Aggressor: Rise of Man

Chapter 6

Citadel

"You ask me, the only thing separating the Citadel from somewhere like Omega is the handful of Turians they let into C-Sec. Slums, drugs, maintenance failures, it's all there. My upmost respect to our Talons in the security teams, but it's a losing battle. But if that scattering of Turian discipline can stem the tide, imagine what we could do with a council seat..." -Lt. Commander Garrus Vakarian, aide to Fleet Admiral Saren Arterius

"Absolutely not!" the man in black bawled. Colonel Vanek was a shorter, stockier man than the commander of the Station Garden that he resembled. Angrier, too, going by the redness of the square, blockish face that quivered beneath a black high and tight haircut and bristling mustache equally dark. Unlike the late Colonel Thomas down on New Eden, his black dress uniform bore no insignia, no patches, not even a name plate. An officer of the shadowy X-Ray Division. One whose ire was currently pointed in Shepard's direction. "This is a job for a dedicated intelligence asset. Getting to board the Citadel? Standing in the very chamber of the council? This is an opportunity that cannot be wasted on a mere Navy telephone operator!"

"It's truly unfortunate then that the Petty Officer is not allowed access to the chamber at your invitation, Colonel, but at mine," Balak said, a laugh dancing behind his eyes. He offered the spluttering Colonel a needle-toothed smile. "The only reason your vessel is even able to approach the station is because the embassy of my people is hosting your delegation. The 'telephone operator is the guest of a Council Spectre.' Your spy games will have to wait."

"What difference does it make whether the John Shepard that shows up is the real deal, or one of my fellas, that goes with you?" Vanek cut back, his arms crossing across his barrel chest. "Like the vaunted Council could tell the difference, especially after a little movie magic and make up."

"I would be able to tell the difference," Balak said.

"Enough of this," Anderson's voice cut any further response off, "People are dead, God damn it. Humanity's colonies are, as we bicker over who exactly gets to present our evidence, open to attack by alien pirates. Can we please focus on the point at hand?" From his place at the head of the table of the small conference table, the Odysseus' captain leaned heavily on his elbows, his head in his hands. He looked up with a face half caught between anger and exasperation. "Vanek, I appreciate that your people excel in... delicate matters. And usually, of course, I would defer to your department in the field of intelligence gathering. Now, I want you to appreciate that you and your crew are guests aboard my ship and that this trip to meet the council is not why you're here. The Spectre's word stands. Shepard will go with Balak into that chamber."

Shepard stood awkwardly at attention in his plain and unadorned Navy dress uniform as the rest of the room argued about him. Argued around him. Anderson must have caught the look of discomfort on his face, because he raised a hand to silence the room. There was a question under those drawn brows. Shepard suddenly found himself staring into the eyes of everyone assembled. His voice caught in his throat, becoming a muted squeak. He could feel his cheeks heating. He tried again.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" he asked, tentatively. At Anderson's nodded assent, he continued, his words a little more confident to his own ears. "I will go say my piece before the Council, give my testimony. Because the Spectre thinks it will help us and because the bastards who did... that to New Eden need to be caught and put to justice. But the Colonel is right, I'm not a diplomat, and I'm not a spook. I don't know the first thing to watch for, to listen in to."

Colonel Vanek grunted, as if surprised to be backed up by Shepard's words, though his face darkened at the use of the pejorative 'spook.' Still, he brushed his chin thoughtfully with one hand, eyeing Shepard up and down.

"I suppose we could wire you up. It won't be as good as having a man on the ground, but I'd wager a team of analysts could make more out of your trip than one of my field agents anyway." He looked over at the Council Spectre. "Assuming you don't get turned in."

Balak shifted, smiling. "By all means, Colonel. This hearing will be with the backing of Ambassador Edan Had'dah of the Batarian Hegemony, and so will be a matter of public record within a week anyway. I don't see the harm in you taking pictures."

Shepard swallowed hard as Colonel Vanek nodded along to something he couldn't hear and wondered just what it was he had signed himself up for.

