Aggressor: Rise of Man
Chapter 7
Council
"The Turians would tell you that the effort to capture a Council seat is a waste of time, that the office has lost its legitimacy, that is up for sale. In a way they are right. It is clear that seats on the council are bought and sold, in credits or in blood. It is true that in their inaction they have rendered themself illegitimate, an insider's club that seeks only its own power. But if it is a waste of time to try and attain that lofty perch, why then do the Turians expend so many words on why they were slighted to be denied that perch?" -Volod Ill'noch, Batarian Radical
The aircar that took Shepard, Balak, and Had'dah from the Batarian ambassadorial compound was a very different animal from the heavy flatiron of a vehicle that had pulled him out of the dark zone surrounding the Scar of the Peregrine Implosion. This new car was a sleek number, a glossy hull painted a fluorescent orange. Still, the engine concealed behind that gaudy paneling thrummed with a register that spoke of power far in excess of what was required to lift the car into the air and set it on a course that brushed seemingly as close as the driver dared to the Turian embassy's airspace. That, combined with the dark tint of glass far thicker than apparent from the outside gave the aircar the aspect of a small infantry fighting vehicle that was only dressing up as a luxury conveyance. And dress up it did. The interior was an exercise in excess, from its well-padded seats of a rich, dark leather that filled the cabin with a spicy, exotic smell to the full bar that ran the length of one wall. Had'dah availed himself of the many-hued bottles as soon as the car lifted off, though his cup never seemed to empty as they plied the diplomat-only lanes that fast tracked them down the length of Zakera Ward. Shepard kept his hands in his lap, politely turning down the offer to a cup of liquor that probably set him back a week's wages if he had ordered it at any of the number of bars that flickered past below the aircar. Besides, the trip was disorientating enough without adding alcohol to the mix. Outside the forward windscreen, the car appeared to be plummeting down on the Presidium Ring below, though the artificial gravity told him that the ground was still firmly beneath his feet.
Shepard looked away from the gut turning image and focused his eyes inside the car, trying very hard not to think back to his time in the Navy's zero-gee training simulations.
"You're looking a little, what is the human term? Green around the gills?" Balak said, looking up from the datapad clutched in his gauntleted hand. He had also been studiously ignoring the bar. "Though, I do not see why. Your people do not even have gills. A curious expression."
"Oh, I'm just a little nervous, I guess," Shepard admitted, disarmed by the cocking of Balak's head, "never was one for public speaking."
"And yet you took a post as a radio operator," Balak smiled. He put the datapad down and leaned back into the seat. Shepard was momentarily distracted by the way his holstered pistol scraped at the finish on the leather, carelessly ruining the expensive material. "I have always admired your species capacity for contradiction."
Outside, the stacked tenements and warehouses gave way to another dark spot, this one much smaller than the Scar, then onto more parks and shopping centers. A quick peak forward placed the Presidium Ring just up ahead, across the monumental hinge that connected it to the ward. And then up from there, a long and slender bridge to the central spire of the Citadel Tower. Shepard's breath caught in his throat. There weren't just parks. The wards had had green spaces, small ponds and statuaries, but the Presidium had trees, lakes. It was like someone had run an awl across the surface of old Earth, before it had been partially turned to frozen wasteland, and twisted it into a loop to be cast out into deep space. The aircar twisted in the air to match the lazy rotation of the ring and suddenly they were spiraling down into a steadily descending orbit. As they sideslipped into the Ring's airspace, the light levels flipped suddenly, from dull twilight to the full sun of midday as quickly as flicking a lightswitch. Shepard Blinked owlishly and the sudden change and made a note to ask exactly how the sky worked around here later.
The carefully manicured landscape came up to meet them as a street slid underneath their course. It was a wide avenue, about halfway up the valley-like wall of the ring. It was lined on both sides by large, uniform buildings of white metal and glass, so that all the building on the far side of the street hung out over the floor of the ring below. Each flew a brightly colored banner.
