XXVI
Light-Bringer: The Youth
There is a special kind of irritation in being woken up by an overeager adolescent, especially for the insomniac. The dulcet tones of a gravel-voiced juggernaut woke Garrus up the morning after the attack on the krogan hospital. Accompanied as they were by the pounding on the battery door, Garrus was sitting up and lunging for the workbench and a gun before he realized what was happening.
"Garrus!" BANG! BANG! BANG! "Get your ass up! I become Urdnot today!"
Garrus groaned, reached over for his visor, and flipped it on. 500, LT. The figures glared at him. "Is Gardner even serving breakfast yet?" he called.
He heard the kid laugh at him. "You can't miss one lousy meal? Weak. Grab some protein packs and your guns, and let's go!"
"Is Shepard up yet?"
A long pause. Grunt's voice was muffled on the other side of the door when he spoke again. "She told me to come back in half an hour. Said she'd shoot me if I didn't."
"I should try that line sometime." Garrus swung his feet up out of bed, grabbed his secondary bodysuit, and started peeling out of the one he wore. He'd take it to laundry in the crew quarters before he left the deck.
"Agh, neither one of you could touch me."
Garrus could hardly make out Grunt's voice on the other side of the door. He grinned. "You sure about that, are you?"
"Turian bastard," he heard Grunt mutter. "Half an hour, then. Be ready!"
"Half an hour," Garrus yelled back, as he started strapping on his hardsuit.
Two hours later—and after breakfast—they were stepping off the shuttle into Urdnot once again. Grunt had grumbled and complained, but his eyes were shining as they walked past Urdnot bonfires toward the camp of the Urdnot shaman.
Just because Grunt had gotten up before the crack of dawn for this didn't mean the other krogan had. As they walked into the camp, Garrus saw most of Urdnot still sleeping, curled around their guns, in armor or under thin, dirty blankets on shelves of rock or in open tents. A few were stirring, though, and as the three of them walked past, Garrus noticed they were getting different looks than they had the day before. A krogan manning one of the cannons shooting pyjaks actually nodded at them.
"Is it just me, or do they like us better today?" Garrus asked in an undertone.
"According to EDI's analysis, with everyone in Weyrloc either crippled or dead, Urdnot's just gotten a whole lot stronger," Shepard told them.
Grunt rolled his eyes, something he'd definitely picked up from the humans on the Normandy. "You're warriors worthy of respect, even if you're not krogan. They've heard you helped Urdnot Wrex destroy Saren. They believe it now. We will conquer this Rite of Passage."
Garrus tried not to smile. Here at the heart of Tuchanka, that probably was how it had gone down. 'Commander Shepard, the human that helped Urdnot Wrex destroy the turian asshole that tried to use the krogan. Garrus Vakarian, the turian asshole Wrex didn't kill, because he helped.' Never mind that Wrex was on the Normandy for the Ilos run. Truth was, Garrus didn't grudge the old warlord the credit on his homeworld; he'd kept them going on Virmire.
They made their way upstairs. This part of the camp looked like Urdnot's luxury quarters, actual rooms, some of them with hangings and rock daises like the one that hosted Wrex's throne that seemed to serve as elevated sleeping platforms. Garrus saw krogan in other colors sleeping here—more ambassadors and visitors from other clans, officials, and the shaman. These were honored guests and leaders in the clan.
They found the shaman by the bones hanging up in his quarters and the incense burning in a clay jar in a corner. Fortunately, it looked like, like the on-duty scouts and supply guards, the shaman was already up and dealing with all the kinds of crap important public figures dealt with. Garrus had never envied his father or the executor.
The Urdnot shaman was arguing with the krogan from the day before, the traditionalist diplomat that had stalked off in a huff. The Urdnot shaman was looking about as annoyed as a krogan could look before things got violent. "You go beyond yourself, Gatatog Uvenk," he growled. "The rites of Urdnot are dominant."