Shepard walked into the hanger deck feeling vaguely uncomfortable, and not just from the wire affixed to the inside of his uniform or the microdot camera that hid behind his collar. He was about to leave the ship and step foot onto an alien station, his only guard another dangerous alien who wouldn't stop looking at him as if he were a prime cut of meat. And all that with Earth's colonies on the line. He shivered a little in the chill air of the hanger and strode across to the parked Raven dropship that nestled close to the yawning opening into space. Balak stood waiting beside the boxy transport, chatting to a shorter woman in a black pilot's suit. They both looked up as Shepard approached.

"Ah, Petty Officer. I was just speaking to our pilot for the little trip across the Serpent Nebula. Have you two met before?" Balak said.

"Afraid I haven't had the pleasure," the pilot said past a wad of bubblegum, "Warrant Officer Colette Ferro, at your service. My bird's ready to go whenever we get the all clear from the boss."

WO Ferro was a petite, slightly pinch faced woman with an easy smile and short cut blonde hair. She leaned casually against the slab-sided Raven, her helmet under the crook of her arm. She extended a hand languidly.

"John Shepard, Operations Specialist, First Class," Shepard offered, taking the hand and shaking lightly. Ferro had a strong, steady grip. "Have you made this trip before?" Nerves still coiled in his guts at the idea of the sprint from where the Odysseus lay anchored opposite the Citadel's mass relay relative to the massive station to the awaiting docking bay. Citadel Traffic Control still upheld their blanket ban on human ships frigate weight or up docking at the station.

"Can't say that I have, OS," Ferro replied, stowing her gum, "But don't you worry. I've got more than a couple of drops into chop under my belt. And the kick in the pants atmo will give you is fifty times worse than your soupiest nebula. I'll get the two of you there, safe as houses." The intercom squawked overhead, the voice of the ship's navigator echoing in the chilly space.

"Word's in from Citadel TC, we've got our window."

"Thanks, Pressley," Ferro responded, leaning into the cockpit of her VTOL to grab the handset to its radio, "we are ready to go chocks up on the CO's word."

"You've got it," Anderson's voice cut in, "God's speed, Shepard. And Balak, you better return my sailor in one piece."

And with that, Balak and Shepard clambered aboard. Up in the cockpit, Ferro spoke shortly with her copilot and the deep thrum of the Raven's twin tilt mounted jets built to a steady whine, then up to a scream. Shepard felt the slight wobble as the ship left the deck, the narrow transition from the interior artificial gravity to the transport's smaller, less powerful field. And then they dropped. His stomach lurched at the apparent lack of acceleration, a sensation that was contradicted by the sudden blur of motion outside the small window on the far side of the cabin. And then they were outside the Odysseus' hull, charging forward on plumes of yellow-green plasma. The underside of the massive EDE cruiser flashed past, its glossy black ribs seemingly close enough to reach out and touch. The mad woman in the cockpit was actually skimming the skin, weaving in and out of the many spines and spires that studded the surface. Shepard felt himself grip the cold metal bars of the underside of his seat as the little transport rocketed directly under the massive orifices of the lower particle lances and out into the brilliant blues and purples of the surrounding nebula.

"Looks like we're in a hurry," he said, trying to make it a joke, but his heart thudded in his chest as they levelled out and arrowed into the murk. Balak chuckled.

"One doesn't keep the Citadel Council waiting. I hear Councilor Urdnot eats those that waste her time." The Batarian flashed his teeth unpleasantly. He looked just about to follow up the threat, but something pinged on the glowing interface mounted on his wrist. He crossed his armor-plated legs and buried himself in a suddenly summoned projection of scrolling text. The ride continued in that uneasy silence for minutes that might as well have been hours to Shepard.

Must get watch fixed he thought irritably to himself. He got up and paced the length of the transport. It wasn't long before the short walk back and forth grew equally tiresome as simply sitting. His anxiety rising with the prickle of sweat down his back, Shepard moved instead to stand next to the small exterior window. The Raven plowed dizzying eddies through the gasses of the enshrouding nebula, its drive plume lit the purples and blues in sickly, hypnotic patterns. And then, as swiftly as a curtain drawing away from a window, the thick press of the nebula parted. Shepard couldn't stop the sudden inhalation of breath any more than he could stop the very literal drop of his jaw. Balak looked up and barked in a harsh peal of laughter.

"Never seen anything like that on New Eden, eh?" He asked, rising from his seat. Shepard wasn't quite ready to speak again, only weakly shake his head.

