hand came up, generating a blue haze that supported his shield against the combined fire, but the other pointed at the visible Alenko.
"Watch your back, Shepard." Wrex came into sight, on the opposite side of the chamber.
Shepard frowned. For months the old krogan epitomized brutal efficiency, but there had been hints of a cunning mind. His earlier attack had reinforced the brute force approach, a linear charge that had slammed Saren into the wall. But now, Wrex moved with the same deceptive delicacy he'd seen in asari Justicar. The footwork helped build up momentum somehow, passing energy through the entire body's nodules instead of a localized event.
Shepard scrambled, charging a new attack in his Nightstalker's gauntlet. If Wrex knew the methods of the Justicar, there would be hell to pay later.
Ahead, Wrex cut a diagonal approach towards Saren, allowing the powered armor units to maintain their constant barrage as long as possible – Shepard sprinted to get an angle in time.
"Shepard!" Saren's other hand launched a crackling blast of actinic light, enveloping Shepard's armor with an electronic assault. "You have no idea what you are fighting against!"
The elite N7 soldier crumpled to the ground. By the greatest of fortune his gauntlet's charge had yet to achieve full potential, so that the debilitating attack hadn't set it off. 'Ow. Too slow. Again.'
But on the other side, Wrex's approach came with speed. A deep purple shimmer darkened his friend's complexion, growing in magnitude as he almost danced across the floor. Teeth were bared, eyes glared a madder red color, proving the old krogan was in the midst of a full Battle Rage, yet paradoxically retaining control. The joy of combat was not just a unique trait amongst krogan; turians took to war as utter professionals, and asari elevated it to an art form.
Krogan knew war as a way of life.
Wrex made contact, shoving the turian back a half-step before the turian's superior hardware stopped the momentum. But the turian was unprepared for the old Battle Master's next move, reaching through Saren's barrier, grabbing his metal-encrusted throat. "My turn."
Shepard triggered a Warp from the ground, reducing the gauntlet's integrity by a significant percentage, but landing a potent hit on the Saren's shield. The energy roiled, diffusing against Saren's shield generator.
Saren reared back, then slammed his head into Wrex's fore-plate. Metal rang like a bell.
Grunting, Wrex returned the favor, denting the metal armor protecting the turian's cranial ridges. "Make my people slaves?" He repeated the action, hammering the turian's skull. "Clone 'em?"
Behind, the massive structure shuddered, dropping bits of metal and support beams. The iridescent sheen intensified, producing a groaning sound that overwhelmed the chaotic noise of battle.
Shepard looked up, and redoubled his efforts. Rolling twice to the left, he managed to find himself beside a plinth. The structure provided enough support for him to regain his footing. Glaring at the former SPECTRE, Shepard released his stored biotic event, and sprinted forwards, making the recalcitrant armor obey out of sheer force of will.
Violent crashing made the floor shudder beneath Shepard's feet. Bits of metal landed at his heels, metallic shrapnel bouncing off his armor. Out beyond the chamber several geth units turned to focus their sensors on the spectacle, some paying for that indiscretion with their hardware.
He ignored them, spinning back to see the entire Council platform descending en masse, uncountable tons of hardened advanced material crashing into the ground. Some of the former platform seemed to dig belowwhat the ground seemed capable of supporting, dropping into the next level down and beyond if, the still-sliding sheets gave any indication.
"Good work!" he called at the glowing asari, still standing at a higher ridge. She gestured back, a powerful wave emanating from her hand to fling a pair of geth units off the Presidium into space.
A shrill scream caught his attention. Shepard seized an assault rifle from where a fallen light-assault trooper had dropped it, and flipped its stock around to proper firing position. It was already loaded with armor-penetrating modifications, a fact he tested on the former SPECTRE's protections at once.
"Do you even know what you've done?" Saren held up a hand, generating a shield that repelled Shepard's continued fire. Wrex was to one side, looking damaged, but intact. Saren on the other hand sported heavy damage on his right pauldrons and deep grooves on his cranial armor. "You have doomed us all, you fool!"
