A/N: Okay, so, uh, yeah. I exist. Shhh.
This is... frankly, pretty terrible. But I have to get through it if I want to get to the tasty tasty bits to come.
1537 local time, Spectre headquarters, the Citadel:
"Let me get this straight," Shepard said wearily, rubbing at her temples. "you mean to tell me that not only am I encouraged to break the law in order to accomplish my goals, but it's actually a mandatory part of my position?!"
"That is correct, Spectre," the VI's synthesized voice intoned. "In order to offer plausible deniability to the Council, prevent Spectres from being predictable, and to encourage building bonds with nongovernmental agencies, the Citadel Council does not provide its Spectres with equipment."
"Well, what does the Council give me, then?" she huffed. The Spectres gave access, at least according to popular rumor, but if she had to build an entire intelligence network on her own to even start tracking down Saren...
"Spectres are given full access to all government databases for governments with a significant presence on the Citadel, including but not limited to STG exploratory findings, turian military analysis, time-shifted volus financial databases, and several asari house data networks. Limited access is available to systems alliance military intelligence networks, hanar linguistic heuristic analysis, and multiple corporate databases."
She blinked. That was significant.
"Additionally, Spectres are given control-level access to all corporate facilities that have business in Council space."
"What's control-level access?" she asked.
"Spectres may issue command-level orders to corporate systems, but are not given access to corporate research and development unless access is specifically granted by Council order."
"So I can open all the doors in a corporate R&D laboratory, but I can't take their findings."
"I'm sorry, this terminal is not equipped to offer commentary on-"
She waved her hand with an eyeroll. The restrictions on artificial intelligence were a three-hundred year old overreaction to the geth, and she'd heard the "not equippted to offer commentary" line multiple times over the hours she'd been working through her Spectre orientation.
"So I am required to get my own funding," she said. "Fine. What methods have other Spectres employed to enable their activities?"
"I am sorry, but the activities of other Spectre agents are classified unless-"
She sighed. "Right, cancel that. Okay..."
She pursed her lips. She needed funding, and the thing made clear that while wholesale robbery and theft were permitted they were not encouraged. Not only did it upset multiple people, it generated an incredible amount of paperwork and infuriated insurance companies.
That left several paths open to her.
She could go ask the Systems Alliance for resources. She'd be almost certain to get them, too, given that it seemed traditional for a species' government to provide most of the baseline equipment (guns, armor, ammunition, transportation, etc.) required for operations.
Come to think of it, the Normandy would be a perfect fit for this task: Stealth systems, a skilled crew, and a Captain that wants to stop Saren more than I do. I'll have to see if I can wrangle that one. Maybe lay on the guilt for screwing me over with this job in the first place...
The only downside with relying on the Systems Alliance for support was that they could be remarkably tightfisted when it came to discretionary funds. They had a (fairly proper, in her opinion) distaste of unsupervised black ops, which meant that getting a nice fat government line of credit was almost certainly a no-go.
That left crime, other governments, wealthy individuals, or corporations as her options.
Thanks to her time with the Reds, she knew enough about most criminal enterprises that she didn't want to depend on them. Nor did she want the stain on her reputation if any association became known. It was one thing to be feared by the underworld for her ability, it was another thing entirely to be its boss. No. She would keep the criminal elements at arms length if at all possible.
Other governments were a possibility, but she somehow doubted the governments that would be interested in gaining the favor of humanity would be in the position to provide the kind of support she wanted.
Actually, the quarians might be. I'll have to ask them if something else doesn't turn up.
She jotted down a note on her omni-tool and set the thought aside.
Wealthy individuals were something of a wild card. She had no problem using her authority as Spectre to help individuals out in exchange for the kind of funding she needed, but the simple fact remained that few individuals in the galaxy would be interested in doing so, because almost anything obtainable by a Spectre could also be obtained (for far less money than she'd need) by a thug or other less-than-legal entity.
That meant that only people who absolutely needed her Spectre authority would consider working with her, or those that were interested in her for being the "first human Spectre" or some such nonsense. I'll go there if I need to, but that's really a last resort.
The only thing remaining on the list were corporations. Which wasn't a bad option, come to think of it.
Corporations had advanced R&D laboratories, large budgets, and having her field-test their equipment could be worth a pretty penny. She would also almost certainly end up fighting geth, given their apparent alliance with Saren, and anyone with half an interest in technology would be all over any information or pieces she could drag back.
As a final boon, she'd be heading out into the Traverse. The Citadel, not wanting to start a war, had forbidden companies from surveying or setting up mining operations. It was a choice that made sense, because a huge "gold rush" into the Traverse would almost certainly cause an incident. Now, a couple discreet mining operations, on the other hand... they could go unnoticed or get dismissed as a wildcat operation, and wouldn't be likely to anger anyone.
So that's it, then. Time to become L Shepard, first human Spectre and corporate whore.
She smiled to herself. It would certainly beat actual whoring.
While she personally had never been involved in that particular trade, the Reds had tried their hands at all kinds of profit-seeking ventures over the years, and she'd seen the downward turn that the lives of a lot of the 'working men and women' had taken. And if I'm being perfectly honest, we played a fairly big part in most of their downward spirals.
She sighed, letting the train of thought wander off into the mists and focused back at the task at hand. "VI, please assemble a list of all interplanetary corporate interests with representatives on the Citadel that specialize in mineral extraction, refinement, artificial intelligence, virtual intelligence, robotics, networking, or weapons research."
"Done. Three thousand, six hundred and forty seven entities match your list."
She winced. That was a bit long. "Omit corporate entities with fewer than five hundred employees."
"Done. Six hundred and twelve entities match your list."
Still too long. "Exclude all entities that did not have an net income of at least two hundred million credits per standard year or that did not return a profit."
"Done. One hundred and twenty six entities match your list."
That's better. "Please append contact information for the public representatives of each of those corporations to the list and send it to my omni-tool."
Her omni-tool beeped. "Done. Awaiting query."
