Aggressor: Rise of Man
Chapter 1
Inspection
"In the depths of 2087, the Armistice seemed like a godsend, a chance for lasting peace. But all it's done is strangle us in red tape while the Turians play the long game of killing us with stagnation. We should have had the courage to finish the war then, for I fear in our cowardice we have left it for our children to lose." -Field Marshall Samuel Williams c. 2115
Planet New Eden, Utopia System, Exodus Cluster
0615 Local Time
March 3rd, 2183
Inspection Day
The roiling scream of heavy lifting engines split the stillness of the sleepy New Eden colony as a pair of Vulture heavy VTOLs made their final approach to SRPA Research Station Garden. Their approach rattled the glass of the small colonial facility's wide glass windows as the jetwash from the bulbous engine cowlings pounded the tarmac of the wide landing field in the valley down below. The amber light on the main communications console blinked its languid warning of an inbound call waiting. Petty Officer First Class John Shepard yawned massively and scratched at the vaccine scar on the back of his neck. The thin, puckered skin that marked him as a recipient of the Hale Vaccine always itched when there was about to be trouble, and if the maddening tickling at the top of his spine was anything to go on, today promised to be thick as a leaper swarm with trouble. The little blinking bulb continued its insistent tattoo. I guess it was too much to hope it would just go away. Shepard reached for the slate grey naval radio-telephone receiver and picked up.
"Operator..." was all he could say before the woman on the other end of the telephone cut him off with a sharp explosion of invective.
"...and one more thing, if you think you can just let this spill over into the colony proper and let my police take care of it like it did last time, you've got another thing coming!" Shepard immediately recognized the voice of Maria Kohler, the formidable Governor of Earth's youngest extrasolar colony. He gulped. "Well? What of it?"
"Ma'am," Shepard started, cautiously, "I'm afraid you have the Naval attaché."
"The Navy? There isn't even a navy ship assigned to New Eden, not since they moved the anchorage out to Ragnar. Doesn't matter. Obviously, you have a phone. Patch me through to Colonel Thomas, immediately. He's got a lot to answer for this morning, believe you me," Governor Kohler said, calming a little but still letting her disdain seep through her words.
"I'm sorry, Governor, but the Colonel is down at the landing field right now. He's getting ready for the Inspection," Shepard countered. His vaccine scar prickled again, this time with the thin trickle of sweat that ran down his back.
"He's...? Well go get him, soldier boy. It's this blasted inspection that's causing me problems. And if I have problems, Colonel Thomas has problems. You get him and tell him if he doesn't get someone down here to smooth things over, he's going to have another riot on his hands. And not just at the base, either. Those striking diggers have gotten their buddies in the mining local riled up too. You SRPA lot have been nothing but trouble, I swear, between bringing in these aliens and stomping your jackboots all over that dig site..." the Governor's voice faded away; her spleen apparently vented. "Just have him call my office." The connection closed with a snap.
Shepard replaced the receiver on its hook with a heavy sigh and rubbed his temples, biting back the retort that still burned in his throat. After all, it wasn't like the SRPA had chosen to invite a Council Spectre to come poking around. Nor were they exactly forthcoming with their Naval Attache in regard to what was going on in the next valley over, beyond the Sentinel manned checkpoints and patrolling drones. He snorted with disgust. And one more thing, he wasn't even in the SRPA. Not that that made a difference when New Eden's civilian leadership needed someone military adjacent to pin all their problems on. Still, he was the communication tech on duty, which meant there was nothing for it but to hoof it out to the rapidly filling tarmac. He pushed himself out of the chair in the center of the rat's nest of storage crates, bulky communications equipment, and wild wiring that formed his station and made for the ComPack that leaned against the bulkhead beside the door. Besides the crates of preassembled radio parts, it was all that the Navy had left him with when the EDEN Odysseus had left him marooned on the sleepy colony. Shepard shouldered the heavy pack and flipped the silver switches on the side panel. The glowing yellow power source hummed to life, the burning amber of a secure connection status flickering and then going solid. Satisfied, Shepard tightened the straps and stepped out into Research Station Garden's main thoroughfare.
