Vanguard of Vengeance: Chapter 21


It was strange, Shepard thought, this feeling of weightlessness. It was almost peaceful. Or, it would be, if it were not for the persistent ringing that filled her head. The world spun around her as if in slow motion, lit by the red light that strobed though thick smoke. Shepard's helmet flew away to join the burning cinders and buckled spall that roiled around the interior of the dark space, her black hair drifting to create a halo about her head. There were muted sounds that gnawed at her perception, trying to claw their way past the ringing. Shepard could no more make sense of them than she could the coiling shapes that filled the… where was she? The… Mako. That was right, she was in the Mako. Then why was she spinning? Those irritating noises came back again, the warbling of some kind of alarm, the voices of others, frantic and panicked. The sharp tang of smoke. Shepard tried to focus on the voices. They were fuzzy, indistinct, filled with emotion but devoid of meaning.

Then, they hit the second mine. There was a sound like the ringing of a mighty bell and lance of blue-white plasma lanced though the Mako's troop bay, erupting from the side wall and passing between the buckled in shapes of her crewmates. The light filled the bay with a white so bright it momentarily flash-blinded her, bereft as she now was of the protection of her helmet visor. Shepard tried to blink away tears that had instantly evaporated in the sudden bloom of heat. Her restraints, melted and stressed to the point of destruction, came loose as her kinetic barriers pulsed outwards to block a new wave of spall and Shepard was now truly freefalling. The explosive bolts on the emergency escape hatch in the floor blew. Shepard was thrown from the rolling Mako and into a storm brewed up from battle. The blue skies of Virmire were riven by the trading of shot and shell, the flash and thunder of war sending showers of sand into the air to patter down upon the still rolling wreck of their IFV. Shepard hit the ground hard and rolled, her smoking armor drawing puffs of steam from the wet sand. She came to rest with a grunt of pain. Shrapnel pattered down around her.

Shepard let out a ragged cough and pushed herself to her knees and elbows. Something hard had stopped her roll; she could feel it in front of her even as she struggled to blink back her vision. The dark splotch wavered back and forth, slowly resolving into hard lines and solid colors. The object was purple black, curved in the way that all geth tech was. Another mine, inches from her face. Shepard fell backwards and pushed herself away, kicking her way across the sand. Someone caught her by the shoulder. Shepard looked up to stare into the face of Javik.

"Remember where you are, Commander," the Prothean said. He released her shoulder and pulled his particle rifle from its place behind his shoulder. "We are within sight of our goal, now is not the time to rest on our haunches."

Shepard shook her head, clearing some of the ringing from her ears, the cotton wool from her mind. She accepted Javik's hand up. Her own rifle was gone, ripped from her side in the crash. Her holster was empty also. Javik pushed something into her hand. She looked down to find an angular dagger pressed between her fingers.

"Are you serious?"

"If you'd prefer to go unarmed," Javik responded. He scanned the path behind. "Already the synthetics gather to pursue. Gather what survives of our companions, I will hold back these geth." The prothean turned and jogged back the way they had driven. Shepard spared a second to watch his retreating back before the weight of the mission fell back onto her shoulders. There was no time to waste. She took off in the opposite direction, loping across the sand. The wreck of the Mako had come to rest several meters ahead. The derelict stood on its side, its upturned wheels still grinding against buckled axles. Black smoke belched from its belly. A marine lay hanging from the roof like a broken marionette, his tether still stubbornly attached to the roof. A bad way to go. Shepard pushed the broken marine from her mind as she mounted the crashed transport, hauling herself up to peer in through the rents in its side. No movement stirred in the derelict's smoldering guts besides the swirling smoke.

"Shepard," a voice called weakly from within. A turian flange that broke down into a gurgling cough.

"Nilhus!" Shepard clambered up the rest of the way and pitched herself into the smoke. Her feet hit the far wall with a crunch of heat crisped anti-spall coating. The Mako shifted dangerously. Shepard shuffled forward, feeling in front of her through the pall of smoke. Her outstretched fingers found the chair that the turian Spectre had been sitting in. "You still there?"

"I'm here," Nihlus croaked. A claw clasped over Shepard's arm. The council Spectre rose from the smoke like a ghost of war. His chest armor had bubbled and cracked under the intense heat and the sickly smell of burned meat rose from the wounds that showed through holes in his side. The bony plates on the side of his face were singed an ashy grey, and soot fell from his fringe. The Turian coughed again. "Get me out of here, Shepard, my harness."