"Embassy Row," Balak supplied, "We only run direct flights between our embassy here and the Ambassadorial Compound back on Zakera Ward. Transport to and from the Tower is restricted to Council controlled craft only."
"Dreadfully austere things," Had'dah offered, "C-Sec wouldn't know a comfortable ride if it was burning in their lobby." His face split in a wide, pointed smile, "Hah, but that was a weekend. But I must admit, their cars are secure enough for our purposes. We're on the end of the row, by the way. The Senior Council has us all lined up by seniority. Here, this first one is the Elcor compound, across from the old Volus embassy. The Hanar have it now, sharing with the Drell. Then you've got the Used."
"The Uplift Security Enforcement Department," Balak filled in at what must have been a look of confusion on Shepard's face, though the explanation of the acronym brought him no closer to comprehension.
"Then they have us and the Turians," Had'dar finished, his voice turning cold at the end.
"They have you share?" Shepard asked, "but your governments are rivals, right?"
Balak chuckled. "Something like that. Officially, the Council assigns embassy buildings in pairs to 'foster galactic relations,' but I'm of the opinion that it's a matter of keeping us focused on each other to the extent that we keep out of Senior Council business."
"Balak is something of a conspiracy theorist," Had'dar said with a mirthful tone that sounded like a drainpipe violently emptying.
"I wasn't selected to be Spectre for my credulousness," Balak rejoindered. The Spectre patted his sidearm as if to underline that fact. Outside, the landing pad for Embassy Row grew closer, turning from a postage stamp sized spot of grey into a wide rectangle edged with the nigh-universal yellow and black of caution tape. The Aircar came to an almost imperceptible halt, resting on a mass effect cushion without touching the ground. The door popped open smoothly and Balak was out and alert as soon as it reached the top of its arc. Batarian's in formal looking suits stood to either side of the door, nodding in turn with Balak. They carried no obvious weapons, but Shepard could catch a very slight refraction in the air around them and they stood in a stance that would allow quick access to the folds of their jackets. At Had'dar's prompting, Shepard stepped out onto the tough, rubberized flooring of the aircar pad.
From the air, the Presidium Ring had been a beautiful garden in miniature, like a museum model. In the flesh, it was breathtaking. Shepard's senses were assaulted in turns, first by the smell of fresh, running water and of green spaces. There was actually a waterfall running down the canyon-like sides of the ring further up its circumference, running down into an expansive pool of water that run under and through the ground-level streets. The streets and avenues themselves gleamed in white and chrome. And out on the streets, yet more aliens went about their business as if they weren't standing on the skin of a miracle. There were more Turians, and more of the massive, shuffling grey skinned aliens with faces like manta rays. But there were others as well, in forms both terrifyingly familiar and utterly strange. Shepard could see several Asari walking the silver-shod roads in long, graceful strides, many of them with faces covered in veils of black or of icy blue. In a small cluster of seats and tables around what looked like an open-air bar or café, a tall, thin, green scaled humanoid sat talking to a floating creature that looked like a Portuguese man o' war that flickered with interior spots of light. A pod of short, stocky aliens, almost perfectly spherical in sealed black suits waddled along, clambering into an aircar at the edge of the pad. At that was only the aliens who strode the open paths. As Shepard peered out over the station, he picked out other beings that lurked in alleyways or clustered invisibly just out of sight. More of the bat-winged aliens in heavy environmental hoods, Batarians with low cast eyes, all in jumpsuits that seemed to mark them as custodians or mechanics.
"There will be time for gawking later," Balak said quietly in his ear, "come, our aircar to the Council chambers is here."
Shepard nodded and followed the alien over to a simple, blue aircar of a similar, sleek make. Standing beside it were another pair of aliens. One was a Batarian, the other a species that Shepard had yet to meet. It stood a full head and a half taller than he did, at least, the large shell like hump on its back did. Its head poked from a pocket between its shoulders, like an earth turtle. If that turtle had the head of a dinosaur with a glossy bone plate covering its head above its red, saurian eyes. Both where in a uniform, black on blue, that looked like light armor and both carried pistols on their belts.