She let out another long sigh and called up the next chapter of the Spectre orientation that the archive personnel had given her.
I never thought I'd miss the villa, she thought wryly as the chapter loaded and the VI began speaking again.
1602 local time, SSV Normandy SR1, the Citadel:
"-which means you're officially on the roster now, Chief. Welcome to the Normandy," Anderson said with a wide smile.
"Thank you, Sir!" Ashley said, the corners of her mouth twitching as she snapped a formal salute. "It's an honor to be here."
"Indeed it is," he said. "Now, as for your duties. We're parked for the moment so there isn't a whole lot to do, but you should definitely get to know the marine complement we have. Normally I'd have you spend time with the XO, but-"
A sharp beep over the ship's intercom interrupted the Captain, who glanced toward the speaker mounted into the wall. "Incoming urgent private communication request for Captain Anderson," the VI's synthesized voice stated calmly.
His brows narrowed. "VI, identify sender and origin," he stated clearly.
"Origin: Arcturus Stream, Arcturus Station, Admiralty House. Sender: Admiral Steven Hackett, 5th Fleet, Systems Alliance."
He smiled. "Excellent. Chief, I'm afraid we'll have to finish this later. I think the news finally made it back home."
Ashley nodded and saluted again. "Understood, Sir. I hope they're happy."
He shrugged, turning to head for his door. "We'll find out, won't we?" he called out over his shoulder.
The door closed behind him with a quiet beep.
Ashley Williams really was a good soldier, he thought to himself. She'd get along well with Pressly, although he hoped that both of them would learn to look beyond the old wars. In this, he agreed with Shepard: The Alliance needed to make more friends. At least his XO had done well by getting accepted into the Spectres.
Brushing the thoughts aside, he leaned over the the fixed terminal on his desk and tapped the slowly pulsing button, the display filling the room with an orange glow while the system read his biometric data.
"Welcome, Captain Anderson," the terminal beeped after a moment. "Accept incoming communication from-"
He waved a hand at the machine. "Yes, yes, take him off of hold," he said.
The screen hung for a moment, then evaporated into the grizzled and scarred face of Admiral Steven Hackett, CO of 5th Fleet and one of Anderson's good friends.
"Steven, it's good to hear from you again," he said as soon as the link stabilized. "You would not believe the number of requests for comments I've gotten in the last few hours. I think it's more than I've seen in the previous few decades."
The old man smiled. "I can imagine," he said. "I think you finally managed to catch the Intelligence types with their pants around their legs. I don't think they expected you to move so quickly, and so they never told public relations to expect a rush."
Anderson snorted. "Serves them right for underestimating us." He paused. "Well, underestimating Shepard, at least. I can't take credit for this, Sir – she moved on this one on her own. I have to admit, it surprised me."
"Surprised you?" Hackett asked. "How?"
The Captain's brow furrowed. Hackett was one of the few other people in the galaxy that knew who, and more importantly what, Shepard was. Udina, the human ambassador to the Citadel Council, knew. He knew. Steven Hackett knew. A doctor on Earth and two of his associates knew. Several trainers in the villa knew.
Knew that Shepard didn't fight for the Alliance, for humanity, or even for vengeance or hatred. That she fought for herself, and only a very precarious balance of power kept her fighting for them.
Which, in truth, made her actions after Eden Prime all the more alarming. She had woken up, seemed as normal as she ever did, and gone about her day with the same smooth professionalism that was her hallmark. She listened politely, reacted calmly, and moved with the same friendly-yet-professional purpose that she always seemed to possess.
Except for those that knew her, there was more to it. It was one thing to do one's duty, it was another thing entirely to throw oneself with vigor and ingenuity into solving a problem and gaining a position that, by her own admission not twenty four hours prior, she didn't want. Hell, she'd nearly torn his head off – literally, he suspected – when he finally explained the blackmail they had decided to threaten her with.
She'd even had a way out. She could have easily failed to turn up evidence, and nobody could blame her. She was a soldier, for crying out loud, not a private eye or an investigator. She hadn't even finished grade school! Nobody would blink twice if she failed to navigate the byzantine path through Citadel politics that lead her to evidence of Saren's treason.
That she'd pushed as hard as she had said that she wanted to be a Spectre... and that was in spite of her earlier protest.
He realized he'd left the Admiral hanging and shook himself. "She was... dedicated. You know she didn't want this," he said, and his tone made it clear that it was a statement, not a question.
Hackett nodded. "Yes."
Anderson pursed his lips. "Well, she sure as hell worked like she wanted it when she was after the evidence for Saren. It wasn't like she was lacking for outs, either. A lot of ways she could have have fulfilled her duty to us without impressing the Council, or in a way that rendered her unfit for Spectredom, with us none the wiser. No, Sir," he said formally, "I definitely think she wanted this. And frankly? That scares me."
The Admiral sighed slowly, leaning back in his chair. "Any idea why?"
Because she believes me about Saren, maybe? "I don't know. It could be she believes me about Saren, but..." he trailed off again. "Somehow I don't think I have the whole picture, and I hate working in the dark."
"Understandable," Hackett said sympathetically, although they both knew that working in the dark was sadly necessary. "Have you asked her about it yet? She might tell you."
He considered the proposal. It was a fair request, actually – she had never been bothered by people asking her why she did things, and was usually willing to explain her motives. Even if he did find them chilling most of the time.
Still, it hadn't even been an option, as she'd vanished right after the ceremony into the bowels of the Spectre headquarters on the Citadel and hadn't been heard from since.
"No. I haven't even seen her since the ceremony. I had a meeting with Udina about getting her the resource she'd need, fought my way through the press, and came back here to handle some shipside duties." He shrugged. "I'm assuming she's getting a crash course in Spectre protocols and that we'll hear from her when she's done."
"Right. Oh, that reminds me..." Hacket leaned out of the capture frame for the camera and Anderson heard the clatter of data slates getting moved around. "I have some bad news, David."