The Special Research Projects Administration base was a disturbed anthill of activity as Petty Officer Shepard inserted himself into the stream of black-uniformed men and women coursing through its high-ceilinged concrete hallways. A singular point of blue in the dark sea of hurrying soldiers, Shepard was keenly aware that he stuck out like a sore thumb, and that was before he accounted for his bulky radio rig. Fortunately, they were all too busy to take any notice of the interloper in their midst. This was the way it was before Inspection Day. Reports to be tidied up, crates to pack away, skeletons to shove deep, deep into various closets, all the little pieces of military bureaucracy that often went by the wayside in wartime combined with the mess left behind by an active research lab that all had to be neatened up lest it attract the attention of a Citadel Spectre where it shouldn't be. And this close to the DMZ, a Spectre's undue attention was something to be avoided indeed. Or at least, that was what Shepard assumed. As the lone Navy man on the base, he was so far out of the loop of the goings on that he wasn't even sure there was a loop. But Shepard didn't have time to waste contemplating the coming of the latest in a long line of alien busybodies. If he was to have any chance at disentangling himself from the ordeal with his skin intact, he would need to pass the buck, and fast. He added speed to his steps, huffing and puffing a little under the heavy radio set and the heat. At an even 21 degrees Celsius, New Eden was not exactly tropical, but Shepard had grown up on Earth. Humanity's cradle still suffered under the artificial ice age that had been inflicted upon it by the Chimera over two hundred years ago, a fact that had driven Shepard and millions like him to the stars.
Much to Shepard's relief, the elevator came into view shortly. Much to his dismay, the heavy steel cage doors were grinding closed.
"Hey, hold the doors!" he called, breaking into a sprint. The elevator full of SRPA personnel watched him come expressionlessly from beneath their black berets or from behind the fully contained helmets of a handful of Black Ops soldiers. None made to stop the lift. "Hold the doors, God dammit, I've got a call I need to get to the Colonel!" The doors continued to move together. Shepard was only a few paces away, but already he knew it was too late. He was going to be stuck up here until the elevator made its agonizingly slow trip down to the entrance ramp and back. A hand shot out of the elevator, catching the chain link gate with black-gloved fingers. The hand held it there just long enough to allow Shepard to slip on through, much to the muttered recriminations of the elevator's occupants. "Thanks, I..." Shepard's words slipped away from him as he looked up into the eyes of the one who had held the door open for him.
"Don't mention it," the Sentinel said back. The intimidatingly tall woman had to be a Sentinel. She had the heavy musculature in the neck and shoulders, the slightly sallow looking skin, the slight, golden shine to the eyes where they caught the overhead electric lighting. She was wearing the shiny black carapace of the SRPA's combat gear, festooned with a chest full of dark grey canvas pouches and marked only with the olive drab chevron and star roundel of the SRPA. She carried the short, slab-sided shape of a BM003 Razor carbine easily over one shoulder on a long strap. She offered him a wolfish smile that showed slightly elongated canines. "Going down?"
"Um, yes, Ma'am," Shepard hazarded. As a rule, Sentinels were officers, and unofficially their Non-coms outranked those of all the other services regardless. Much to his relief, the strain-soldier woman accepted the title. "I... received a call from the Governor. Trouble in town, thought Colonel Thomas should know."
"Oh, this autta be good," the Sentinel said with a chuckle, "Johnny's going to love this." The gate closed with a snap and the lift began its long, slow climb down from the dizzy heights of the control tower. Shepard sweated as he contemplated the Amazonian soldier's casual use of the base commander's first name. Exactly who was he riding down with?
The New Eden sun baked the wide, barren blacktop of Research Station Garden's landing field. The pair of heavy, four-engined Vultures hunched like grey-shelled lobsters at one end of the field, the four-ship flight of potbellied AV-50 Kestrel gunships in a row at the other. Men and women in black uniforms stood in neat rows down the middle of the space, standing neatly at parade rest. At their backs, the intimidating figure of the Colonel stood amid a circle of aides. Shepard made for him with rapid strides. The back of his neck itched something awful as he made it to the outer ring of staff officers and senior NCOs. The Colonel himself was a tall, heavyset man. He barked orders, red faced, setting his broad, greying mustache quivering. He did not stop on Shepard's account as the spacer walked up to him and saluted.