"Ambassador Had'dar, Spectre Balak," the dinosaur said. Its voice made the deep, guttural utterances of the Batarians seem like those of choir boys in comparison. Its words came out as if made by sliding slabs of granite past one another. "The Council is ready for you."
"Thank you, officer," Had'dar answered smoothly, "carry on."
The central chambers of the senior council of the Citadel said one thing, and they said that with a loud, all-consuming voice. You are small. The Batarian ambassadorial party strode into the chambers, Shepard in tow, and were immediately swallowed by its massive, echoing immensity. Shepard had seen the bones of the old cathedrals back on Earth, even seen surviving photographs from when they used to dominate the skylines of their respective cities. They paled in comparison. The path from the elevator doors to the audience chamber ran up a step-tiered stairway concourse that would have been comfortable out in the open air, and yet it did not feel cramped under the high vaulted ceiling. Each tier contained its own miniature garden, each growing a range of plants from vastly differing worlds, from wet marshlands to dry deserts. But the true enormity of the place only became apparent as the small party climbed the final set of steps and were able to look over the audience chamber proper.
The chamber was split by a deep crevasse that fell away from the ambassadorial podiums, separating the petitioners from the high council seats by a vast gulf. The walls were lined with galleries, half filled with various groups of aliens that had seemingly come to see the reason for the unscheduled meeting. The Council seats themselves where up on a high ledge on the far wall, extending from the wall below a tall glass expanse that allowed a view out across the Ring and out to the Ward that rose ever upwards in lieu of a horizon. Banners in deep purple hung from the ledge, decorated with a stylized image of the Citadel tower. The Council had already gathered on their high perch.
Four seats sat behind four podiums, the inner two slightly taller than the ones flanking them to each side. One of the inner seats was empty, its podium swathed in a simple black cloth. Beside it, a tall woman sat, her face veiled. She wore a simple dress, cut conservatively by human standards. Both it and the veil that completely obscured her face were of a stark ice blue accented in the palest seafoam green. Even behind the veil, the swoop of her upturned crest made her unmistakable as an Asari. At her right-hand side, another of the saurian turtle aliens sat, head cocked in conversation behind a veil of its own, though this one was not the gossamer number of its counterpart, more of a rigid structure that hid all but the eyes behind bark blue fabric and golden tassels and fringe. On the far side of the row of chairs, one of the rotund aliens sat perched, its round, almost beach ball-like suit a deceptively simple black, though the edges of the thick, rubbery plates seemed to be threaded with a silver-white metal, perhaps platinum. Its masked face had two thick portholes through which eye-lights glowed above a circular mouthpiece and a drooping assemblage that made the alien look like it sported bottle glasses and an impressive mustache. All three of them stood at the approach of the Batarian party. A gaggle of Turians in what looked like business suits already perched in a little petitioner's pod of their own.
"The Citadel Council greets the representatives of the Batarian Hegemony," the right-hand alien said, its voice surprisingly feminine, though it still spoke as if gargling gravel, "Though it would note that Ambassador Had'dah has still not submitted an official agenda, excepting the fact that it may involve the Turians." The alien motioned towards the increasingly agitated Turian party. The Turian standing at the front, dressed in the most ornamentation seemed to do a double take as Shepard joined the Batarians in their pod. He leaned towards the podium before him and spoke with a voice amplified through no obvious means.
"Honored Councilors, the Turian Hierarchy must object to the presence of Humans in the Council chambers. According to the Articles of Thessia, they are without an Embassy, and therefore are ineligible to petition the Council regarding anything."
"Thank you, Ambassador Sparatus," the round alien spoke. It wheezed with every sentence, the sound made mechanical by its electronic vocoder, "The Council is well aware of the contents of the Articles. The Earth Clan has not been offered an embassy, and will not as long as it remains in a state of war with an Embassy race. This Human is here on the invitation of the Kar'shan Clan. As irregular as that is." The alien looked at Shepard, and even though its face was hidden behind thick ceramics and glass, he got the impression that it was narrowing its eyes at him.