Uh oh. "Well, that's never good to hear," he said. "What's wrong?"
"We got Udina's request for equipment for humanity's newest Spectre," he said with a long sigh, "and Shepard's getting the Normandy."
Anderson blinked.
"She's what?!" he thundered, and he saw Hacket's hands raise up in a placating gesture.
"She needs a fast ship that can get around without being noticed by that damn monstrosity Saren's flying, while being well-armed enough to handle whatever comes up in the Traverse. There's only one ship in the galaxy tha fits that bill, David, and you know it."
"I-" Anderson ground his teeth. Dammit, if the man wasn't right... but this was his ship, and he'd sweated more than a little blood to earn the right to command it. He'd picked the crew, ironed out the wrinkles, and gotten it running as a cohesive whole rather than a pile of miscellaneous parts and people tossed together.
"You may have a point," he said finally. "Hell, you do have a point, even if I don't like it."
"For what it's worth, you have my apologies," Hackett said. That, Anderson didn't doubt. Hackett was a good man, and a good friend to boot. It always hurt putting the responsibilities of the chain of command between them. If he had been in Hackett's position...
He felt his anger receding. He was still upset, and would be for a long while, but the initial burst of rage was gone, and it was hard to stay angry at someone when you realized they hated what was happening almost as much as you did.
"So..." he said into the stretching silence. "should I pack my things?" Don't be bitter. Not to him. It's not his fault and you know it.
Hackett nodded. "I'm afraid so," he said. "The formal orders are already in the queue, high priority, and you should get them within the hour... as will Shepard, if she checks her mail."
"Understood. I take it I'm on the bench for now?" Vacancies aboard ships didn't exactly stay vacant very long, and the list of qualified captains was longer than the list of shipboard slots.
"In a sense," Hackett said, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "It seems the other members of the Admiralty board do, in fact, have brains, and I've been authorized to tell you that they've green-lighted production on several more Normandy-class frigates. Owing to... hold on, let me find the note..."
He reached around and pulled up a data slate. "Here we are. 'Owing to unparalleled levels of experience, we recommend Captain David Anderson for the first available Captain's slot on board the next Normandy-class vessel.'"
Anderson laughed. "Unparalleled levels of experience? A few weeks, more like."
"Which is more than anybody else has," Hackett replied dryly. "Eden Prime made it painfully obvious that if it wasn't for the Normandy's stealth systems, we would never have found out about what happened at Eden Prime, or had a clue that Saren was at fault. That sort of realization makes anybody whose mind hasn't completely ossified start to think."
"And those who have?"
"You mean the reactionary racists?" Hackett sighed. "Well, we explained that even if they don't like the ships, the turians have the technology too, and just because we won't build them doesn't mean they won't."
Anderson shook his head. "Still fighting the First Contact war. They can't retire soon enough."
Hacket glanced around his office before nodding. "You know I agree, but they're here for now and we have to work with them."
"I-" Anderson's omni-tool pinged, and he glanced down to look at it. "Eugh. I've got a call from Udina. I guess he got the news?"
"I wouldn't be surprised. For all his failings, he does check his messages quickly."
"That's the truth," Anderson said with a chuckle. "I had better go see what he wants. Thanks for the news, Steve."
"I'm just sorry it isn't better. Listen, I'll be on the Citadel in a couple days to talk everything over with the politicians. Drinks are on me."
Anderson grinned. "Deal. Good luck, Admiral."
Hackett nodded at the man. "You, too, Captain" he replied, cutting the connection.
Sighing, Anderson tapped the accept key on his omni-tool, allowing Udina's face to appear in the air above his arm.
"Finally," the diplomat snapped. "Do you have any idea how busy I am? No, don't answer, I don't have time. I just got a message from Arcturus regarding the Normandy."
He sat on the almost overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. "I just spoke with Hackett," he said curtly. "I've been briefed."
Udina's brows lifted. "You have? Good. That spares me an unpleasant conversation. Have you heard from Shepard? She's not answering her comm."
"No. She hasn't reported back to the Normandy yet. I believe she's working with the Spectres, and assume she'll make contact as soon as it's feasible."
"Hmph. Fine. Make sure she gets the news if she hasn't checked her mail, will you? The Council has politely informed me that they want Saren found and fast. Getting her out the door quickly would be a major diplomatic victory for us, Captain."
Politicians. "Understood, Ambassador. I'll contact you when she gets in."
"See that you do." The connection cut without so much as a farewell.
Anderson sighed, a long, drawn-out exhalation, before opening the closet door. He was going to need his duffel bag.
1934 local time, SSV Normandy SR1, The Citadel
Mess time aboard the Normandy was usually a rushed affair. The ship was brand new, and while it was an active-duty warship the manufacturer and designers were keen on any feedback the soldiers could give. "Free time" all too often turned into "survey time," although as with any institutional obligation, the troops managed to make it amusing.
"I'm telling you, leather seats!" Joker shouted over the clatter of dining trays landing on the table.
Kaidan rolled his eyes. "They're not going to go for it, Joker, just give up now."
The pilot stiffly turned on the bench to give Kaidan an evil eye. "You try sitting in the pilot's seat all day, then tell me it's not worth fighting for."
"We have an autopilot, you know. It's not like you need to sit in the chair every minute we're in FTL."
"And trust the fate of the ship to a badly-programmed machine? Yeah, right!" Joker scoffed and stabbed the chicken on his plate vigorously, pointedly ignoring the technician sitting next to him.
Kaidan rubbed his temples. "Joker, you already trust the fate of the ship to the programmers. It's not like you're opening and closing the fusion feed lines by hand."
"At least it's more likely than his 'wet bar' suggestion," one of the marines offered.
"But I liked that idea!" another one shouted.
At the head of the table, David Anderson cleared his throat. The roar quickly died down, the crew staring patiently for him to talk.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "although I use the term loosely..."
A chuckle swept the table.
"I know you're all hungry and eager to get back to your discussion, so I'll be as quick as I can... but we've got a lot to cover."