Shepard didn't bother answering. His assault rifle was already primed and spitting rounds down-range. Like the pistol, this too failed to penetrate the turian's shield. But it seemed that so long as he kept shooting, the turian had no way of responding.
"The Reapers will spare those they deem useful," Saren continued. "My failure to retrieve the Conduit almost destroyed our chances of survival, but I proved myself! I earned the galaxy a chance to live!"
It was hard to not hate the man. Shepard swapped to polonium rounds as the heavy marines took a turn firing brief bursts into the monster's shield. But he took a moment to respond. "Better to die on your feet, than live on your knees."
Saren's responding laugh was at once pitiful and mocking. "Naïve, Shepard. How idealistic of you. How arrogant! Who gave you the right to decide the fate on behalf of the entire galaxy? Typical human, thinking with your glands instead of your brain."
Shepard blinked, pausing to stare at the turian. "There's so much wrong with that statement, I don't know where to start." Drawing his sword again, he marched forward. "How about the mind-jacked turian lies down like a good spawnling, and lets the adults take care of the big, scary Reapers. Hmm?"
Even if his condition prevented recognizing turian facial expressions, he could tell the former SPECTRE's mood by the distinct sound of grinding teeth. Turians possessed the highest number of carnivorous teeth of any sentient species; the infamous fang eels from Mindoir's more tropical ocean paled in comparison. When those metallic structures were stroked against each other, it created a sound not unlike cracking glass.
When Saren struck, it was without warning. Dark blue light coruscated along his metal-like arm, coming out in a spear of light.
Shepard had never heard, let alone seen an attack like that. Rational thought suggested a ploy, projected light to deceive a foe into altering tactics. Instinct disagreed. Siding with the less intellectual portion of his mind, he twisted aside, and was glad of it.
The metal deck melted beneath the strike, gaining an incandescent orange glow. Shepard dropped the warped assault rifle, taking a quick scan through his eyepiece; the strands of dark energy wafting from the metal tentacle to Saren were dying away, not as fast as the raw power fading from the once podium constructs, but vanishing nonetheless.
"The Relay will open!" Saren's cultivated tones were frayed, whether through exertion or madness was difficult to discern. "Sovereign has promised his blessings upon all who assist our Righteous cause!"
"Tell it to the marines!" Shepard felt inspiration strike, and threw the entire clip of ECM grenades at the former SPECTRE. The turian made a strange hopping motion, as if something else controlled his body. But the grenades made contact with the floor at his feet, triggering the entire cluster at once.
Once upon a time, electronic countermeasures did nothing to humans. But in the modern era, hardware had improved to the point where what was needed to stop tech could also stop a human's nervous system. The resulting flash was brighter than a direct lightning bolt, at first freezing Shepard's feet to the floor as the mag-clamps activated, then reversing polarity and blasting him into the wall.
The turian bent backwards at an angle no organic should've been able to survive, screaming. Duel tones interwove his cry, joined by an inhuman bellow that made the floor shake. Thick metal tendrils twisted backwards, ripping apart the superstructure as if in pain. One extended to the former SPECTRE, growing thinner until the tip made contact with Saren's torso.
Gravity shifted, the single largest Singularity he'd ever seen outside of a capital ship. Arcs of energy rose from his body and back to the ground, secondary bolts skittering across the floor in lesser imitations of their progenitors. A blast of atomized, unstable compounds filled the air with a harsh, chemical flavor; geth units incapable of withstanding the charge.
After a moment that lasted an eternity, the energy pulse faded.
'Bad plan.' Shepard couldn't breathe. Air swirled around his nostrils, yet his lungs couldn't quite begin the inhalation process. Dark spots began to sparkle throughout his vision. 'Really bad plan. Saren – not normal. Reaction over what I thought possible.'