"Yes?" the officer boomed, fixing the naval NCO with a piercing stare from beneath his squashed black beret, "Spit it out, son. In case you haven't heard, we're in for some visitors today." Colonel Thomas' eyes flicked skyward, as if expecting the Spectre to descend that very second. "Well, go on."
"Sorry to interrupt you, Sir," Shepard began, steeling himself. "Message from Governor Kohler, Sir. She wants you to call her office about..."
Thomas cut the younger man off. "Oh no, we're not playing radio tag, not today. Our gracious host, the Governor, say what she wanted, hmm? I assume she had a good reason to stick her nose in military business, today, of all days?"
"The Governor says that we're in for some protestors, Sir," Shepard reported, repeating the woman's earlier warning. Both at the base and at the dig site."
"She happen to have any suggestions as to just what it is that I should do about it?" Thomas replied, gruffly, "Don't answer that, son, I know that witch did nothing of the sort. Typical civvie, too soft to crack some heads, too scared to directly ask us to do it for them. Well, if she wants to imply that we act as her unofficial brute squad, I don't see why we should disappoint." The man motioned for the nearest helmeted and masked Black Ops trooper. "You, Sergeant. I want a squad down the hill to peel the rabble off our fence. Nothing messy, now, I just want them out of sight of our guests. You get me?"
"Yes, Sir!" the faceless soldier snapped to attention and gathered the nearest pack of his equally faceless friends. The ten men hustled off to one of the squat, all terrain people carriers, which started with a high-pitched whine and jetted off down the path that would take them to the front gate on six heavy tires.
"You might as well stay and watch, Spacer," the Colonel barked, "Might need you here. Screen my calls, ha!" He laughed at his own joke before turning to another of his subordinates, accepting the offered dataslate. "Good news, I hope, Newton?"
"All units reporting ready, Colonel. And we've finally received our intel package from the boys in X-Ray. We have the identity of our inspector."
Colonel Thomas scoffed as he read from the slate. "Well, at least they didn't send a Turian this time. That ought to take some of the wind out of the whiner's sails." The officer was interrupted by the high-pitched noise of a descending spacecraft above. He looked up, shading his eyes with one hand. Shepard followed his eye, quickly spotting the ugly looking shuttle that descended on three blue-white jets of flame. It had the easy, languid flight path of a ship floating on the Citadel's vaunted mass effect drive, it's engines barely working against the planet's gravity. It was an ugly, blocky beast, lacking the sharp yet sleek look that all Turian ships shared. It had a brutal aspect, even as it floated down on a cushion of negative mass. It's squared-off nose descended ahead of its stooping delta wings as three landing struts descended from panels in its underside. It settled with a crunch as landing skis contacted tarmac. Shepard held his breath as a short ramp descended from a hatch on one of the ship's slab sides. A lone figure sauntered down the ramp. The alien inspector wore a full suit of heavy grey armor painted messily in a deep blood red. Their left shoulder plate rose higher than the right, covering the neck from attacks from the side. Their helmet they carried under their arm, revealing their yellow-green wrinkled face and their two rows of red rimmed eyes. The alien seemed to pause to sniff the air for a second, then smiled, showing sharp, needle-like teeth.
"SRPA, preeeeee-sent," the Colonel bellowed in his best impression of a drill instructor. The rows of black clad men and women neatly went to attention and stepped to the side, parting the sea of soldiers between the alien and Thomas' command staff. The two stared each other down across the aisle of troopers until the alien relented. It walked forward, appraising the men as it went. As it grew closer, it schooled its features, offering the Colonel nothing but a blank mask. "Spectre Balak, welcome to Research Station Garden," the human officer said in greeting. He did not extend a hand to shake.
If the alien was surprised that his hosts had discovered his identity before his arrival, his face didn't show it. "The pleasure is all mine, Colonel John Thomas, Special Research Projects Administration 33rd Division," the alien replied in a guttural voice that made Shepard think of someone chewing on raw meat. The Spectre had clearly done his homework as well. "And such a warm welcome it is. You've certainly trained your men well. I only wish my own... workforce, was so well disciplined." The alien guffawed loudly, leaving the human staff looking somewhat uncomfortable. Something in Shepard's mind clicked together. The four eyed, heavily jowled face. A Batarian, a slaver from the Citadel race that brushed Humanity's border to the galactic south. Shepard's stomach turned at the thought of how this Spectre treated his 'workforce.' At least the Turians only tried to wipe you out, they didn't haul you back to their homes to work in labor camps.