Outside the thin skin of the Raven and before the dazzling backdrop of the brilliantly glowing nebula stood a structure of uncalculated size. Built in the image of a sun burst, or perhaps some king of tropical flower, the station that could only have been the Citadel consisted of a central ring about which five long, curved petals projected, casting long shadows on the gaseous medium they floated in. All along their length, lights flickered in the approximation of a starfield, or the lights of a city viewed from space. But that would make a city bigger than... Shepard tried to do the math in his head, but came up short. Very big. Curiously, the lights were not evenly distributed along the insides of the station. They clustered, most densely near their base, where the massive structures joined the central ring, and become less so as they radiated outwards towards the tips of the flower's petals. And even within those brighter bands, there were dark patches, some small, some larger. All were uneven, giving the station a slightly off-putting, leprous appearance. One of the larger of such patches appeared to be their destination.

"If you all look to your left, you'll see that we're coming up on the Citadel Defense Fleet," Ferro chimed in, "It's said to be the largest concentration of military tonnage outside of the DMZ. Some mighty fine piece of kit out there, although don't let our helmsmen let you hear that. You know boys and their toys."

Shepard's gaze shifted across the cabin and he nearly gasped again. The Citadel fleet was certainly a sight to behold. Ships in many shapes and sizes stood in serried ranks before the citadel. The majority of them were of a harsh, brutalist design. The greyed tan skin of their armor plating gave an impression of heavy concrete, making the ships look more like flying bunkers crossbred with a bull than starships, an impression only reinforced by their generally angular, octagonal construction, with their forward section both wider and thicker than their aft. Long dark slits of longitudinal trenches ran down their flanks, bristling with the barrels of broadside weapons. Similar ships of cruiser and frigate weight clustered about the massive dreadnaughts like a phalanx of heavily armed bricks.

The flying bunkers were joined by another group of ships, these ones seemingly constructed of a series of interconnected spheres. The largest of these resembled oversized jellyfish to Shepard's eyes, their clusters of spheres built on a wide, tall, but fairly short base hidden behind a disk-shaped shield that curved like a broad sail. The shield was pierced through by long, skeletal structures that extended behind the ships in long tails. Their cruisers were of similar construction, though they stacked their spherical sub-hulls deeper than the dreadnaughts. Their frigates abandoned the wide base, their spheres stacked on atop another like the rockets of the early space age. Beyond the disk clad warships, other massive structures in similar livery hung in space. These ships consisted of only a single spherical hull sitting atop a wide drive cone. At first glance they appeared unarmed, though as the Raven passed them closer by, Shepard spotted series of panels that looked suspiciously like gun ports.

Then, finally, at the end of the long line of military hardware, Shepard caught sight of a shape that made his blood run cold. The hollow, pearlescent halo hulls, the slender wings that extended to both sides and hung below their ventral surface. The bright blue glow of their exposed eezo cores. Asari ships. They looked like a pack of graceful sharks, each one sedate, yet ready to pounce on the unsuspecting. And at their center, the largest ship that Shepard had ever seen. It, like its smaller sisters, was built about a hollow central hull, but unlike the others, its four projections towered with thick, gently curving lines, dwarfing even the massive dorsal sails of the EDEN's new Leviathan-class Dreadnaughts.

"The Destiny Ascension," Balak's voice came from just over Shepard's shoulder, causing him to jump near out of his skin. "Guess someone on the Funerary Republic procurement board is still thinking about the future instead of meditating on their 'tragic past.' They rolled that beast out in response to the Loghs." The Batarian inclined his head towards the bullish dreadnaughts at the head of the fleet. "I hear they cost Thessia as much as any four of the Krogan or Volus capital ships, but with big guns like that, maybe that works for them. What do I know? I'm just a ground pounder who used to run with Frigate captains. Don't look so worried, Shepard. These ones probably aren't going to come after you to try and fry your brain. Probably." Balak chuckled darkly.

Shepard tried to put the thought of the number of heavily armed Asari floating less than a kilometer away and instead shifted his gaze back towards the station. The Raven dropped away from the assembled fleet above and slipped into the shadow of the Citadel. The massive prongs of the station seemed to close around them, though in his mind, Shepard knew that they remained stationary. Still, even the kilometers wide span felt claustrophobic. Shepard shivered. The transport continued its descent towards the cold embrace of the station, lowering itself towards one of the darkened patches. As they grew closer Shepard could pick out the shapes of unlit towers, blocks of collapsed buildings, even barren parks. And running down the length of the darkened patch, a deep scar that ran down to a shiny metal floor. A canyon of twisted steel and slumped, melted bulkheads. Construction equipment, heavy crane assemblages and empty hoverplatforms perched at the lip of the deep crevasse, also dark, unpowered.