"How do we know it will challenge him?" Uvenk demanded. "He's unnatural. The beasts of the Rite could ignore him like a lump of plastic!"
Beasts of the Rite. Well, that's good to know, anyway. Garrus thought of Tuchanka's native fauna. Nasty, aggressive predators. Tough. Usually armored with a bite. He glanced at Shepard—she was prepared for heavy engagement—she had the Widow from the Collector ship and the Cain, which she'd recently upgraded to accommodate a larger charge. He'd done the same, modifying his assault rifle with a program of hers to shoot cryo rounds, useful going up against big enemies likely to get up close, the kind you really wanted to slow down. Grunt was ready for anything. The kid was bouncing up and down.
"They know blood no matter the womb," the exasperated shaman was telling the diplomat. "Your barking does not help your case."
Grunt shoved his way forward. "I'll speak for myself!"
The shaman took in Grunt, looking him up and down and sniffing at him. "This is the tank-bred?" he asked mildly. "It is very lifelike. Smells correct as well." He shot the diplomat a contemptuous glance. "Your protests ring hollow, Uvenk."
"Urdnot Wrex has given us permission to seek clan status for Grunt," Shepard told him.
The shaman seemed unimpressed. "Permission." He scoffed. "That is good enough, if lacking in spirit."
Uvenk clenched his fists. His eyes glittered. He's an idiot, and no one respects him, but that just makes him more dangerous. "If this must stand on ritual, then I invoke a denial! My krannt stands against him! He has no one!"
He needs a sponsor, Garrus realized. Otherwise this guy can sponsor enemies to keep him out. Wrex had been pretty smart with the set-up here. He wanted Grunt; anyone that ran with Commander Shepard would be a powerful addition to Clan Urdnot. But bringing in Okeer's test tube baby was risky, untraditional at best, and possibly an insult to Okeer's old enemies. So Wrex wouldn't front the men to bring Grunt into the clan, increasing his liability as well as the risk Urdnot would look weak if Grunt failed. Shepard would have to take the risk of sponsoring Grunt into Urdnot.
The shaman made a noise of disgust. "My patience is tested, but Uvenk invokes correctly," he said. "Grunt, who is your krannt? Your allies willing to kill and die on your behalf?"
Shepard glanced at Garrus. She wouldn't make him stand up with a krogan and face some sort of unknown, deadly test if he didn't want to. But she was going to do it anyway, and she was an idiot if she thought he'd let her do it alone. Garrus nodded. I'm in.
"Grunt is my crew, our teammate," Shepard told the shaman. "We'll sponsor and stand with him."
The shaman made a face. "Shipmates are not the same thing, but I grant you aliens your simple interpretation."
Uvenk roared, lifting his fists. "Aliens don't know strength! My followers are true krogan! Everything about Grunt—"
Before Garrus could move to stop her, Shepard had stepped forward, caught Uvenk by the collar, sprung up on her toes, and headbutted the windbag—hard. Immediately the heat sensor on Garrus's visor blossomed, a red and purple explosion behind Shepard's forehead. He tried not to react to it as Uvenk staggered back and Shepard winced, once. "And Grunt's got a turian and a Spectre with him," she said, her pain only evident in the smallest thread of tension in her voice. She spread her arms in a 'come on' gesture that translated quite well across most bipeds. "You want to see how this goes?"
Grunt laughed aloud, and Uvenk stared at Shepard. "You . . . you dare?" he said in a voice halfway between threat and disbelief. He wasn't just talking about the krogan dominance display, incredible, from his perspective, from such a puny-looking human. Shepard had deliberately represented herself and Garrus as people affiliated with the last enemies to beat the krogan, people who could crush all resistance. As a claim of Grunt's power, probably the best thing she could say. Less good when it comes to asserting his kroganhood. Krogan-ness?
But the Urdnot shaman was laughing. He clapped Grunt on the shoulder. "I like this human!" he roared. "She understands!"