Spending another lifetime in effort, he managed to gasp a tiny breath, and then another. A half-eternity later, his body stopped locking up, releasing his head to lie limp on the ground. 'Saren. Gotta pound his face in.'
Motivation sent fire through his limbs, yet the obedience trained through years of hard effort failed to work. The individual parts tingled, points of contact making ghost-impressions against his skin, despite it being encased under multiple layers of the best armor the Alliance ever created.
"Shepard, Galahad here." That was the call sign his brother used when on Alliance frequencies. He used it only in emergencies. "Picked up the package, safe and sound. Now kick that bastard's ass to the moon and back!"
Package? He'd left James with the nuclear warhead down in the warehouse district. When did he …?
'Package?' There had been a little girl, with a small stuffed varren. Like the lost toy on Eden Prime. Like the toys on Mindor almost twenty years earlier, never again to see their owner's smile.
'Package.' Without thinking, Shepard rolled onto his front. The weight of a neutron star held his limbs down, but could not keep them from sliding. 'James. Lily. Talitha."
A rumble shuddered through his ribcage. Anger was nothing compared to the emotion kept bottled too long. This was beyond hatred. Hatred was an unreasoning monster, turning good people into felons. No, Shepard had mastered those paltry feelings long before. This state rested in the limpid waters beyond mere rage, where pure logic was available, yet empowered by the unbridled, unreasoning fury of a creature adapted to an environment which would kill asari, turians and salarians alike.
"Saren." He lifted his head, and saw the target. It too, rested on its back a mere handful of strides away. "Saren!"
Elbow-crawling was one of the first skills taught any raw recruit. If one was under fire, if a leg was broken, if all the companies of hell were unleashed in their terrifying aura, you crawled. So Shepard crawled, heaving a lump of a forearm ahead, tensing the muscle while clenching the large muscles in the opposite leg. Awkward, slow, but as steady as the wrath of a fallen angel.
He made progress, inching forward. Halfway there, Shepard saw his target stir. The turian's head lolled to one side, then froze in his direction.
'Mine.' Shepard felt strength returning to his body. His shoulders rose above ground level, reducing the strain on his neck. He paid no thought to the pistol lying on the floor what might as well have been a mile off, or the sword still attached to the small of his back. Visions of stuffed toys lying scattered around a kitchen table ran through his brain.
His pace picked up, semi-rising and lunging forwards. Shepard bared his teeth with the effort, sucking in great lungful's of air.
"Sovereign will reward us!" Saren's voice was thin, raspy. It held no resemblance to the powerful presence he'd displayed before. He started to drag himself away, left leg and right arm seeming to not respond. "You humans are all brutes. Animals! Kar'Shan, Lementos, Shanxi! Monsters!"
Shepard reached out, and seized the turian's ankle, stopping his retreat. By now he'd recovered enough to crawl on hands and knees, pinning the former SPECTRE underneath his weight. He looked down at the turian's face. Its similarity to the nightmarish visage of another turian sent his mind what felt like years before, awash in the seas of memory, facial features blurred as all such things did over time. But this face held none of Nihlus's inner nobility – Saren's face bespoke lies and treachery.
Shepard smiled. 'Those that lie, cannot stop. Even when they desire to tell the truth.'
"Compliment accepted." He raised himself up, and began one of the most satisfactory beat downs he'd ever taken pleasure in delivering.
He gained strength as he continued, rearing back to add more force. A human's stamina recovered faster than turians, it appeared, and Shepard was a highly trained marine in full armor. Alone he weighed over two hundred pounds; in armor, his weight almost doubled. That armor was recovering, servos re-engaging to reduce the dead weight.
"Wait!" Saren's ability to talk was astounding, given the amount of damage Shepard had delivered. "I can speak for you! Sovereign –"
Shepard remembered the ulfberht at long last, and drew it. "Sovereign will be dead soon. Like you."