"Thank you, Councilor Korlack," Kad'dar said smoothly, "as always, you show a great deal of wisdom. Would it be that that wisdom were able to quell the... warmongering of my Turian counterpart." He let the barely concealed insult drift on the air, raising an angry coughing noise from Sparatus.
"Warmongering?" the Turian ambassador near squawked, "It is the humans that spread lies of an attack on one of their colonies as justification for mobilizing further naval units to their side of the DMZ. Movements that we have matched, yes. But that is our right under the terms of the Armistice agreement."
Shepard suddenly felt less like a witness in a trial and more like a piece of meat hung up on a hook between two hungry tigers. A bit of bait to goad the Turians with. Never the less, he attempted to school his features. He wanted to glare daggers at the Batarian ambassador who was waving him like a matador's flag, but there would be no way his story would be told if he threw away the only offer of allyship that he'd been offered, no matter how tentative and disingenuous it appeared.
"Point of order," the right-hand alien said, her voice cutting across the verbal broadsides being exchanged between the two ambassadorial parties, "This meeting has been called so that the Hegemony may present evidence on behalf of the Earth Defense Executive, not relitigate the terms of the Armistice. The both of you will stop sniping at each other long enough to submit coherent arguments and not waste the Council's time any further, I trust?"
"Yes, Councilor Urdnot," Sparatus said. There was still a bitterness to his flanged voice, though he bowed his head respectfully enough. Had'dar hesitated a second before joining him.
"As you say, Councilor."
"Good," Councilor Korlack said between hissing breaths, "Now, if the Ambassador would be so kind as to tell us exactly what evidence he has to submit. Why we are here."
Kad'dar nodded and went to withdraw something from his bright yellow robes. He slipped the object, a small disk of clear glass edged in copper, into a slot at his podium and a hidden holoprojector flared to life. Shepard's heart leapt as he recognized the image of New Eden from orbit. The Batarian ambassador started speaking, his guttural voice a purr over the amplifier.
"New Eden Colony, old growth by Human standards, but low population compared to galactic standards," he began, as if giving a lecture to a particularly slow classroom of juvvies, "And, conveniently located closely to the Human-Turian DMZ and active relays in the Attican Traverse. Also, recently the subject to a very real attack." The image shifted suddenly to what looked like still frames taken form combat footage and security cameras. Images of burning buildings, dead civilians, and with an accompanying heart-stopping lurch, SRPA personnel impaled upon pointed metal spikes. A murmur of horror rippled around the half full galleries.
"Since you have called us here, I assume that the EDE has proof of the perpetrators of this attack?" Councilor Urdnot asked. Had'dar nodded and the images changed again. Asari Reavers, the twisted bodies that had come down from the dragon's teeth. Shepard's stomach turned as the memories returned, fresh as if he'd just stepped back into them. He could almost taste the smoke of the burning city on his tongue, hear the deranged screams and manic laughter of the raiders. Cold seat prickled on his back. Then the image of the dreadnaught appeared, hovering over the colony with impossible stillness. Utterances of disbelief chased the horror around the chamber and suddenly each and every party there were turning to each other in frantic conversation.
"As you can see, the attackers were Asari pirates, a distressingly common occurrence in humanity's undefended rear. While the Turians worry them with fleets at the DMZ and they struggle to match their numbers, the predators of the Traverse carry out vicious, unprompted attacks, savaging worlds like this one." The ambassador's voice was like one of those narrators soliciting donations for the unfortunate in the UPP or for the beleaguered settlers on the edge of the Grey Zones. "Or perhaps not entirely unprompted."
The image flickered again, this time to an image that Shepard recognized from his own helmet cam. The Turian Spectre, Nihlus. The chamber erupted into chaos.
"Outrageous!" Sparatus bellowed in his flanged voice. His sentiment was echoed around parts of the chamber, though noticeably not its entirety. A small passel of the floating jellyfish that Shepard had seen out on the street flashed excitedly amongst themselves before half of them suddenly exited the chamber. A pod of more of the round aliens were talking quickly into communication panels, and one of the massive shamblers seemed to be in furious argument of a group of Turians in military dress in the gallery next to him.