This human's just bruised her brain, Garrus thought, watching the heat pool inside of Shepard's skull and at its base where it attached to her neck.
"I withdraw my denial," Uvenk muttered. "This will be decided elsewhere." He shouldered past Shepard and she watched him go down the stairs without reacting.
"You have provoked them," the shaman told her. "Reason enough for me to like you. They're your problem now."
Shepard jerked her hand at the stairs. "Is he going to be a problem?"
The shaman shrugged. "He is forbidden to interfere. Will he? During the Rite of Passage, you must be ready for anything, Shepard. From what you've shown me, you will not disappoint." He grinned, showing off teeth like tombstones.
Shepard's jaw set. "So tell us how this works."
The shaman shook his head. "For now, know that Grunt will be tested, and that you must adapt."
"Do we need any special equipment?" Shepard asked.
"To begin the Rite, only the candidate and his krannt are required," the shaman told them. "You love battle, don't you, Shepard? The last gasp of a dying opponent? Bring your love of the fight to Grunt's trial, and he will succeed."
Garrus watched Shepard. She kept her face neutral, and he knew what she was thinking. This wouldn't be fun for her. She didn't love battle. For Shepard, it was never about that. Before Alchera, she'd lived for the discovery—that first step on a new planet, the historical find, the experience and understanding you could only get from space travel. Now he didn't know if any of them had anything to live for, but Shepard sure wasn't in it for the fight.
But Garrus knew what it was to love that rush of adrenaline, the five minutes you didn't know if you'd survive the next five, the thrill when it turned out you had. That perfect headshot through the skull of someone you knew should die. Dancing with danger and flirting with death. Until your clock runs out. Or worse.
It wasn't his main motivation either, but it was there. I figure between me and Grunt, Shepard should be fine. Because whether she likes it or not, she's damned good at battle.
He eyed the heat readings coming off her head. Usually not walking with a head injury, though. They couldn't tell the shaman. He got that. But he'd have to watch her.
"We're ready," Shepard said. "Let's do this."
The shaman clapped his hands together. "Excellent!"
The shaman wouldn't tell them his name. Apparently it was a krogan thing: the shaman of a clan bore the burdens of his entire people and therefore ceded the rights to whoever he'd been before he became shaman. Shepard made a face, but Grunt nodded thoughtfully as the shaman drove them to the surface again. Garrus sat beside Shepard in the back of the truck and kept his focus on what might be coming.
The shaman was driving them, which meant they weren't supposed to be in control of where they ended up or when they escaped. Shepard could call Niels in an emergency, of course, but if she did that, Grunt would fail his rite. The challenge was on the surface, meaning the environment itself would be a hazard. Looking sideways, Garrus realized Shepard had left her helmet; the space it would usually hook on to the back of her hardsuit when not in use was completely occupied by the Cain and the Widow.
She had her antirad, though. He nodded at it, leaning close. "Will you be alright up here?" He kept his voice low and hoped the shaman wouldn't hear over the rumble of the road.
"I could be good for a couple days, if we don't do anything crazy," Shepard muttered under her breath.
"Well, now you've jinxed it," Garrus breathed. They always did something crazy. "Been nice knowing you, Shepard."
She jostled his arm and leaned forward, trying to see over the console and through the dirty truck windshield as the shaman pointed out features of the landscape to Grunt.
After about forty-five minutes, not too long, but long enough they wouldn't be able to make it back to Urdnot today on their own, the shaman stopped the truck in a ruin. He climbed out and waited for them to come around to the driver's side for him to see them off.
Today, the fuzzy radiance of Aralakh shone through the toxic veil of the krogan homeworld. A hot wind whistled through broken buildings. Garrus saw the remnants of windows, foundations, toppled columns in every direction. Krogan architecture was blocky and brutal, not at all like the quarian ruins they'd seen on Haestrom, but the ruins here seemed centuries older. Despite that, Garrus wondered if this city had still been standing when Wrex had been young, or in his father's day. A cold feeling curled in his gut. Grunt just stood taller, inhaling.