The coup de grâce, was an ancient technique, practiced on everything from mortally wounded knights to animals too far from help. Shepard utilized it with the same cold efficiency he'd administered to any pirate. In the end, it didn't matter. SPECTRE, pirate king, or predatory Artificial Intelligence; evil needed to be destroyed. Letting it escape was unacceptable.
His sword rose and fell, administering the last rites all soldiers knew possible. To make certain, he decapitated the turncoat turian.
The moment he did so the entire Presidium shook. A booming cry, louder than the engines of a cruiser on its initial atmospheric liftoff, shattered everything made of glass. Shepard became aware of the metal extension formerly attached to the Presidium podium. Its dark length ran to the edge of the Chamber, ascending through a barrier-shielded void, disappearing from sight.
His gaze shifted to other points in the Presidium. Massive indentations marked a wide circle around the roof, marks from the kilometer-long Reaper's presence. As he watched, another dent hammered its way into the Citadel's flesh, sending everything attached to the interior connecting panels flying.
Shepard looked down, grimacing. "Idiot. Well, not your problem anymore. Rest in peace, Saren Arterius. Looks like I won't have any for a while."
Serpent Nebula,
Widow System,
Citadel Region
One of the sensors officers made sudden motions, his fellows mimicking him a moment later. "Sir, Sovereign is moving."
"On display," Anderson ordered.
The resulting image confirmed the officer's observation. The Reaper was raising its tentacles, drifting along the Citadel's superstructure. It seemed … angry. The long limbs were taking jerky, angular motions across the mammoth station's hull, letting the monstrosity drift with surprising speed for something so large.
"He did it …" Anderson breathed. "He killed Saren."
"Sir?" his Navigator looked puzzled.
Anderson waved it off. "Why else would it give up on the Presidium? Its pawn failed. Comms, get me Admiral Hackett. Tell him to watch for more geth activity."
The Admiral's hoarse voice came over the speakers moments later. "Captain. You believe Saren is dead?"
"Yes sir," Anderson responded. He glanced at the combat map. "Without Saren, the geth will be pushing, hard."
"They started already," the distant commander seemed amused. "We're handling it. Can you get close to Sovereign?"
"We can." Anderson let his resolve show for the crew's benefit, back straightening, and shoulders steady. "Just give us the word."
"Do it."
"Yes sir. Beginning attack run. Normandy clear." Anderson switched focus. "Pressley, intercept course. Let's drop that thing."
He could feel the bridge's energy levels rising. A good captain could sense that no matter where he was, or he didn't deserve the title. Having a specific goal brought a crew together in a way nothing else could.
"Engines." Anderson leaned closer to the comm panel. "Report."
"A second, sir," static filled the channel for a moment. "There we go. Everything is operating at full capacity. Well, almost full, sir."
"Any problems with the stealth?" Anderson asked.
"No sir, Tali is watching it like a hawk."
His eyebrows rose towards a receding hairline. "Not with Shepard?"
There was a moment of audible hesitation. "I believe she's looking after the Normandy until he gets back, sir."
He had to chuckle at that. "And the boy says he has no people skills."
"Sorry sir, say again?"
"Nothing," Anderson responded. "Carry on."
"Aye, sir."
Anderson keyed off the transmission, and stood in place, just watching the projection. It looked like a model from the current perspective, a toy with a miniature squid-like thing ambulating across its base. But his mind was far from the battlefield at the moment, remembering a fiery young man with haunted eyes.
'Well done, Shepard.' He let the memories go with fondness. 'You did it. Now get away safe. Live a quiet life.'
A quiet throat-clearing brought his attention back to the present. "Yes, Navigator?"
The bald man nodded at the display. "Sovereign is attaching itself to the Citadel, on the other side."
"Is it now?" Anderson studied the readouts. The cumbersome squid-like ship had indeed clambered to the far side of the Citadel's most prestigious dwelling locale. The station's arms were wide open, geth ships drifting around the outstretched extensions like clumps of chaff. "Interesting. Very interesting."