"Zakara Ward," Balak rumbled, "eighty years and they still haven't fixed the damage that the Peregrine implosion caused. Now it's a festering wound."

Shepard's eyes widened.

"After that long?" he asked, dumbfounded. The Peregrine disaster was legend amongst EDEN sailors, a cautionary tale of what happened when Chimera tech tried to play with the mass effect. It was the reason that the Odysseus was skulking at a healthy distance from the mass relay rather than docked up alongside the Krogan Loghs and the Destiny Ascension. But to see the scars of its destruction still opened and bleeding in the so-called center of Galactic Civilization...

"The Citadel is seven kilometers in diameter and over ten times that long. A land area of near eight hundred square kilometers. And yet for all that space, it hosts a population of only seventeen million. There's more maintenance work to go around than there are hands to do it at the best of times. Combine that with the limits of manufacturing of spare parts for an entire station the size of terrestrial province, some areas had to be sacrificed." Balak stared out at the burnt-out ruins as they flashed past. This low to the ground, Shepard could see lights in the darkness. Small, flickering, like campfires.

"There're still people out there?" he said with a gasp.

"Of course," Balak replied, turning to his human companion, "There's air, to certain qualities of air. Water, to certain definitions of water. Food, if you can stomach it." His teeth flashed in the dark. "Society pushes the weak to its fringes, its dark places. There are a lot of dark places on the Citadel." He let the words hang on the air as the Raven dropped towards a lone bright patch in the darkened wilderness. Down below, a dozen armed soldiers prowled a fenced off landing pad in heavy armored suits. "Ah, here we are."

The heavy aircar touched down with a loud and solid clunk. Shepard's teeth rattled in his head. Across from him in the aircar's surprisingly plush cabin, Balak looked up from where he reclined on one of the two benches. On the other, Shepard sat wedged between two broad shouldered Batarian toughs. He tried to crane his neck around the heavily armored chest to see out of the heavily tinted windows, but the bodyguards shifted, their pauldrons blocking his vision as they made their own checks.

"We'll be heading direct to the Batarian Embassy," Balak said, his eyes flicking to the bodyguards. "However, there are a few checkpoints that even I have to stop at."

As if summoned by his words, there was a knock on the outside of the aircar. The tough to Shepard's left popped the window open and leaned out, muttering in his guttural tongue. Beyond his helmeted head, Shepard caught a flash of black and orange armor plate, a holographic badge, a heavy weapon hanging from a strap. And then they were through. The aircar lifted again, moving forward, though at a reduced clip.

"This is a lot of security," Shepard offered. This alien station was starting to feel depressingly like just another SRPA base.

"The Batarian embassy building is just across an avenue from the Turian compound, and not too far from the Raloi Sanctuary District. There have been... incidents." The Spectre kept his eyes on the windows, but his fingers tapped on the butt of his holstered handgun.

"Incidents?" Shepard asked. He felt the absence of Lieutenant Montoya's Deadhand sorely.

"Humanity is not the only race to experience friction along their border with the Turian Heirarchy," Balak replied. The aircar slowly drifted to a stop. "Excellent, just in time. Come, I'll get you checked in with our security forces, then once you're cleared, we'll meet the Ambassador." He nodded and the tough to Shepard's right popped the door. There was an immediate flood of sights, sounds, and smells that rushed into the cabin. The Batarian heavy stepped out onto the street with a smooth, practiced ease that belied his armored bulk. He swept the area with four sharp eyes. He nodded and stepped aside. Shepard popped out beside him and desperately tried to straighten out the crumpled uniform that he'd been stuffed into. Some semblance of neatness restored, he looked up. And up. And up.