"I trust you had a pleasant enough trip from the DMZ?" the Colonel asked, trying to plaster over the unpleasant alien's comment.
"Oh, certainly," Balak said, "I rarely get the chance to travel this far into the Traverse these days since being selected for Spectre duty. And, of course, few of my people get to see the human side of it, even our more... adventurous freelancers. But we did not gather to pass pleasantries. We must ensure that your facility here remains... safe. The Turian Admiral, Arterius hangs on these reports, I'm told. Not much to do on the other side of the DMZ but wait. And I'm sure he hasn't forgotten the Elysium Campaign."
"Saren will have to wait," Colonel Thomas said shortly, "Garden Station is compliant with the terms of the Armistice. We have no active strains out here, just what we need to maintain our inhibitor stocks. Now, if you'll follow me, I'd be happy to give you a chance to confirm that. I'm sure you're a busy man."
Balak seemed about to respond when far off in the distance, there was the unmistakable sound of an explosion, from the direction that the Black Ops squad had disappeared in. Balak looked over, his motions a careful show of disinterest. "Trouble, Colonel?" He asked, his voice the same carefully modulated, carefree tone.
"Inspection Day always draws a certain level of attention from the local civilians," Thomas responded, his own voice equally carefully schooled, but Shepard could see a bead of sweat run from beneath the leather brim of his beret. "Shouldn't be anything to get concerned about, just some local boys letting off some steam." Another blast rolled over the hills. Thomas' brow furrowed.
"Do they often let off that steam with explosives?" Balak asked. His indifference cracked into a broad grin.
"Not usually," the Colonel admitted, through gritted teeth. Beyond him, some of the men were looking around in confusion, their parade ground discipline forgotten as a third blast split the early morning. "Shit fire," Thomas swore under his breath, "If those diggers have stolen charges from the dig site... Excuse me, Spectre Balak."
"Of course," Balak almost purred.
"Navy... Shepard, is it?" the Colonel barked, reading Shepard's name plate, "Make yourself useful and get the squad by the gatehouse on the horn. I want to know what the hell is going on, and I want to know yesterday."
"Yes, Sir," Shepard responded. Well-practiced motions flicked open the wrist mounted keyboard on his right arm and he pulled up the base's gatehouse on the directory. The triple beep of an attempted connection filled his earpiece as the powerful radio on his back reached out. He winced as a howl of static feedback was all he got in return. "No connection, sir."
"What do you mean, no connection? They're not picking up?" Thomas asked. He hunched over and squinted at the display on Shepard's wrist, as if hoping that he'd be able to scowl the connection through.
"Negative," Shepard responded. His guts turned cold as the howling rose and fell as he attempted to clear up the signal, to no avail. It could only mean one thing. "It looks like something's jamming our signal."
"Jamming our..." Colonel Thomas' mustache quivered angrily, "What is Kohler playing at? Lieutenant Montoya!" He yelled, raising his voice to carry. Someone hurried up behind them. Shepard turned and with a start recognized the towering Sentinel. This was Lieutenant Montoya. Shepard recognized her name from the org chart, which placed her as Colonel Thomas' exec, his red right hand. Shepard's mouth went dry. The way the SPRA crew spoke of her, she was a combat veteran transferred back from the frontier with a laundry list of kills as long as she was tall against various pirate factions.
"Colonel," she reported smoothly. Shepard supposed he wasn't 'Johnny' in front of aliens.
"Take another squad down range. I want to know what the shit is going on at our front door. Come back and report." He paused eyeing Shepard, "Chief, you sure that fancy box you're lugging around can't punch through whatever's jamming us?"
"Not enough to get through to your soldiers' headsets," Shepard admitted, "I should be able to maintain a connection with the tower, though. And as long as I nothing's knocked out the repeaters a can send it back on laser."