There was a subtle shuffling and the clink of silverware as the assembled soldiers made themselves comfortable, setting down their drinks and utensils.
"First," he said, raising his glass, "to Richard Jenkins."
The assembled men and women echoed the toast quietly, faces set.
"Given the nature of the rest of my news and the business with Saren, I doubt we'll have time for a formal ceremony until we're done with our job. There will be a ramp ceremony at 2200 hours, and I've taken the liberty of clearing your schedules. We may not have time to send him off properly, but we can at least say farewell."
He nodded at the silent soldiers and nodded again.
"Well. On to other news. Unless you've been hiding under a rock, you'll have heard that Commander Shepard has just been inducted as the first human Spectre. This is a great honor, and I hope that you will do her proud."
Kaidan cocked his head. "Sir? Forgive me, but you make it sound like you won't be with us."
Anderson drew in a deep breath and let it out. "That's because I won't be," he said finally. "Commander Shepard will be your new CO, and you'll be working with her to track down Saren. Now, I'm sure you have a lot of questions," he said, raising his hands to forestall comment, "but there's only so much I can tell you, because there's only so much I know. With that in mind, if you have questions, now is the time."
A marine at the back of the room raised his hand. "Sir?" he asked tentatively.
"Yes, Greico?"
He pursed his lips. "Forgive me if it's not appropriate, but... what about us? Are we getting transferred out, too?"
Anderson shook his head. "I don't know for certain, but I doubt it. I believe it's being left up to the Commander's discretion, and she seems regard you all well enough," he said with a reassuring smile.
The soldier sat back, relieved.
"Captain?" Kaidan asked. "I know that Spectres have broad authority when it comes to the law, but what about us? I assume that if she gives us a direct order to violate the law we're covered, but what about our oaths?"
"To the Alliance, you mean?" Anderson said, and Kaidan nodded. "If you're worried about legal repercussions, don't be. Hackett tells me that Council law is fairly explicit in this regard, and Council law trumps our service regulations. Even if it didn't, it be poor form to nominate a Spectre and then take every effort to hamper them."
Kaidan almost certainly knew more about Council law and regulation than he did – it was sort of a hobby for the young man, at least as far as Anderson knew. Which meant that his question was either for the benefit of the others at the table, or the question actually being asked wasn't the one that was voiced.
One glance at the Lieutenant's eyes told him it was the latter. He didn't know what was worrying the man – he was a good leader, not a psychic – but there was clearly something unsettling almost wondered if Kaidan had figured Shepard out, but that was unlikely. Even if it had happened, the Lieutenant had enough sense not to drag it out in the open... for his own sake, if for nothing else.
"On the other hand, if you're concerned about violating your oaths for personal reasons, you may speak to me in private before Shepard formally takes command and I'll look into getting you reassigned."
He paused, letting the crew mull over the words before continuing. "I know this is a lot to take in, and that a lot of you didn't sign on for a switch. As a matter of fact, I didn't, either, but these are the cards we've been dealt. We're living in interesting times, my friends, and I can think of few times in history when the stakes have been higher."
2044 local time, Spectre Headquarters, the Citadel:
I am beginning to understand that C-Sec investigator's distaste for paperwork, she thought with a groan as the final door to the Spectre headquarters opened before her. For a group that's supposed to be above the law, they certainly want us to be aware of exactly what laws we're breaking!
Her irritated musing on the Council's penchant for paperwork was interrupted by the alarmed squaking of her omni-tool's communicator. High priority call? Odd timing, she thought as she flicked the display on.
Shepard was normally one of the most unflappable individuals around, but even she couldn't stop herself from raising an eyebrow at the message count sitting on her omni-tool:
Six hundred and forty three thousand, seven hundred and eighty eight new messages were waiting.
And those were only the ones marked urgent.
It was then that a portion of the VI's long lectures filtered down through her tired brain: ...the spectre headquarters is one of the most secure institutions in the galaxy, with full spectrum EM shielding to prevent any unauthorized remote data access...
Unauthorized remote data access. Which included her personal comm and mail account.
She tried Anderson's Normandy comm address, which failed to connect. Scowling, she punched in Udina's number, and was rewarded by the ambassador's angry glare appearing on her arm.
"Shepard! Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to contact you since-" he began, and Shepard could almost see the spittle.
"In Spectre orientation," she replied briskly, punching a high-priority cab call into the terminal before settling down to wait. "It's EM shielded. No comm access."
"Hmph," he grumbled. "Come by my office before you return to the Normandy. I've got some big news for you."
She glanced at her chrono and suppressed a sigh. "Very well."
"Good," Udina said, and cut the connection.
"You said you had news, Ambassador?" she asked as soon as the door to his office opened.
He glanced around and shook his head. "Not here, Commander," he said, his voice low. "I'll tell you when we get to the Normandy."
She raised an eyebrow at the man, curiosity piqued. The Citadel Embassies were one of the most secure places to speak in the galaxy by necessity, and if Udina felt that whatever he knew was too sensitive for here... well, it had to be important, indeed.
"As you wish, Sir," she murmured deferentially.
"I do," he said. "I've called us a cab. It'll be here soon. What did the Spectres say?"
"Quite a bit," she admitted, scowling as memory flared. "I have to say I'm... somewhat surprised they haven't had an agent go bad in the past. Do you know how their agents are supplied?" she asked, and he shook his head. "They're given nothing... except information and permission."
Udina's brow narrowed. "I know that the race a Spectre belongs to is expected to sponsor their own members, but I didn't know that it's entirely funded by us. I'll have to re-submit my proposal to Admiralty..." he grumbled, trailing off.
She shook her head. "It's worse than that. We're expected to fund and organize our activities ourselves. I'm talking 'black op nightmare' here, Sir. We're given no oversight, reporting back is voluntary, and we're immune to prosecution for any and all crimes we might commit in the course of duty."
"What?!" the ambassador sputtered. "That's- I don't even know where to begin!"