"Course laid in, interception in fifteen minutes," Pressley pushed a data slate across the main projector table. "We'll catch it."
"It's hiding," Anderson nodded. "If it hides, it can bleed. If it can bleed, it can die."
A chorus of affirming murmurs erupted around the bridge. That was good, he knew; confidence was critical. Fear could inspire great deeds, but confidence left fewer mistakes.
The next waiting period was some of the most difficult in Anderson's life. While in stealth, communication with the Citadel was out of the question; calls to the Relay would be intercepted by the fleet, which could then make full-power broadcasts intercepted by the Normandy. But communicating with a single soldier's receiver required focus and constant output, two factors that could betray their position to any half-wit with a penchant for triangulation.
The Normandy's progress could be observed on his main display, showing the Citadel and his own vessel, in exaggerated proportions. Were their actual size ratios given, there would be a glowing wall on one side of the screen and a thumb-nail sized copy of a frigate hovering at the opposite side. But as the two grew closer, their relative sizes grew closer to something resembling reality.
"What is it doing?" he mused.
Pressley looked over, as if seeking confirmation that his input was unneeded, then looked back to his work. A Navigator did more than chart courses, he monitored passing objects and other ships. The mutterings of a superior officer did not require a response.
Anderson spent another precious handful of seconds watching the monstrous alien Reaper, then dismissed it. 'Can't do anything until we get closer. How is the ship doing?'
He slapped the controls, bringing its results before his eyes. 'Shields at full, engines full. Cannon charged, torpedoes fifty percent depleted. One fight and running low.' He swapped to a more detailed analysis, checking the rundown on specifics, and nodded. 'Debilitating effects. Still have hard penetration. Good.'
Switching an eye over towards the personnel. 'No injuries, good. Hope it stays that way. Quarians are doing well, shipboard efficiency at … over a hundred percent? Shepard you are a miracle worker.'
"Three minutes," Pressley's quiet interruption brought him out of combat analysis to the present.
"Good," Anderson didn't waste time. "Guns: arm PC-314."
Audible confirmation raised the room's tension, shoulders drawing low, jaws clenching. Dozens of screens distributed around the bridge showed similar images, various scans of Sovereign's unstoppable bulk moving inan unholy rhythm. It looked like something from the depths of an unending nightmare, the kind a human mind would force itself to forget in self-defense.
Around him the crew grew silent, conversing in quiet mutters. Every keystroke sounded like its perpetrator was attempting to both strike the haptic interface and reduce the sonic feedback at the same time.
"Minefield is in place," Hackett's calm baritone emanated through the open channels. "All units regroup around capital ships and focus fire on the current targets."
Anderson glanced down, noting the reduced Alliance ship count; at least eight cruisers were destroyed, along with two destroyers and a number of smaller vessels. Fortunately the amount of geth wreckage seemed to indicate a far higher number of synthetic aliens had paid the price for it. Even as he looked at the screen another wreckage bloomed into existence where no ship had fired.
He smirked. If used with intelligence, minefields looked to be a promising branch of vacuum warfare. Even a super-intelligence collective like the geth seemed to be adapting, but not soon enough.
"We will be within range in ten seconds, Captain." Pressley glanced up, serious gray eyes meeting his own. "Nine. Eight."
"Stand by Guns," Anderson checked the firing solutions panel, tracing the number of alliance vessels with a clear line of fire. Sovereign had been clever, placing the Citadel between it and the bulk of alliance heavy vessels. He paused, then highlighted the Reaper as a target on his own board. Its color shifted from steady red to a pulsating hue. "Target painted."
A few moments later one of the sensors officers spoke up. "Missile cruisers confirm target lock. Launching. ETA thirty seconds."
On-screen the Reaper paused, and turned. Its shields brightened, visible in the refracting miasma that was a nebula. Its gargantuan form gave the impression of … amusement.
"Steady," Anderson placed a hand on the rail, refusing to override the firing commands. "Steady …."