The enormity of the Citadel became apparent with a rush of sudden and crushing perspective. From the street level, or one of many street levels Shepard realized, the towers that had looked spindly from the Raven became enormous. They filled the sky, which extended in a sea of bruised purple that extended as far as the eye could see down the length of Zakera Ward, stretching to either side until it touched the curved edges of the station. The artificial landscape rolled with hills built from apartment blocks, forests of industrial smokestacks, a mountain of a distant spaceport with its anchored docking rings. The sky above thronged with streams of aircar traffic that threaded its way across the sky ways beneath the rise of the far-off opposing ward, it's lights twinkling in the twilight like Lovell City in the night sky of Earth. Next to the shining towers, the batarian ambassadorial compound seemed squat, ugly, pedestrian. Not an entirely fair assessment, Shepard supposed as his eyes tracked over the brutish, industrial looking building. There was a certain brutalist utilitarian look to the squarish tower. It's dark orange hangings and banners hung limply behind the hexagonal lenses of kinetic barrier projectors and dark, slightly threatening looking trees lined the path to two metal security door.

Shepard turned in place, mouth agape. Behind the aircar, a heavy looking fence separated the compound from a pedestrian pathway. All manner of aliens trotted along outside. Fierce looking Turians with sharp raised crests. Slow, elephantine aliens that shuffled along on their knuckles like gorillas. Mechanical humanoids with brightly lit cyclopean eyes on long flexible stalks. Hunched figures in brightly colored yet shabby looking environmental suits that fluttered batlike wings at each other. And the wall of noise. Chirps, deep basso rumbles, and high-pitched squawking underlined heavy chemical smells and strange, bubbling scents that galled his nose.

"There will be time to play the tourist later," Balak snorted, "Come on. There's not much time before the hearing starts."

Shepard trotted across the compound's courtyard, staying on the Spectre's heels. The two of them strode wordlessly past guards in long, ceremonial coats, brutal looking rifles slung at their sides. And then they were inside. The embassy proper was a hot, dark space. More of the predatory looking ferns grew in square pots along the wall beneath minimalist murals of four-eyed Batarians going about a series of tasks. Agriculture, mining, industry, warfare. Orange was a prominent color, the color of batarian blood, Shepard realized. All of the depicted aliens bled at their labor. The farmers hands bled before stalks of a wheat-like plant that looked like it shared an ancestor with razor wire. The minors bled from broad shoulders that hauled loaded carts. The Soldiers bled from wounds even as they flung fire at an undepicted foe.

But the art appreciation would have to wait for another day. Balak kept up a steady pace, leading him through security checkpoints manned by more of the greatcoated guards and reptilian, vaguely aquatic looking dogs. The labyrinth terminated in a small, uncomfortable looking waiting room before a tall door, apparently made of real wood. Shepard imagined it an extravagant expense. A Batarian sat at a small desk before the door. A woman, Shepard guessed by the gentle swell of their torso and hips.

"Spectre Ka'hairal Balak, the Ambassador will see me now," Balak said, offering the batarian woman a toothy smile. She looked up, seemingly unimpressed by his bravado. Never the less, she pressed a holographic key on her terminal and spoke into a small microphone.

The great doors opened, apparently on their own, though Shepard heard no whine of motors. The office behind them was a grand one, perhaps two, even three stories tall with a window at least half that high that ran the length of the back wall. It looked out on the street below, and on the grandiose, slab-sided white building festooned with dark blue banners across the broad avenue. The room was decorated with elaborate statues made of a bight marble; the various species of the galaxy arranged in poses of preening obsequiousness or else kneeling with heads bowed. All of the statues bore chains and collars of polished brass. Art hung on the walls, very different from the murals in the halls. They were of lurid purples and somber blues with splashes of yellow. Mainly abstract, but a number were of more exotic faire. Asari nudes, a piece that seemed more blood splatter than painting, a Turian cowering before a Batarian carrying a whip.

And in the center of the room, an imposing desk the color of polished bone. Perched in a high back chair behind it, another Batarian smiled over steepled fingers. He wore what looked like a flowing robe of canary yellow and a second, shirtless Batarian knelt beside him with a shallow bowl of fruit held above her head. The doors closed behind them. Shepard looked back to see two more aliens, one of the suited, batlike creatures and a turian with his sharp fringe cut down to the skull. All wore brands on their skin. All wore collars. Slaves. Shepard's stomach tightened sickeningly. The ambassador watched him like a predatory cat. His eyes met Shepard's, followed his gaze to his servants, then fell back upon him.