Shepard looked past him to see the strap of his harness fused to the shoulder pauldron of his armor. She gave it an experimental tug. Nihlus groaned at the jerk. "Hold on there, I'll have to cut you out," Shepard said, trying to keep her voice calm. She reached out with Javik's alien knife and laid it across the warped webbing. As gently as she could, she began to saw against the stubborn fabric. Outside, she could hear the sound of a particle rifle firing. It sounded like it was getting closer. Shepard quickened her pace. Rounds pinged off the Mako chassis, the frame groaned and shifted in the soft sand. Shepard caught herself before she could fall across Nihlus' body. "Alright, this is going to hurt, but if we wait any longer, we're going to get overrun."

Nihlus fixed her with a baleful stare, but relented. He offered her a curt nod. Shepard braced her hand against the trapped shoulder, the knife in the over hand pulled the webbing taut. With a sudden, fluid motion, she slashed at the restraint while pulling back on the Spectre. Nihlus let out a cry, halfway between a bark and a squark. The webbing gave way before the knife and Nihlus came free. Shepard caught him before he could slide down the canting troop bay.

"Thank you..." Nihlus said, righting himself. "For your assistance. Now, let's get out of this iron coffin."

"Let's get you patched up first," Shepard retorted. "You hit your medigel?"

"Boiled away," Nihlus coughed. "You have enough to share?"

"Nothing Turian, I can dose you up, but it's going to itch something awful." Shepard moved to the open escape hatch in the floor-turned-wall. Unfortunately, the way the Mako landed had left the hole facing the Geth advance. They were getting uncomfortably close. The flash of the sun on purple metal platforms gave the scuttling tide an unreal quality. Above the hoard, two cyclopean walkers strode towards her. Shepard ducked back inside. Behind her, Nihlus was hauling himself to his feet.

"Do it."

Shepard pressed the nozzle of her medigel applicator into Nihlus' side and squeezed the trigger. Nihlus' mandibles quivered as the snap-hiss of the medical tool filled him with painkillers and clotting agents. He let loose a ragged cough and struggled to stand tall. More rounds pinged off the Mako, one lancing through the open escape hatch to bury itself in the exposed roof. The floor pitched again as the Mako rolled under them. Shepard struggled to keep upright; her arm shot out to brace Nihlus as the two raced to keep their balance. With a groan, the Mako settled on its rooftop gun. The sudden, juddering crash sent the two pinging off the walls. Shepard ended up on her back, staring up and out of the ragged hole blown through the floor by the first plasma mine.

"We've got to get out of this thing," Nihlus groaned. Shepard couldn't help but agree. She propped herself up on her elbow and blearily looked around. The twisted exit hatch was once again in the side wall, only this time; it was pointed away from the enemy. The commander crawled towards the opening. She stopped to grab Nihlus by the handle built into the back of his armor.

"Come on, let's get you out of here."

"I will not be carried out of here," Nihlus protested before trailing off into a wet cough. Shepard ignored his protests and continued to reach for the hatch. She grunted as hands reached through the hole and grasped her under the armpits.

"Skipper," Ashley called as she strained to haul Shepard out. She was a sight to see, her own off-white armor flecked with impact divots where she'd caught a fist full of Mako armor buckshot. At least the Gunnery Chief had kept her helmet on. With a final heave, the other woman managed to lever out Shepard and her wounded charge onto the sand.

"Any other survivors?" Shepard asked as she regained her feet. A stream of incoming fire whickered overhead and the steady sound of rushing water was pockmarked by the spark pops of grenades. A nearby impact showered her with a spray of sandy water and the smell of salt tinged with iron. Ashley nodded. She wiped a splatter of dark mud from her helmet.

"You, me, and our driver," she yelled over the sound of fighting, "oh, and the Spectre's merry band of aliens. Garrus broke one of his legs and the Asari is going to need medigel for some nasty burns. I don't think the crash even slowed Javik down. He's tough for an old man. Everyone else is good to walk. The squad on the roof... they didn't make it, Commander."

"I appreciate the report, Gunnery Chief," Nihlus said roughly. The wounded Turian took Shepard's outstretched gauntlet and hauled himself to his feet, where he wobbled dangerously. "How far to the STG camp?"

"A good half mile. Although it might as well be five with the number of wounded we need to move. Doing it under fire is going to be tough." Williams reported in clipped and professional tones.

As if to underline her statement, a Geth Colossus landed a siege pulse directly on the upturned belly of the Mako. The blue-white fire ate ravenously at the already blackened and buckled metal. For a standing second, the prone form of the IFV seemed to waver, to wilt. Then the fuel cell ruptured. The flames leapt from the tank in black red-yellow blooms and the Mako disappeared in a flash of steam.