She nodded grimly. "I agree, Sir. Like I said, I'm amazed this hasn't gone horribly wrong before now. I suppose they normally have a very thorough screening system in place."
Their eyes met, and Shepard let the mask she wore – the pretty lie that she was a nice, understanding, and caring soldier doing her duty – fall for a moment, staring at Udina with cold and evaluating eyes before settling it back into place.
For Udina was one of the ones who knew.
"Anyway," she said pleasantly, as if nothing had happened, "it was otherwise what you'd expect. They took some biometric data for identification purposes, made a few database updates, and had me sit through a VI's orientation lecture. I get the feeling I'm normally supposed to be assigned a mentor, like Nihlus, for the first few missions, but that doesn't seem to be the case here."
"I see. Well, I'm sure you'll manage," he said.
"I certainly intend to try."
"Just do me a favor and try to keep the diplomatic incidents to a minimum."
She smiled. "I'm afraid that I'm likely to upset quite a few people, Sir," she said with a hint of apology in her voice. "You and I know that I'm upsetting the status quo here simply with the title in front of my name."
Udina grumbled and settled back in the seat. "I was afraid you'd say that," he said.
2103 local time, Alliance docking bay D, the Citadel
"I swear the elevators can tell how much of a hurry you're in and slow down accordingly," Udina snarled as he shoved his shoulder against the door leading to the docking bay. The motor whined in protest as he pushed the door open, and glared at the offending mechanism before brushing his hands off.
Shepard trailed behind, not bothering to suppress her grin. She'd heard similar sentiments from Kaidan when they had returned to change outfits before the incident in Michel's clinic.
Her smile faded when she saw Captain Anderson waiting for her outside the airlock to the Normandy, a small suitcase in tow.
"Captain," she said automatically, hand raising in salute. "I'm sorry I didn't report in; they keep communications very well locked down in Spectre heardquarters."
He returned her salute. "Don't worry about it, Commander," he said. "The reporters can wait."
Shepard glanced around, noting the almost empty docks. "I'm surprised we didn't run into any on the way here. Did you threaten them off again?" she asked, her face serious.
Anderson raised his hands. "You have the ambassador to thank this time, I believe," he said. "I think he goaded them away with a press conference."
"A press conference I am now late to," the diplomat said. "Shepard, the big news I mentioned..." he motioned Anderson forward. "Captain Anderson is stepping down as commanding officer of the Normandy. The ship... and its crew... are yours now."
Anderson nodded faintly and folded his arms, his gaze level. "She's quick and quiet, and you know the crew," he said. "Perfect ship for a Spectre. Treat her well, Commander."
Shepard blinked. Well. That certainly answers that question.
It wrapped up more than a few problems she was not looking forward to dealing with. The Normandy's stealth systems would allow her to explore the Traverse and follow Saren without any risk of detection. Its crew was already growing accustomed to her, meaning far less of a wait before she could reach optimal performance. She wouldn't need to wait for a ship to come out of the shipyard, and the only person put out of sorts would be the Captain.
And if I get Saren for him, I think he'll back me, even if he doesn't like how it gets done.
She had no doubts that it wasn't his first choice. She imagined that if left to his own druthers, the man would spearhead the charge after the rogue Spectre, which meant that the orders had come from on high. Somebody obviously felt that she would do better without the Captain's presence, or that his presence might cause problems elsewhere.
Which is entirely possible. The Captain's a good soldier, but a terrible spy, and what we're doing now is more subtlety and subterfuge than soldiering.
Plus, there was the history that Harkin had hinted at. It was entirely possible that the slimy ex-cop had been telling the truth, and that the Alliance brass wanted Anderson gone in order to minimize the chance that someone might cry bias in the Council's newest operative.
Still, she'd need more than just an Alliance crew. Her interactions with C-Sec and the other turians over the last few days had made her painfully aware of how lacking she was in fairly critical knowledge and experience. She didn't know how to tell when a turian was lying unless they were being so obvious that a vorcha could recognize it, and she knew next-to-nothing of the geth and the Traverse. I'll need a turian at the very least, and a quarian as well, she thought absently. Someone familiar with the Traverse would be nice, but isn't as essential...
Realizing that she'd left the man hanging, she nodded sympathetically at Anderson. "I'll treat them well, Sir."
"I know you will, Commander."
She nodded and flicked her eyes over Udina. "So. Do we have any leads on Saren?"
Anderson shook his head. "Saren's gone," he answered for the ambassador. "Don't even try to follow him. But we know he's after this Conduit, and that means he's going to have his geth scouring the Traverse for clues."
"We have reports of geth activity in the Feros system shortly before our colony dropped out of contact. And there have been sightings around Noveria," Udina said.
Anderson straightened his shoulders. "Find out what Saren was after on Feros and Noveria. Maybe you can go figure out where and what the Conduit is before he does."
That makes sense. "Anything else I should know?"
Udina scowled and tapped the side of his jaw with a finger, then shrugged. "There is one more lead... Matriarch Benezia, the voice on that recording? She has a daughter, a scientist specializing in the protheans. We don't know if she's involved, but it might be a good idea to try to find her, see what she knows. Her name is Liara, Dr. Liara T'Soni."
Liara... why is that familiar... she thought, wracking her memory. Right! The researcher into prothean history from the library. Small galaxy, isn't it, doctor? This should be interesting, indeed.
Udina continued on. "We have reports that she was exploring an archeological dig on one of the uncharted worlds in the Artemis Tau cluster."
"Interesting," Shepard replied. "Is there any particular place I should start?"
"It's your decision, Commander," Anderson said quietly. "You're a Spectre now. You don't answer to us."
Shepard resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Do you honestly believe I have problems taking initiative? That's not what I was asking. "Of course, Sir," she said pleasantly. "But obviously everyone has a view on where I should focus my efforts, and I cannot be everywhere at once. Does the Alliance have a position on which lead it would like to see explored first?"
Anderson blinked. "Oh. Udina?"