"This is the one you bring to give testimony?" the Batarian on the throne asked. His voice was the same harsh gargle as Balak's, though it carried a more fluted, aristocratic tone.

"Yes," Balak answered, bowing his head, "Kar'dat John Shepard, may I present his excellency the Jam'dat Edan Had'dah, Ambassador to the Citadel representing the Batarian Hegemony. It is by his invitation that you are standing here today."

Shepard mimicked Balak's bow and repeated the words the X-Rays in the SRPA had fed him. "You honor me with your time, honored Ambassador. On behalf of the Earth Defense Executive, I offer the gift of my testimony in place of the blood with which it was earned. May this transaction enrich the both of us, and let it be the first of many more."

The ambassador guffawed.

"Pretty words, Kar'dat Shepard. Your handlers have done their homework." Those red rimmed eyes bore into Shepard's. "Come, sit. The forms and pageantry have been observed. Let us get to business." He clapped his hands, summoning two more of his slaves to fetch chairs for his guests. Balak took the chair eagerly, lounging in the rich, plush seat. Shepard perched uncomfortably on the edge, and thanked the alien bringing him his seat. If the branded Batarian could hear him, she didn't make any kind of sign. Ambassador Had'hah casually reached over and plucked a dark red fruit from the bowl beside him. He ate messily, one of his servants wiping his lips after each bite.

Shepard grew steadily more uncomfortable under the gaze of the batarian politician, the weight of the impending hearing hanging more heavily on his shoulders with eat passing second. He was about to raise his voice, question the efficacy of sitting around eating batarian grapes while his chance to bring Nihlus to justice slowly slipped away, when Balak chuckled and spoke in his place.

"Now who is observing the forms and pageantry, Edan?" the Spectre said.

"Oh, very well then," the ambassador replied. He shooed away the fruit bearer with a dismissive gesture. "I have read the reports forwarded by Ka'hairal. Watched the footage provided by your SRPA." He pronounced every letter of the acronym, foregoing the common rendering of 'Serpa.' "I see the Asari pirates have not lessened in their brutality, their... wastefulness, since moving their operations into human space. You have the sympathies of the Batarian Hegemony." He shivered slightly, a performative gesture of disgust.

"And Spectre Nihlus?" Shepard asked nervously.

"A persistent thorn in my people's collective sides," Edan said, spinning in his chair to look across at the edifice across the avenue. Spotlights had come on in the courtyard below those blue banners, splashing columns of light across its face in the darkness that passed for night on the massive station. "But that's not what you were asking, was it? As I have said, I reviewed the information submitted about the attack on New Eden. It is compelling evidence, or it could be, for those with a will to pay it any mind. The Council, however, can be stubborn in such matters."

Shepard felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. The ambassador's words sowed doubt in his mind, the certainty of justice for the residents of New Eden slowly getting eaten away. Had'dah seemed to pick up on his discomfort, because the flamboyantly dressed Batarian lowered his head as if in a display of apology.

"Oh, I am sure it will make a splash, don't you worry. The Council can be difficult at times, conservative in the extreme. They too observe the forms and pageantry. They despise that which casts ripples on the still pool from which they draw their authority. Do I think that they will cast out their first Turian Spectre? Perhaps, if they thought that doing so would brush the whole affair under the carpet. But the Hierarchy would not stand for it. They will raise a fuss, as is their right. They will likely have a representative at the hearing itself, in addition to whatever Nihlus has to say in his own defense."

"Despite that, do we think we can get some traction? Even a suspension would gain us some room to maneuver," Balak said, leaning in, his elbows resting against his armored knees.

"Us now, is it, Balak?" Had'dah asked. He leaned back in his chair; humor written across his face. "I have to say, it's not like you to take up a pet... cause." All for eyes crept across Shepard's face, making him cringe internally.

"You know my history," Balak replied, curtly, his usual jocular nature momentarily lapsing to reveal a hardened mask beneath. "And besides, Nihlus must have known I was assigned to the New Eden inspection run. That makes this one personal." He sat up straight again.

"Very well then," Had'dah said dismissively, "If you are both committed to this course of action, I will back you, at significant blood cost to myself and to the political aspirations of the Hegemony. My government will expect proper compensation." He raised his hands to deflect Shepard's sputtered protestations. "Which I am well aware that you are not authorized to negotiate on. Worry not, I am a patient man. You don't get to where I am by being anything else. The gritty details can be worked out at a later date. That only leaves the question of whether you are absolutely sure that you want to testify still."