"Javik..." Shepard managed weakly. The ancient alien had been their rearguard, his covering fire had given them the time to escape that now burning wreck. But even he could not have escaped from that conflagration. The rapidly spreading eezo fire coated the wet sand in a sheet of black flame that roiled in strange dancing eddies, consuming the wilted frame of their loyal transport. Hypnotic swirls of blue-white whipped through the ebon fire as the wind blew more element zero dust from the pierced core to ignite hungrily. Shepard watched as they flickered in dizzying patterns and then suddenly parted. In the densest part of the fire something was swirling, taking shape. Emerald green against the darkness. A biotically lit silhouette marched out of the flames, the eezo fire forming a scorching nimbus around its head and feet. Javik stalked towards them, particle rifle hissing with waste heat, four eyes blazing and bifurcated lips turned into a raging mask. He stopped just before the wounded and battered party.

"The day is not yet won, nor is it lost. Get on your feet."


Shepard grit her teeth as the needle went in. The long hiss of the medigel took away the sting, but it couldn't do anything for the spreading cold and the momentary stiffness of the muscles that accompanied the Salarian's long medical probe's applicator tip. The frog-like alien watched her with large, expressionless eyes as it pulled back the canister.

"Nothing broken, no surgery needed, you're ready to go, Commander," it chirped all in one breath. The canister went into a barrel of empties, the probe went into a sterilization bin, and the hyperactive medic was already looking over the next injured marine. Shepard returned the heat charred ceramic shoulder plate to its rightful place and rolled the joint experimentally. No popping or clicking. The salarian formulation of the non-active medical pace went in like a tub of Vaseline, but it worked fast.

"Thanks, Doc," she muttered as she levered herself off the stacked crates that was operating as the small camp's medical table. The worst of the wounded were scattered about the large, open tent. Some human, some Salarian. She nodded to one of her marines as she walked by. The man tried to rise, but Shepard shook her head and gently placed a hand on the man's shoulder. He'd lost an eye in a desperate attempt to lodge a grenade under an Armature's chin and survived long enough to lip into camp with a few other stragglers. "Rest up, Private. There'll be plenty of action for all of us soon."

The marine's lips managed a thin smile. He'd pull through. He was one of the lucky ones. Shepard continued on, clasping the gauntlet of a man who was slowly bleeding out of the whole one of the motile hoppers had punched clean through his guts. He was glassy eyed, doped up to the gills. He had maybe a handful of minutes before he shuffled off and freed up a bed for someone less hurt. She slapped the back of a high-spirited combat engineer who'd be going home to be fitted for prosthetics to replace her left leg below the knee and her right arm below the shoulder if they could arrange for pickup. Others she left to lie still, or offered only a couple of words of support where the damage was less physical. Her short platoon now numbered only enough to fill a heavy fire team, maybe a squad if they could get a few of the walking wounded into fighting trim. But they'd given as good as they'd taken. Better even. Shepard's chest swelled with pride at the drone images of the swathe they'd cut through the mechanical opposition. It was almost enough to stave off the little doubts that threatened to drag her down into a black fugue. She pulled aside the tent flap to the outside, letting in the bright, Virmire sun and the smell of salt unblemished by the stink of iron.

The camp itself was sheltered by limestone cliffs that formed a wide broken ring about the sandy bowl. The crater was split between a wide beachfront and a shallow lake that captured many of the local salty rivers. Hunched over by the edge of the water was what must be the salarian Special Task Group ship. It was an odd construction, taller than it was wide and all curves. The stark white and black plating didn't look especially stealthy surrounded by the verdant foliage. Its bulbous rear engine pods were capped with wide baffles that gave it the impression of overbuilt haunches. It was a long nosed, amphibian looking thing, but it had a certain elegance to it. Standing in its shade was the black and red armored Spectre and his STG counterpart. Chief Williams stood amongst the remains of the Normandy's marine complement. The aliens, Vakarian and Tali'Zorah stood apart. The Turian was leaning heavily on his long-barreled rifle his leg clamped in a skeletal silver brace. T'Soni looked out over the water.

Shepard walked with as much purpose as she could muster towards the war council apparently already in session. Nihlus was talking as she reached their little circle.

"Yes, I appreciate your intelligence, Captain. I'm just not sure I'm prepared to believe it." The Spectre shook his head. "Spirits. And they're close to a breakthrough?"

"May have one already," the Salarian replied, "hard to ascertain, have lost contact with team sent to breach reconnoiter the labs. Good men, but krogan thick on the ground. Ferocious when acting in defense of their women. When defending this." He shook his head.

"They're sacrifice will not be in vain, my friend," Nihlus nodded. He cocked his head as Shepard stepped up behind him. "Commander Shepard."

"Nihlus," she responded, "find something big?"

"I don't know, would you consider an end to the Genophage big?" Nihlus asked, the flanged burr of his voice ringing sardonically.

The word rattled around in Shepard's head, triggering half remembered briefings on galactic history. Nothing useful was dredged up, but the way everyone spoke about it in hushed tones made it sound like ending it would be very, very bad. "The Genophage?"