Udina pursed his lips in thought. "I would prefer it if you would go to Feros," he said slowly. "We're in contact with Noveria, and they haven't reported anything beyond rumors of sightings. And frankly, this Dr. T'Soni seems like a bit of a long shot. Plus," he added in a strained tone, "we have a colony on Feros, and it's just gone dark."
She nodded. "I will take it under advisement. Captain? What's your situation? Are you moved out?"
"I am," he confirmed, patting his bag. "The Alliance is putting me up in one of their apartments here for the time being."
"Nice," she said, and meant it. The apartments on the Citadel were generally reserved for visiting dignitaries and diplomats, but highly-ranked soldiers were sometimes given use of the luxurious accommodations when they were staying on the Citadel without a ship of their own. It was rare, however, for a mere Captain to be given access to one.
"Oh, and Shepard – one last thing," he said. "We're holding a ramp ceremony for Jenkins tonight at 2200. Would you be willing to play for us?"
Truth be told, she had entirely forgotten about the soldier who died on Eden Prime with the events of the day. It made sense that they'd hold a ceremony for him, though. "Of course, Sir," she said. "I'll make sure everything is tuned up properly."
"Thank you, Commander," he said. "Udina and I are going to go make sure everything is sorted out on our end, then I'll come back for the ceremony."
She saluted. "Very well, Sir. I'll see you at 2200."
"Hey, Commander," Joker's slow drawl called up from the pilot's chair as she cleared the inner airlock.
She didn't know why he insisted on staying in the pilot's char while they were docked. It wasn't like they'd be leaving in a hurry, so it really just meant more stress in the chairs that he wouldn't stop complaining about. Unless he simply likes having something to complain about, of course.
"Lieutenant," she said casually, walking over to look the man in the eye. It wasn't something she particularly felt a need to do in conversation, but others found it important, so she made the effort when she could.
"I heard what happened to Captain Anderson. Survives a hundred battles and gets taken down by backroom politics." He shook his head. "Just watch your back, Commander. Things go bad on this mission, you're next on their chopping block."
You're wrong in that regard, Lieutenant, she thought. I've been on their chopping block for years.
"No need to remind me," she replied dryly. "Still, Saren's out there somewhere-" as are whatever he's trying to dig up "-and it's our job to find him."
Joker adjusted his cap. "Everyone on this ship is behind you, Commander, one hundred percent."
She smiled. "Unless they're still washing the windows," she said. "Then they might be ahead of me."
"What? Oh. Nice, Commander," he said with a grin. "Still, I meant-"
"I know what you meant, Lieutenant," she reassured him, "and thanks." Playing the nice, people-person part to the hilt again. Sigh.
"Any time, Commander. Intercom's open. If you've got anything you want to say to the crew, now's as good a time as any."
"Not now, I think," she said. "I'll speak with them when we're fully crewed and ready to depart."
He craned his neck to look up at her. "Fully crewed? You're planning on adding more people?"
She nodded. "I need to track down an expert on turian psychology, geth systems, and someone familiar with the Traverse."
Joker frowned. "Turian psychology, geth systems and... what, so, a turian, a quarian, and a mercenary?"
"Pretty much," she said with wry grin. "I'll have to talk to Chakwas about getting some dextro rations, and maybe setting up that back room of hers as a clean room for the quarian."
The pilot shook his head. "Gonna piss off the brass something fierce, Commander."
"With your record, I'd think you'd be in favor of the plan," she said.
He grinned up at her. "Are you kidding? I think it's a great idea! I'm just sad you're going to ruffle more of those over-stuffed suits than I could! Plus," he added, sobering slightly, "it's gotta be the most direct way of doing it. I mean, you need an expert on turians? Ask a turian! Need an expert on geth? Ask the people that made them! Need an expert on flying around in a lawless wasteland? Find someone who does that for a living! Good thinking, Commander."
"I'm glad you approve," she said dryly. "Carry on, Lieutenant," she said, backing away from the chair.
"Commander."
The military, Shepard thought as she carefully took the case out of her personal locker, is a never-ending series of awkward and inefficient compromises.
It was unavoidable, really. The military needed to equip its members with the best possible equipment to ensure their well-being and success, while simultaneously spending as little as possible. It needed the best and brightest, while still taking those that didn't have the wherewithal to succeed elsewhere in life. It needed to ensure people were well-trained, without investing too much time or money into their training. It needed loyal, skilled, and courageous individuals that were willing to die for whatever the requirement of politics was at the time.
In short, it should have been impossible... and yet, somehow, it functioned.
Shepard set the hard-sided case down on the mess hall table, flicking the latches open with practiced ease. She wondered, as she stared at the antique instrument resting in the case, at the sheer complexity of the rituals humanity had developed to help cope with loss.
Her life, for all its atypical intensity, was a remarkably empty one. She woke, attended her basic needs, fulfilled the duties expected of her, and slept. If she had spare time, she found amusement in coming to understand more of the galaxy around her.
She knew that others felt things differently than she did, of course. Knew that their minds didn't work like hers did, that they felt things, endured yearnings and longings, attachments and compulsions that drove them to extraordinary lengths and measures. She knew that the rest of humanity – the rest of the galaxy, even – carried and played host to visceral emotions that could shape their entire world view, even if she herself never possessed them.
It had fascinated her when she was younger, back on the burned out streets of Vancouver. She had nearly lived in the only public library in their turf for more than a year, reading everything she could about the people she was born of but had so little in common with. She'd devoured classic literature, stared at art, recited poetry to herself, all in a ceaseless attempt to understand why people did the things they did.
She never found out.
She understood the words well enough. The words were clear enough, their definitions plainly stated. In the end, she was simply forced to accept that she lacked something that everyone else had. She did not mourn the loss; as it was all she had ever known, but the curious completionist in her was irked at not being able to experience the sensations that had driven so much of human history.
That wasn't to say that the endeavor had been a waste of time.