"Enough!" Councilor Urdnot said, "There will be order in the chamber!" The silence that followed was deafening. "The accusation you imply is a serious one, Ambassador Had'dar. You'd better have serious evidence to back it up."
Shepard's heart dropped. Did the images here not speak for themselves?
"We have additional visual evidence, both still images and video, along with the testimony of Earth Defense Directorate Navy sources regarding the force that attacked them. If that does not satisfy you, we have the eyewitness testimony of a Council Spectre and the Human communication officer who sent the transmission alerting the galaxy at large as to the nature of this... cowardly and underhanded assault."
Shepard could feel the eyes of the assembly hall boring into him, the attention running from the curiosity of some younger female Batarians to the piercing, red-hot stare of Ambassador Sparatus that threatened to bore a hole right through him. Councilor Urdnot seemed to regard him, coolly.
"Very well, we will allow the testimony of the Human," She rumbled, "step forward, Human. State your name and position for the record."
The four or five steps to the podium felt like they stretched out for miles. A hush fell about the chamber as Shepard walked, plunging him into a silence in which he could hear every footfall as if it were a dropped anvil, hear every breath as if it were an industrial blower, every heartbeat as if it were an immense drum. His throat was dry as he accepted his place before the Council from Had'dar.
"John Shepard, Petty Officer First Class, EDEN Odysseus." The words seemed alien, somehow detached, even though he'd said them before many times, including that very day.
"And it was you who sent the previously mentioned transmission?" Councilor Urdnot prompted.
"That is correct."
"If you could describe for the Council the events of that day," the councilor added, her tone almost matronly. "Leave nothing out, tell no falsehoods. You may not be a representative of an Embassy race, but be aware that the Council takes a dim view to false witness."
And so, Shepard did. He started with the arrival of Spectre Balak on the landing field of SRPA Research Station GARDEN to the first sounds of explosions in the distance, to the attack on the dig site. He detailed the attack of the Asari, careful to avoid making pointed eye contact with the councilor up on the high dias. He described the horrors of the dragon's teeth and the doomed defense of the research station's lobby. By the time he was finished, his body shook. He stepped back, releasing a white knuckled grip on the podium that he hadn't even realized he'd had.
"So, you corroborate the allegation that Spectre Nihlus Kryik lead the attack on your colony?" Councilor Urdnot asked gravely.
"I do not know Spectre Kryik, all I know is that I saw that Turian attacking our station. It was Balak who made the identification." Shepard said, truthfully, though even as the words left his mouth he knew that they would hurt his case. The Turian Ambassador immediately made those fears manifest.
"You see, the Human does not even know how to tell one Turian from another! His testimony is irrelevant, and should be stricken from the record. And as for this so-called video evidence, such things have been tampered with. In fact, SPectre Balak has done so before."
"Allegedly," Had'dar said, raising his voice, "Spectre Kriyik's accusations as to the prominence of those recordings has not yet been verified!"
"And yet there is enough doubt clouding the matter," the left-hand alien wheezed, "However, the Earth Clan's testimony contains pertinent details regarding the known problem of Asari attacks in the Traverse. As such, it shall remain a matter of record."
The Turian Ambassador bristled and made as if to make a rebuttal, but he was interrupted before he could build a head of steam before a new voice cut across the Council chamber. It was high, feminine, with a lilting accent. It quavered, as if it floated on an ocean of sadness.
"As is known, the Funerary Asari Republics condemn and disavow the actions taken by our Lost Sisters. However, as is custom, your losses will be fairly compensated," the Asari councilor at the central podium spoke for the first time since the meeting had been joined, "please, carry my people's sincerest apologies for your great loss."
"Oh, I..." Shepard stuttered, momentarily silenced. He wasn't sure what he was expecting from the veiled councilor, but it wasn't that. "I will."
"Very well," the Asari responded, dipping his head ever so slightly, "Thank you for offering your testimony. You may now leave the chamber while the Embassy representatives further discuss the implications of Ambassador Had'dar's charges."