"A genetic disease, bioweapon," the Salarian captain chirped up. His rainbow-scaled face was drawn, serious. "Population control placed on the Krogan in response to the Rebellions. Curbs the worst of their excesses by preventing a critical mass in population levels. Or it did. Saren has a lab here working on reversing its effect on fertility levels. He has used it as a bargaining chip to lure the Udun Clan of Tuchanka into service. Must be stopped if galactic stability is to be maintained. This is the charge of the Special Tasks Group as much as it is the Spectres. My friend Nihlus has... qualms as to how that is to be accomplished."

"A friend of yours?" Shepard asked Nihlus. Her brain was still foggy from the crash, from the trip up the beach. She was having trouble keeping up.

"Yes. Commander Shepard, let me introduce Captain Kirrahe, Third Infiltration Regiment, STG. We've operated in concert of several missions before. It's a rare stroke of luck that they sent his frigate, the Himmet Rigas."

"Your definition of good luck remains strange to us," Kirrahe said with a burbling approximation of a tired chuckle. "The Rigas is grounded. Damaged by the Geth anti-air installations. Casualties to combat and the local environ have rendered my crew to fifty percent effectiveness. Don't drink the water here, by the way. On top of that, supplies are low, ammunition short. However, we do still have options available to us. If, that it, we are authorized to put them into effect."

"And, as we have already discussed, the bomb should only be used as a last resort. I agree with you that the facility must be destroyed. The end to the Genophage cannot be allowed to escape Virmire. But we cannot risk bringing it into play before we're able to secure my target."

This again. Shepard went to open her mouth, to once again dispute the sanity of trying to 'rescue' the madman, Saren. But she was not given the opportunity. Javik was at her elbow, his eyes locked on their Spectre handler.

"Still you put the health of the indoctrinated one above the success of your mission, why? In my cycle was had to bury many of our former heroes when it became obvious that they had been subverted. Do you think yourself more capable than the entirety of the Prothean Empire, Turian? Hear this, the one you call Saren is gone. A Reaper wears his husk like a glove and forces it to dance. And in so doing forces you to dance along with it. These krogan dance to the Reaper's tune as well. They are most formidable, the Genophage must not be allowed to be broken, lest they run rampant while the Reapers burn your worlds." He looked to look the salarian captain directly in the eye. "You have a bomb capable of destroying this place?"

"We do," Kirrahe responded, momentarily robbed of his species' rapid diction, "Forgive me, did you say Prothean? Never mind, that is an investigation for another day. But yes. STG frigates are not equipped with disruptor torpedoes, but they are powered by distributed redundant fusion power cores. Small, removable. It would be a simple matter to prepare one to 'go critical' so to speak. That, and I must second your assessment of the necessity of their use. The Genophage has kept the Krogan in check for centuries, must be maintained at all costs. All costs." He eyed Nihlus meaningfully, but the Turian was looking to Javik.

"You seem awfully well informed, Pradhan Javik," the Spectre said quietly, "for a relative newcomer to this cycle."

Javik nodded and looked out over the water. The beachfront glittered like fire trapped between glass under the blazing sun of Virmire. He walked towards it, kneeling where the saltwater lapped at the soft white sand and placed his hand under the waves to cup the inland surf. He let the water run between his three fingered hands and rubbed the exposed palms together.

"The krogan of this planet are numerous. They pollute its waters with their memories, their thoughts and their violent delights. The Protheans can read these things, and more. Mark my words, Spectre, the Krogan here have defeated the Genophage. Already they multiply as they have not in an age. I feel their elders' savage glee at their swelling ranks. They prepare for war, for ruin. Tell me, will you be the one to unleash that ruin on an unsuspecting galaxy?"

All eyes fell on the wounded Nihlus. Doubt twisted his usually decisive skull-painted face, setting his mandibles quivering. He stared across the little gathering with anger burning in those sunken eye sockets as if trying to destroy the impassive Prothean by will alone. But it was a fragile show of pride. Shepard watched as the battered and bruised Spectre who had been so confident when he had stepped aboard the Normandy to begin her aborted evaluation all those weeks ago seemed to visibly deflate. The anger was the last to go, turned to sullen embers that guttered and died.

"Very well. Captain, have your agents prepare the bomb. While the priority for this mission remains severing the Reaper's connection to Saren, we must prepare contingencies. There will not be time to prepare the fallback once the mission begins." He continued; the mask of determination once again firmly fixed. Shepard admired his ability to put on the play of banishing his doubts. It was a skill she herself had spent hours attempting to perfect. "The way I see it, we are facing three threats. The Geth. The Krogan. Saren himself. These three together are unassailable, so it stands to reason that they will need to be separated and dealt with in turn. Now, let's explore our options...