She lifted the violin out of the case, settling it beneath her chin and sliding her fingers to the pegbox to tune it while her other hand groped for the bow she knew was also resting in the case.
While her soul – as if she believed in such a thing – was not driven by the same passions that most people's were, that did not mean she didn't appreciate the results of their efforts. Music in particular she enjoyed, as it was a language unlike any other: A language of feeling, of emotion, of tension and release. Each sound and chord, each combination of meandering tune and grand crescendo told a different story. They ranged from peaceful to dramatic, tense to relaxing, and if she could not feel the same stirrings of the heart that others did... she could at least speak the language.
Which brought her back to the ritual at hand.
The military was a cold and calculating institution. Out of sheer necessity, it had to be – it couldn't fight an effective war, otherwise. Yet at the same time, it had to also be a caring one, for if the people that made up the military ever felt that it wasn't serving humanity, it would cease to function as an effective fighting tool.
Humanity, like many of the other races of the galaxy, put a great deal of focus on death. Memorials, funerals, final words, last wishes, the list was long and the nuances complicated. The ramp ceremony stood as another compromise between the soldier and system, giving closure and paying respect to the fallen while still allowing for a unit to continue functioning in combat.
She gently plucked the strings, listening carefully and making slight adjustments.
While the violin was not the traditional instrument used at ramp ceremonies, the scale of modern warfare and the lack of trained individuals meant that the choice was often between a recording played over the ship's PA system, no music at all, or something played on an atypical instrument. Most soldiers preferred a live performance to a recording, even if the instrument wasn't the traditional one. The ceremony was about honoring the departed, at least as Shepard understood it, and a demonstration of real skill seemed more noteworthy than calling up a recording – even a somber one.
Drawing the bow over the string, she feathered the first harmonic, wincing as the tone cut out halfway. Note to self, arid frigates dry bows more rapidly than dirtside postings.
She was still rifling through the case for the small container of rosin when Kaidan walked down the stairs.
"Commander," he said distractedly as he squinted up at the roof of the mess hall.
She looked at him bemusedly as he wandered through the hall peering into corners for a solid two minutes.
She took the time to finish coating the bow with rosin.
"Okay, I'll bite," she said at last. "What are you looking for? Cobwebs?"
"Hm? No, ma'am. I thought I heard a ventilation fan bearing starting to go out. I just replaced one in here, too..." he said, trailing off to resume peering around the vents in the room.
"Well, I've heard it described as a cat mating, but a broken fan bearing? I'll have to remember that," she said dryly, lifting the instrument to her chin again. "Did it sound like this?" she asked, drawing the bow across the string again.
"Yes! Oh, that's a relief. Er, I mean-" he said, blushing slightly. "I never meant to imply that-"
She laughed. "Don't worry about it, Lieutenant. Tuning instruments always sounds grating."
"I- thank you, ma'am."
He stood around awkwardly while she finished tuning the violin. "I didn't know you played the violin," he said finally.
"It's a fiddle," she said, the corner of her mouth twitching.
His blush returned in earnest. "It is? I'm sorry, I've never seen one in person before-" he began quickly before she cut him off with a laugh.
"Relax, Lieutenant," she said with a wide smile. "I'm teasing you. They're the same instrument, the difference is only in how you play them."
"I- oh," he said with a sigh. "Sorry, ma'am."
"Really, Lieutenant," she reassured him, "don't worry about it."
"Are you going to play for Jenkin's ramp ceremony, then?" he asked, voice somber.
She nodded. "Yeah."
"Makes sense," he said. "Although I didn't know you could play Taps on a violin."
"You can," she confirmed. "Only needs one string, even. False harmonics are wonderful things."
"I'm afraid it's all Greek to me, ma'am," he said apologetically. "Well, since I know the fan's not broken, I guess I can go get ready for the ceremony."
"Actually, Lieutenant," she said, setting the instrument back in the case, "do you have a minute?"
He tilted his head at her. "Yes, ma'am. What do you need?"
She began strapping the instrument back in the case. "Back in Chora's Den," she said quietly after a quick glance around the mess hall for privacy, "you were upset with what we were doing."
His shoulders slumped. "Ma'am – Commander – I owe you an apology. You were absolutely right to push like you did, and I shouldn't have questioned you."
"No, you shouldn't have," she agreed. That, while blunt, was true: If what was being ordered didn't amount to high treason, soldiers were to obey orders first and file protests later. In heated situations, it was better to follow a bad plan as a group than to have everyone trying to do their own thing. The bad plan might succeed, no plan was a guarantee of failure.
"Still," she continued, "that doesn't mean you didn't have reason to be bothered by what happened. So lay it on me, Lieutenant."
Plus, I need to know if I need to get you off of my ship before we leave, she thought silently. There was no need to be rude, though. The man had shown what would elsewhere be considered good moral character and sense. Berating him over it would serve no purpose.
"I-" he began, running a finger through his hair. "I guess I'm not comfortable with the idea of walking into a bar, even one full of likely criminals, and killing all of them. I signed up to protect innocents and civilians, not to gun them down in their favorite bar. For all we know, some of those people were just there for a drink. That doesn't merit a bullet. Even if they are criminals, they deserve a trial, not a random death by crossfire."
Shepard nodded. "I understand... and agree, even."
He frowned. "And yet you ordered us to kill them."
"I did," she confirmed. "I went in there knowing that there was a good chance we'd be killing people with no reasonable chance of fighting back, people who might be reacting out of fear or peer pressure, or maybe even innocents. It was cruel, ruthless, and probably unnecessary... and I'd do it again in a heartbeat."
"But why? If you knew what you were doing was wrong-" he exclaimed, face darkening.
She help up a hand to stop him. "I never said it was wrong. We're facing the possibility of a war that will obliterate entire worlds. If we failed to find the evidence of Saren's treachery because we weren't willing to do what was necessary to expose him and he slaughtered another colony, how would you feel?"
"Terrible, of course," he replied immediately. "Is that all that was about, then? The end justifying the means?"