The shaman nodded. "This is Tuchanka's most recent scar, the last surface city to fall in the rebellions." He gestured at a single light on a pedestal in the middle of what had once perhaps been a grand receiving hall. A button. A signal. "The Keystone is at the heart," he told them. "It has survived wars and the passage of centuries. It endures, like the krogan. If you wish to join Clan Urdnot, you must contemplate the Keystone and its trials."
"What'll happen?" Grunt asked. This was his moment.
The shaman shrugged, eyes glittering, and opened the door of the truck. "Who knows? You must adapt. You must thrive no matter the situation. Any true krogan will."
He swung up into the truck, threw it into reverse, and drove away, sending up a cloud of dust that set all three of them coughing. The air of Tuchanka had a taste of ozone and gunpowder. It tasted like death, even without all the dirt in it. Garrus swallowed some water from the canteen he carried on his belt. I hope contemplating the keystone doesn't take more than today. I don't see any water source nearby.
Grunt had walked over to the Keystone, and Shepard had followed him. Garrus joined them. Grunt stared at the glowing button, and Shepard's lips turned up. "Well?" she encouraged him.
Grunt hit the button, and a krogan voice echoed through speakers Garrus could not see. "First the krogan conquered Tuchanka, and mastered a natural world only we are fit to hold."
A baying howl echoed through the ruins, joined by another, and another, and Garrus realized the Keystone had probably sent out some sort of high frequency signal when they'd pressed it. "Guessing those are the 'beasts of the Rite,'" he murmured.
"Sounds like it," Shepard agreed, drawing her Locust and equipping her cryo program. Garrus did the same with his assault rifle.
With their back to the Keystone, they were coming from the left and the right—from ruins off to the south and a collapsed building to the north. Garrus saw the bulbous eyes in the dark windows of the sunken building first.
"Here they come!" Grunt exulted. "I'm ready!"
A few people on hub worlds had begun keeping varren as pets, and sometimes they were fought or raced in lower-rent sectors. Varren meat was popular with levos, so sometimes they were farmed as well. But mostly, they were just pests. Vicious, temperamental, hard-to-control pests that fought for some of the worst scum in the galaxy when they were tamed and ran in overwhelming, feral packs when they weren't. Kids on the Citadel had to watch out in some of the slums and docking areas. Aria had varren control people along with her vorcha control people, though they weren't as well known.
Tuchanka was their native world.
Garrus took up position on the left. Shepard took up position on the right. And Grunt went wherever the hell he wanted to go. He barreled around their stretch of ruin like a cannonball, blasting varren full in the chest or bowling them into one another.
It was a fast-paced, messy, noisy slaughter. New varren came as fast as they gunned them down. The baying, whimpering, howling, and snarling of the varren became meaningless. All that mattered was the endless flow of action and reaction, scoping the next target and taking the shot, dodging left or right before the snapping, oversized jaws could close. The rhythm of the rifle recoil and stooping to scoop up a heat sink to keep going.
All around, varren slipped in the blood of their brothers and sisters, went down freezing or burning from tech attacks, were shattered by bullets or forward momentum or blunt force trauma. Grunt was yelling about his worthiness across the ruin, grinning like a maniac. Garrus found that he was, too.
Grunt blew off the front, right leg of one. Garrus exploded the head of another. Grunt pounded Garrus on the back and yelled at the poisonous sky as an arc of fire swung out around them toward the ruin and the first dog in the next wave.
It was the biggest pack he'd ever seen—thirty, maybe thirty-five varren, but eventually the flow slowed down and stopped, and behind them, the Keystone gave a sweet little chirp and lit up green again.
Garrus laughed and wiped a streak of varren blood off his assault rifle. "Think that calls the shaman back, or is there more to this little trial?"