"Alright, I'm going to take you at your word. Montoya, take the radioman here with you. If those yokels give you any trouble once you get there, you have my express permission to make things very unpleasant for them." He dismissed the Sentinel and the spacer with a stiff jerk of his head and near ran into the heavily armored Balak. The alien chuckled wetly.
"A problem with dissidents, Colonel? Perhaps I can be of assistance to you on this trip as well. I was not always a Spectre, after all," he said, his grin widening as if reliving a particularly enjoyable memory, "and I'm always eager to see police action outside the Hegemony. Perhaps we will both have the opportunity to learn a thing or two today."
The look on the Colonel's face made it obvious that he had some rather different ideas regarding the Spectre's little 'learning opportunity,' but in the end he relented. After all, the terms of the Armistice tied his hands. "Of course. The lieutenant here will ensure your safety. Now, if you'll excuse me." The older officer walked away. As soon as he was out of earshot, he pulled aside a pack of the black-uniformed troopers and sent them hurriedly away. An uneasy tension sparked across the landing field until the air felt like a live wire. For her part, Lieutenant Montoya seemed unfazed.
"Right then, Spectre, this way," she said, gesturing at the remaining open bed all-terrain vehicle. "The Colonel says you're to come with us, but I am in command of this detail, understood? I will ask you to stay behind my men when we get down the hill. We don't need any incidents. Rawlings, Murphy! Grab your fireteams! Bhatia, you're driving!" Montoya's orders sent another squad of Black Ops running, their fully enclosed helmets and sealed suits glinted dully in the shafts of New Eden's sun that poked through what looked like a developing storm cloud to the east. At the SRPA Lieutenant's beckon, Shepard followed them. He accepted a hand up into the bed of the transport and found a spot on one of the two inward facing metal benches. It was a tight fit with the nine soldiers, Montoya, Balak, and himself, and his neighbor's Razor carbine poked him harshly in the ribs as the squad jostled to all find room. Someone slammed the bed gate closed and the engine rumbled to life beneath his feet. The man on the other side of him bumped in to him as he loaded bright green shells into a smoothbore shotgun. Shepard suddenly felt very naked, his only means of defending himself his two fists and the considerable weight of his radio set. At the front of the bed, Montoya slammed a fist on the top of the cab twice, and the six-wheeled transport lurched forward and rumbled off down the hill. As they dipped below the lip of the hill, Shepard was afforded one last sight of the landing field. The parade neat lines had dissolved completely into a pell-mell chaos. One of the Kestrels was spinning up its air breathing turbines as technicians wheeled stacks of missiles out to it on hand trucks. The gnawing feeling in the pit of Shepard's stomach exploded into full-blooded anxiety and his neck itched horribly. The landing field disappeared from view, and Shepard had the horrible feeling that it was for the last time.
The storm clouds that had threatened to dump rain over the base throughout the morning swept across the sky as the transport made the final switchback turn that would bring them to the gate. Glumly, Petty Officer Shepard looked up. The clouds were a deep black, much like he'd heard people on base describe New Eden's famous summer storms. Except it's late autumn here. Shepard thought to himself. At least it wasn't raining yet, although the clouds did flash with internal lightning the deep red of the sunrise. No thunder, either, just the lightning. The jounce of tires on gravel path threatened to send him sprawling, drawing his attention forward, to the base's small gate house.
"Where is everyone, Ma'am?" one of the helmeted Black Ops soldiers asked, echoing Shepard's own question. The gate house was empty, its small control shack standing desolate. The gate itself had been left wide open. Just outside the perimeter fence, Shepard could see the other transport, but neither the soldiers who had manned it, nor the protesters they had been sent to disperse where anywhere to be seen.
"Curious, do you think they've gone on the hunt? Chasing down those dissidents of yours?" Balak asked from where he stood behind the lieutenant. He cradled a wicked looking weapon in his arms that looked like the offspring of a sniper rifle and a Cartwright light tank.
"Not likely," Montoya replied sharply, "Their orders were simply to disperse, and even if they did pursue, they would have closed the gate. And they likely wouldn't have left the Alvis." She smacked on the roof of the cab again, signaling the driver to a stop. The six-wheeled transport slowly rolled to stillness some fifty yards from the gate. "We walk the rest of the way. Bhatia, stay with the car and keep the engine running. The rest of you, I want a skirmish line, loose dispersal. Shepard, Spectre, you're with me."