Shepard's mouth opened and shut in a pretty good approximation of a fish.

"I came all the way here," he said, slightly incredulously, "Why would I turn back now? This hearing thing, isn't it just about to start?"

"The agenda for the hearing has not yet been set, at least, not fully. There is still a chance to deflect. We call these meetings as often as we are able, just to see what reaction we can draw out of our fellow delegations. We need not directly confront Nihlus or his Hierarchy handlers. But as to why, well, Nihlus is new to the Spectres, but he's an effective operative. He's amassed no small degree of influence, friends, followers. If you make a direct accusation like this and it doesn't stick..." his words trailed off, but Shepard didn't need him to finish the thought to catch his drift. If he took a swing and it didn't connect, it was going to piss off the alien that had turned New Eden into a charnel house. The alien that could twist men and women into zombies. The alien that was currently driving around the galaxy in a dreadnaught that swallow the Odysseus whole.

The alien who would do it again if he wasn't stopped.

Shepard swallowed; his palms suddenly sweaty. But when he spoke, he did so with a voice free from shaking.

"Let's do this."

Codex

The Citadel – Zakera Ward

The Wards, the five, large extensions to the Citadel station that hold the majority of its surface area, are the limbs that surround the beating heart of the civilized galaxy that is the Presidium Ring. Though it is on the Presidium that the decision making of Citadel space is done, it is through the Wards that that will is made manifest. Industry, Finance, the Trade that flows through the Serpent Nebula primary relay hub, it all happens out on the Wards.

Not all wards are created equal, though. Unlike the oldest inhabited Wards like Teysari or Kithoi, Zakera is a relatively young settlement. As such, it is primarily inhabited by the younger Council races. Hanar, Drell, Turian and Batarian interests dominate the local commercial and industrial districts all along the ward, though demographically the population of the ward is more diverse. Despite its lower population compared to the other wards, Zakera has an unusually high population density. This is partially due to the higher-than-average amount of area given over to industry, the Ward's primary function prior to the post Citadel-Chimera War population boom, and partially due to a higher-than-average proportion of dead zones. Official Citadel sources attribute this to damage sustained during the Peregrine Incident, though there are rumblings amongst the Turian and Batarian delegations that this does not tell the full tale, and that the maintenance failures can be blamed on intentional neglect.

Notable locations on the Zakera Ward are the Ambassadorial compounds of both the Turian and Batarian delegations. While both powers maintain full embassies on the Presidium Ring, they have been adamant about their rights to maintain offices outside of the office that they both share. Construction has been active on both compounds since their establishment, each one attempting to outdo the other. Their proximity has caused no lack of tension, with scuffles between low-level functionaries common. Notably, the revelations that led up to the Armistice Agreements between the Turian Hierarchy and the Human Earth Defense Executive triggered a months long series of protests outside the Turian compound. Accusations that many amongst the protesters were paid out of Batarian political action coffers have never been fully proven.

Civil unrest, the proliferation of unpowered zones, and the location of both the Raloi and Yahg Sanctuary Districts within the Zakera Ward has led to the highest crime rate on the Citadel. Racketeering, drug dealing, and petty theft are rampant outside of the relative safety of the Upper Wards, where C-Sec holds a more concentrated presence. Organized crime is omnipresent, though it is more focused around the area of the Scar, the aftermath of the Peregrine Implosion, where graft and corruption have halted all repair work for decades. The various gangs, mafias, and off-ring cults hold sway over vast areas of the Ward, with influence extending all the way to the Ward government.

Author's Note:

Welcome to the Citadel's Gotham, it's Omega away from Omega. The butterflies have not been particularly kind to the old Zakera Ward, I'm afraid. Still, it's not all bad. There are even fish in the pond!

Join us next week as we visit the Citadel Council meeting already in session. Humanity's enemies number more than is obvious on the surface, and they are on the move.

ty242526- There's certainly no love between humanity and the arrayed aliens of the galaxy. Still, our characters here are professionals. Exactly how far things have deteriorated will be a subject for later chapters.

Coment9- I haven't heard of the series until now, but a cursory search looks promising and I have an audible credit available.