"What?" Shepard asked, heart pounding at the apparent summary dismissal.
"Your part in this is complete, Shepard," Balak said quietly, "you are here to deliver your testimony in support of our case against Nihlus. You've done your part, now it's Had'dar's turn to do his. As much as I'd love to allow you to remain in the chamber to see how it goes, as a non-Embassy species, your invitation only extends as long as your testimony. There is a member of my security staff waiting outside who will take you back to the Embassy. Wait for me there and I will fetch you once this hearing is over."
And with that, Shepard found himself brushed aside and gently led out of the chamber. Behind him, the representatives of the Hierarchy and the Hegemony bickered amongst themselves, but it was strangely abstract, fuzzy. Shepard walked along, numb to the verbal sparring that continued until the elevator doors snapped closed. He felt his stomach lurch again, and it wasn't just from the descent of the tower's elevator car. He barely registered the suited Batarian who waited for his at the bottom of the car's agonizingly slow drop to the Presidium. He sleepwalked to the C-Sec aircar, then past the security desk in front of the Batarian embassy building. All that he could think about were the looks of disbelief on the Councilor's faces as he had told his tale. He hadn't been able to convince them, and it looked like the Batarian delegation would be little able to change that fact. They might even make it worse, he thought to himself as he stewed in the Embassy waiting room. Well, I've done all I can do. Now it's just a matter of waiting.
And waiting. And waiting.
The minutes ticked by slowly, unaccounted for by his lack of a timepiece. It felt like a long, long time though. Not that he'd be able to tell in the Presidium's unchanging, unending sunlight. He'd been left alone in a small waiting room to await the fate of Humanity's case against Nihlus Kryik. The walls were adorned with more of the cubist murals, these one portraying what looked like scenes from the Batarians' early space age. There was a disturbing amount of lurid orange involved in the painting, with a hopefully abstract image of workers in rags stacked up high enough to reach the uneven, kidney shaped moon that hung in the sky. Beside it, a scene that looked more suited to images of the construction of the Egyptian pyramids than of a rocket construction site. He'd analyzed each image for what felt like hours, though he had no way of knowing where that number fell on the scale of subjective to objective time. Either way, as he sat down on one of the uncomfortable chairs beside a thistle-like bouquet possessing altogether too many barbed thorns, he felt that he had thoroughly exhausted all options for entertainment of distraction that the room offered.
He blew out his cheeks, and ran his hands through the short tufts of his hair. His eyes danced around the room one more time, falling on the mural, the plants, the little grey box that perched on the table beside him. A little orange light blinked on its side. He sat up straight in his chair, a sudden electrifying rush cutting through the fog of black depression that had closed around him after leaving the Citadel Tower, replaced for the first time with curiosity. He hadn't seen that little box on his way in. Tentatively, he reached out his hand to brush its smooth grey skin. As his fingers broke the plane above it, it beeped quietly and the light burned a steady amber.
A flat projection of a touchscreen, rendered in orange hologram, danced to life. Shepard' fingers sprang back in an uncontrolled reaction, but the screen remained. Shepard glanced around the room guiltily, suddenly feeling like a kid playing with a toy that did not belong to him. He remained alone in the small waiting room. No guards rushed in to arrest him. He felt sheepish at the thought. After all, why would the Batarians leave him alone in a room with sensitive equipment. His eyes were drawn back to the projected screen. Text flowed across it, sinuous script that he couldn't read. There were programs loaded on his data tablet back in his quarters on New Eden that could translate it for him in real time, but that was impossibly far away. He wished that he'd had more time to prepare, to brush up on the major alien trade languages. As it was, all he could do was stare dumbly at the blocks of text. He picked up the little box. It was about the size of his old data reader, maybe two dozen centimeters on its long edge and half that wide. There appeared to be a series of icons down the left-hand side, unfamiliar. At the bottom, a larger icon flashed between green and red. The interface yielded no more of its secrets. Shepard looked around again, curiosity slowly creeping up to overtake nerves. He had been waiting for a while, after all. Clearly something about the meeting was taking longer than Balak was expecting. They'd probably be a while more, and Shepard had extracted all the distraction that he could from the painted walls of the waiting room. The flashing rune blinked steadily, invitingly.