"Impact in twenty seconds," there was a pause, "Fifteen."
"Fire." Anderson felt amazed at his calmness. Such a weapon had never been used by the Alliance; the last such deployment had been by a colonial auxiliary fleet almost thirty years prior. "And may God have mercy on our souls."
The payload was visible for a moment, a dark shadow arcing through the nebula's shifting haze. Then it was gone, as stealthy as the ship that had launched it. In response the Normandy pulled back, arcing high and away.
"City-buster away," one of the sensors officers reported. "Contact in eight seconds."
"Missiles making contact in ten." Another officer added. "Nine."
The divergent arcs made an interesting bit of artwork on Anderson's panel. First was the city-crushing weapon, flaring an eerie shade of neon orange. Then the dozens of missiles followed, each tracing a smaller, dimmer line. It felt as if the Normandy itself was holding its breath, although he knew it impossible.
"Contact." Pressley murmured.
Out in the shrouding mists floating in the vacuum of space, the foremost missile proceeded at the astronomical equivalent of a meandering saunter, and slipped beneath Sovereign's shields. The tips of its obfuscated extensions made contact, and went still. A second later the entire Reaper's form fluoresced.
However, nothing else happened, other than a somewhat quizzical gesture by Sovereign's mechanical tentacles.
Anderson's fist rose and fell, smacking into the guardrail. "Da—"
A heartbeat before he finished the word, the rest of the missiles passed through Sovereign's former shielding. Almost two hundred missiles crashed into its hull, a dull yellow explosion of energy swelling after the first few projectiles made contact, highlighting their slower counterparts. The later arrivals swelled the fiery explosion larger, until the misshapen ovoid enveloped the Reaper's midsection.
"It's vulnerable!" Hackett snapped out over the communicator. "Take that monster down!"
One of the dreadnoughts had drifted enough to possess an angle. Its hyper-accelerated round struck Sovereign hard enough to push the Reaper sideways, if not completely off the Citadel's Presidium. But it was enough to make it open for the rest of the Alliance fleet.
Anderson's hands clenched the guard rail. There was nothing he could do but watch and pray. The Reaper had been struck by a device designed to weaponized molecular destabilization on an unheard-of scale, a weapon that's very existence would send shockwaves through Alliance space, let alone Council space. The turians would want a copy, and the salarians would be sending their best infiltration teams to gain just a hint of its capabilities. But it hadn't even phased the Reaper.
'Or did it?'
Anderson frowned to himself. Sovereign had paused. He was sure of it.
"It's dying!" Pressley's excited voice broke him from his musings. He returned to the main projector depicting the oversized alien vessel. "There!"
It seemed to be true. The massive vessel was down a limb, a structure longer than Alliance cruisers. It drifted into empty space, a slow, unending twirl.
"Whoa!" Joker's voice skipped through the intercom. The Normandy jerked, the crew to clutching at anything to remain on their feet. Via the main projection, Anderson saw a blur cover the main sensor. "Geth came outta nowhere, fastest power-up I've ever seen."
Anderson pursed his lips, and refocused. Sovereign was hurting now, a vast rent showing in its superstructure. There was no reciprocating atmosphere cloud escaping through the opening, which meant either the single Reaper possessed a barrier network containing enough resources to build a Hephaestus station, or it had no living crew.
He wasn't sure which possibility was more terrifying.
Tiny lines appeared in the nebula, tracing back towards the dreadnoughts. A somewhat thicker line from the Muspelheim appeared a fraction of a second later, followed by shuddering motions on Sovereign's form.
By now the quarian vessels had regrouped, and were fighting back against the geth with a ferocity Anderson felt a krogan could admire. Whatever effect the Alliance capital ships had, it seemed to prevent geth suicide vessels from performing their devastating sacrificial attacks, and the quarians were taking full advantage of that safety. They appeared to be swarming around the Alliance vessels, trading long-range fire with their geth counterparts.