The squad piled out of the back of the Alvis with practiced precision. If their hearts thundered as loudly as Shepard's did, they didn't show it. Intsead, they moved quietly, precisely, shaking out into a staggered line that picked its way forward in pairs, each one leap frogging past the other before dropping to a knee and sweeping the area with their Razor carbines. Shepard hopped down, careful to catch himself before he slipped in the mud. The terrain at the bottom of the valley was wet, marshy. Beyond the gate, pink, balloon-like creatures floated above wide pools to either side of the one-track road that led down to the city at the mouth of the valley. The young Navy spacer crept forward behind the Sentinel, both of them bent almost double. Behind him, he could hear the deep, alien breathing of the Spectre.
Up ahead, the skirmish line reached the gate and paused, letting them catch up. As they approached the control shack, Shepard's ears perked up. He could hear something. A steady hiss. Radio static. By the looks of the way the soldiers around him shook their heads slightly, it seemed they were getting it too. Montoya crept up to where her lead trooper crouched just beside the gate and the two seemed to converse. She turned back and fixed Shepard with those golden tinted eyes and jerked her head toward the shack. Taking her meaning, Shepard shuffled over to the small outhouse. The outward facing window across from the door was broken, the shards of glass that had once been its pane crunched under his boots as he slipped inside. The culprit behind the hissing was immediately apparent. The radio mouthpiece dangled from its console, swaying slightly in the breeze that carried the storm clouds overhead. Cautiously, Shepard reached out and replaced it on its stand. His fingers came away slick. He looked down and stifled a squeak. "Lieutenant," he hissed, once he was sure his fright wouldn't escape into his voice. Montoya doubled back and came in beside him. He showed her his hand. "Blood, ma'am."
"Shit," Montoya swore lightly, "they didn't even get a message out. Whatever did this moved fast." She squatted, brushing aside the glass with gloved fingerprints. "But not fast enough to avoid leaving a trail. She rose and stalked out of the building. Shepard followed, his heart hammering in his chest. At the Lieutenant's signal, the squad crept forward again, leaving the gate and spreading out. Montoya followed the thin trail of blood like a tracking hound, golden eyes fixed on the dirt. It led them out, weaving back and forth across the gravel path toward the idling transport that the missing team had left running. Moving closer, Shepard thought he could see something sticking out beyond one of the far tires. With a shock that made his heart leap into his throat, he realized it was a black boot. The gravel around the foot was slick, stained a dark red. Blood. It had to be blood. Montoya drew even with the Alvis and uttered an oath. Shepard was almost afraid to turn the corner, but he forced himself to. His eyes followed the boot, past the pooling blood and up a leg clad in torn trousers. An SRPA Black Ops trooper leaned heavily against the passenger side door, posed as if he had simply sat down to rest his head against the grey metal. But the trooper was not resting. His armored chest was a ruin of deep wounds, clustered tightly as if he'd taken a shotgun blast at close range. But a conventional shotgun wouldn't leave the deep, seared stippling on the exposed ruined flesh. But the true horror was not the man, but the vehicle behind him. The entire far side of the transport had been torn, twisted, warped, the half inch armor plate shredded as if it were paper. Bits of it lay scattered around the road, resting beside the remains of at least four other troopers. And beyond them, laying broken in a wide semi-circle, the broken bodies of unarmed civilians. Shepard thought he would be sick.
"Hmmm," Balak muttered as he walked past the vehicle to see the display, "mass accelerator rounds, no mistaking it. And biotics too, by the look of the vehicle."
Montoya had not been shaken by the dead man, or the apparent loss of civilians, but her eye twitched at the mention of biotics. "Shepard, call this in! Rawlings, perimeter, Murphy, police these bodies. I want to speak to anyone who's still breathing."
The Black Ops soldiers dispersed, moving carefully amongst the splayed bodies of their unfortunate comrades. Shepard put his back to the torn apart Alvis and tried very hard not to hyperventilate as he flipped open his radio set's control interface. The sound of jamming still warbled loudly in his ear. His eyebrows knitted in frustration as he worked to compensate. The radio squawked, a successful connection. That was when the figure concealed in the cracked hull of the transport struck.