She gave him a sad smile. "The end always justifies a mean. It doesn't justify any mean. If the choice is between a one in a thousand chance of an entire colony dying – or worse – versus the guaranteed deaths of thirty innocent people, my duty is as clear as it is distasteful."
He shook his head. "I... guess I understand, ma'am. I don't like it, but I understand."
"I'm glad you see," she said. "But the real question is whether or not you're willing to take part in it."
He let out a long sigh, letting his eyes drift toward the low ceiling of the Normandy's mess hall. Shepard quietly finished stowing the instrument, giving him time to process.
"I want to stay," he said abruptly, breaking the quiet hum of the empty hall. "If you'll have me, I mean. I'd rather go into something like this with open eyes than run away and pretend it isn't happening. And who knows?" he pushed off the table, making for the stairwell. "Two minds are better than one. If we put our heads together, maybe we can reduce the need for that kind of operation in the future."
She nodded at him. "I appreciate it, Alenko," she said. "I'll see you at the ceremony."
"Of course, ma'am," he said, saluting. "also... it's Kaidan, if you don't mind."
First name basis, huh? Well, my pilot IS 'Joker...' "Very well. Kaidan it is."
Shepard didn't like dealing with the dead.
Actually, that wasn't quite right. She didn't mind the dead at all. They were easy to work with: Take appropriate safety measures, ensure you treat bodies with respect in case their relatives found out about them, and they were like any other flexible weight. You didn't even need to be that gentle. The people who the bodies used to be certainly weren't in a position to protest rough treatment.
No, the dead were easy to deal with. It was the survivors that were harder to handle.
For all Shepard's approachable nature and superficial charm, the emotions of her own kind were nearly as foreign to her as the most of the aliens she'd worked with. More so, sometimes. It was only through dint of exceptional effort and long study that she'd learned to 'play the game,' as it were, moving through society giving the cues and signs that people expected to see.
The problem was really with grief. It was a uniquely taxing emotion: It triggered all the same neural pathways as intense physical pain, but with no standard method of escape. Every man and woman reacted differently to emotional loss. Attempting to give an appropriate response to each person's idiosyncrasies without having the first idea about loss was like trying to make a copy of a famous sculpture, using nothing more than a critic's article in the newsfeed as a source!
It was taxing, to say the least.
Fortunately, she wasn't completely without options. Soldiers were expected to be somber and calm at memorial events. A 'respectful deference to those departed,' was the exact line from the pamphlet describing the procedure for a ramp ceremony in the navy. She could oftentimes simply not react at all, and people would commend her 'appropriate demeanor' at whatever event was being held.
It almost made her smile.
Ashley Williams wasn't sure what to make of the violin.
The Commander was clearly a talented musician, and the piece was masterfully played... but Ashley came from a military family, and an old one at that. Military traditions, especially those dealing with honoring the departed, were not something to be lightly changed. Taps on the bugle had been the tune played for fallen soldiers for hundreds of years. It was respected, it held meaning, and it was simply what one did.
Sit on it, Ash. You're the outsider here, and it's not like they're playing yankee doodle on a banjo!
She bit the inside of her cheek as the pallbearers walked slowly down the ramp of the Normandy, the faint brush of ice from the cold storage giving the normally shiny aluminum casket an almost ghostly appearance.
She owed a great deal to the dead man passing before her.
If not for his death, she'd have been sitting in a dirtside office somewhere while a bunch of shrinks tried to decide whether or not she could handle active duty. If not for the Commander's presence on Eden Prime in the first place, she wouldn't even be here to think about it. If she'd decided to go to the bathroom instead of waiting until end of shift, she'd have been blown up in the first pass over the compound.
She closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath. Stop it. You can 'what if' yourself to death. You're here. God has a plan. Don't let the loss of your friends be for nothing.
Plus, you still have a turian to kill.
She almost smiled.
Kaidan was never one for focusing on just one thing at a time.
Even as a boy, he'd kept a pile of projects going at once. Fiddle with something, explore something new... his mind simply worked that way, and always had worked that way. Even in the military, with its strong focus on, well, focus, his mind still wandered.
So it was only with a mild sense of well-justified guilt that he found his thoughts meandering elsewhere at Jenkins' final departure from the Normandy.
It wasn't like he didn't have a lot to think about, either. Anderson was stepping down (taken down, more like) in lieu of Shepard, who had just been accepted as the first human Spectre. Donnel Udina was making a big power play for human colonization in the arena of galactic politics. His Commander wasn't a murderous lunatic, just a very dedicated soldier.
He'd seen that firsthand, on Eden Prime. When Jenkins died, she'd pulled him up and set him marching forward – mentally, at least – without breaking stride. It had pushed him through the initial shock, let his training take over, and made him move forward.
He was a nice guy, he thought as the casket passed in front of him. Nice guy, but not the best soldier.
It was blunt, but true, and he was too much of a soldier himself not to admit it... at least, not in the privacy of his own mind.
Jenkins had been a unique presence on the crew, constantly regaling them with fabulous stories, the latest media scandal, or even just whatever stupid thing he'd done back in boot camp. Kaidan would miss the man's exuberance and his refreshing naivete... but he certainly wouldn't miss the man nearly blowing his ear off with an improperly stowed rifle, or showing up five minutes late to Shepard's regularly-scheduled PT laps around the bottom deck.
Still, he thought as Anderson spoke the final farewell and saluted the casket while it slid slowly into the back of the aircar, he deserved better than he got, and I'll miss him... even if I won't miss the whoopee cushion.
He almost smiled.
This chapter was really hard to write... mostly because I can't bring myself to care about Jenkins one bit, even though the people on the Normandy probably would. Luckily, aside from maybe a couple callbacks by the other overenthusiastic prankster on the ship, Jenkins is done.
Next chapter: Arranging for funding with corporations, getting Tali, Wrex, and Garrus, and pissing off Udina... and flying out! Wooo! It feels like they've been here for a year. Cough.