The Reaper convulsed, twisting so its main gun was aimed in the Normandy's general direction. Burning yellow light scorched the silent void, seeking the hidden frigate.
"Well done, Joker," Anderson hung onto the rail once more, the ship's artificial gravity insufficient to maintain their equanimity. "Get us out of here."
"You got it," the pilot's voice responded. "Taking us up, up and away!"
Anderson could hear a quiet susurration on the Engineering panel, Tali responding to other quarian inquiries. A part of his mind wondered when the first Kal-el would appear, but it was a consideration for another time, and perhaps those less familiar with human heroic legends.
Behind he could see Sovereign's death throes, thrusters the size of half a fighter squadron igniting strange colors, like a poorly-maintained forge. Another arm was hanging, not quite free but of no use. Successive hits connected with its main fuselage, wreaking heavy damage. Bursts of uncanny lighting, colors he couldn't recognize on a full-spectrum analyzer, erupted from jagged openings.
That triggered a thought. "Grieco," he turned to the blonde man running sensors. "How are we doing on scans?"
"Running out of storage," the officer responded. "Been recording the full spectrum, just like you told us."
"Use up the auxiliary if you have to," Anderson adjusted his view. "Coming up on the minefield. What is—holy mother of -!"
Ahead, the Relay which serviced the Serpent Nebula spun its unhurried pattern. But the minefield situated around it roiled like some unholy mysticism, eruptions of cold blue light and the hurried motions of rushed trajectory calculations. Debris fields highlighted where each geth vessel had found an unexpected device of destruction.
As he watched, another two explosions went off, each doing substantial damage to the surviving geth. There were far more than expected, coming from the depths surrounding the Citadel. Anderson shivered. If all the geth had attacked at once, it would have been swarm behavior from the onset – not an impossible situation, but far worse than what had happened. He made a mental note to bring it up in his next debriefing.
But a brighter light drew his attention. An explosion fueled by dark matter and energy, bright as a semi-distant nova. Sovereign, drifting away from the Citadel, exploded.
Anderson watched the pyrotechnics, waiting until its illumination faded. He could see follow-up rounds from the capital ships continue, tearing apart the dead Reaper's frame, almost as if in slow-motion. He waited a deep breath. Then another. The Reaper didn't move, even when a round struck the broadest part of the hull, cracking it like an egg.
He exhaled. This had to be recorded for posterity. For Shepard, at least. "Get me the Muspelheim."
Seconds later the comm officer nodded confirmation.
"Normandy to Muspelheim. Scratch one Reaper. Repeat: Sovereign is down."
As the response came back, he felt a faint reverberation through his shoes. Shepard had always been more sensitive to such things, but he could feel it too this time. Faint cheers emanating throughout the ship, relief at the end of a threat, the success of a long, hard mission.
Keying the comm once more, he switched to the inter-ship system. "This is Captain Anderson. Well done. I say again: well done."
A/N: Well. Here we go. A chapter that has been four years in the making, and over eight rewrites, not including the bits and pieces added and scrapped as lore points were changed during the previous 30-odd chapters. It's not the end, there will be at least two more chapters to go, but this is the highlight of the game and most fanfic tales for ME1.
A deep thanks to Nightstride, whom has beta'd this story and its predecessor since near the beginning of my career, the Nightstalker armor was named in honor of his support. Thanks also to Oklina for the brilliant conversations, and Cutlass, whom has a true gift for cutting through engineering/physics boondoggle.
I am teaching my classes already (time flies, eh?), and applying for doctoral colleges, and possible other employment. I hope to finish this story before the end of 2021, but life has a way of being funny sometimes. Thank you for reading, reviewing, and commenting. I am currently working on a chapter for my Marvel tale (fascinating opportunities there), another Harry Potter story on my alternate account (ChucktheElf), and a Warhammer40k/Mass Effect crossover, suggested by 1. So much fun writing time, too little time to write. Now I just need to hijack a certain phone booth ...
Until next time! Excelsior!