"Aww, what the hell?" Shepard said aloud, exasperated, "I sure hope this thing isn't a bomb."
His thumb hit the glowing rune. The hologram had some kind of haptic feedback that pushed back against his stroke. The icon went steadily green, and the screen shifted, becoming something more familiar. Two dials, lettering scrolling across the top of the screen. Shepard reached for the left-hand dial, stroking it ever so slightly. A sudden bleat of sound accompanied the gentle pushback of the haptic hologram. Shepard's heartrate spiked and he quickly pushed the dial the other way. The sound lowered in volume, resolving into alien voices. A half seconds later, the implant just behind Shepard's right ear started twittering a tone matched stream in English. It was a commercial. It was a radio.
A wide smile split Shepard's face. Since he'd stepped onto the Citadel, he'd been in alien territory, both figuratively and literally speaking. Politics, espionage, hell, add firefights to the list and Shepard had been out of his element and way out of his depth since that first explosion on New Eden. But the radio, that was his domain. Even if it was in an alien language and advertising crest wax for Turians who were feeling not so fresh. Experimentally, Shepard fiddled with the dials. The left was clearly volume, which made the right a frequency setting. Glyphs ticked over as he turned it, filtering through the available channels. And audio drama about a Volus financier, narrated in the halting, rebreather-like voice of the rotund councilor. Music in a dozen different shades, with instruments that Shepard had never heard. It took a little more fiddling and Shepard was pretty sure he had the numerals on the display figured out. Just for a laugh, he carefully tuned into the frequency that would have carried his favorite station back on New Eden, a smooth neo-bluegrass outfit. Instead of the buzzing chords of acoustic strings, he was greeted by a thrashing, metallic sound backed by the flanged vocals of the Turians. The frequency for the little weather station whose female presenter Shepard like the voice of turned up a bubbling announcement of a new release from 'the latest and greatest from the Quarian Quarantine Zone.' Shepard dialed in to a few more stations, idly passing the time. He flicked from one to the other with no real pattern, going through the scores of frequencies he'd committed to memory over his time in training and aboard the Odysseus. Most of them contained empty air. One was not. Shepard's eye flicked to the frequency readout and his heart stood still.
He's entered this particular frequency maybe a million times before. He was pretty sure that he could do it blindfolded, in his sleep. The alien glyphs burned into his eyes If his translation was correct, they transliterated to the frequency reserved for the SRPA. And it was transmitting in EDEN battle code.
Intel
SRPA Report: X-Ray Clearance Only
The Empty Chair
The significance of the 'Empty Chair' has so far eluded our agents, though it is clear that it has some deep significance amongst the Citadel Council races. It is paid especial respect by its position beside the seat of the Asari, known to be the senior most member of the Alliance that runs the Citadel. Rumors abound, running from it representing some long lost progenitor race to being the seat of a former member of the alliance that has since been removed. As has been stated in previous reports, our ability to physically insert agents remains hobbled by our lack of a diplomatic mission, and penetration of all but the most unsecured public data networks remains outside our grasp.
Please see supplemental reports: Embassy Proposal; Avina Restrictions; Volus Trade Delegation;
Author's Note:
Coment9- I've listened the first book of the series, and oh boy does it tick all the boxes. I didn't know I needed Starship Troopers minus the ideology and plus Aliens, but here we are.
Primarch1- You got it in one. There are a few butterflies that reach even further back, but let's just say that what was the Rachni Wars in canon were quite different and much more impactful.
RandomReader- Why, thank you. I consider myself a somewhat amateur student of politics, nice to know I can finally put it to use.
OMAC001- There's an unfortunate trend in scifi writing where scifi gets written by science fiction authors instead of big nerds who like to hang out on Wikipedia and read history books for fun. Luckily for my readers, I get to address this horrible injustice.