Shepard shook her head. "'Trials,' he said. As in more than one. There'll be more."
Grunt punched the Keystone. "Good! I want more!"
The krogan voice rang out from the speakers again. "Then the krogan were lifted to the stars to destroy the fears of a galaxy," he proclaimed. "An enemy only we could chase to their lair!"
In less than a minute, a high-pitched shriek reverberated through the ruin, followed by the sound of heavy, very large wingbeats. "Harvester!" Shepard called. They'd encountered the things before clearing space around Illium on a nonessential mission to foster team cooperation and cohesion. Fortunately enough, Grunt had been with them that day, too—but they'd also had Solus and Massani.
Harvesters looked like pictures of dragons Garrus had seen in human corners of the extranet, with enormous leathery wings, long, serpentine necks, and lots of teeth. They weren't that dangerous themselves. The real trouble with harvesters was how they airlifted in klixen: enormous, aggressive, fire-breathing insects—possibly the larval form of the harvesters—with a distressing tendency to explode when you shot them. Each harvester carried two or three on its back and could fly back to its nest any time for more, and klixen were fire-resistent, heavily armored, and mean.
The harvester landed well out of range in the buildings beyond their position, and it wasn't long before Garrus heard the scrabble of insect claws on stone, as the harvester flew away, and another one flew in on the other side. We must be near a nest, Garrus reflected absently. His gratitude he'd installed Shepard's cryo program on his Vindicator was more to the point.
"Some altitude, you think?" Shepard murmured at his back.
It was a good idea. The klixen didn't look like good climbers, and vertical distance would distance them from the fire breath and the blast when the insects died as well. Garrus fired a concussive shot at the insect closest to them, hurling it back half a meter. Shepard's fire finished it off as Grunt blasted the next insect three times. The resulting explosions as the unstable gases inside the things ignited were messy and violent. Garrus flicked off the heat filter on his visor; the consistent blooms when one of the klixen died would get annoying in a hurry if this attack lasted any time at all.
Grunt covered them as they fell back, picking their way up a ruined wall to a higher position. "Crawlers! Come to your death!" he roared. He dodged past a klixen flame with surprising dexterity and blasted it three times in the face, running toward the break where the next harvester had dipped low.
Garrus, at the top of a column that had collapsed to lean against the ruined wall, with Shepard crouched a little way down on the wall, folded up his Vindicator, took out the Mantis, and went to work. The air took on a sulfurous, burning taste to complement the ozone and gunpowder as klixen exploded left and right. Grunt began to force the insects to the center of the Keystone plaza, using the varren corpses there as obstacles, laughing like a maniac.
The weight of one frozen klixen corpse broke off all its legs. Grunt kicked an oncoming klixen as it died into another, using the gaseous reaction to disorient the new enemy before he gunned it down as well. Garrus made a game of shooting the things, trying to hit each dead in the eye as it approached. Shepard defended their position, aiming at the sensitive underbellies of the klixen, their gaping mouths as their legs scratched helplessly at the steep incline up the ruined wall. She froze the insects coming up behind Grunt on the ground until he could turn around and shoot them with his personalized Claymore. Sometimes smash them with it.
After about fifteen minutes of this, Garrus noticed the harvesters—two or three of them—wheeling overhead, shrieking in rage and confusion. Grunt's boots, spattered in gore, pounded the pavement. He barreled up the wall, past Shepard, up next to Garrus, spread his arms, and roared. He drew his pistol and fired into the sky. "That all you got? Come on! Come on!"
One of the harvesters swerved to avoid a clip to the wing. Garrus contemplated the things, raised his Mantis, and looked through the scope, only for all three harvesters to flap their wings and fly off in formation—driven back to their lair.
Garrus shook his head and smiled. The correspondence between the beasts of the Rite and the Keystone's message was loose, but it was there. The varren—Tuchanka natives, first symbols of the rough, nasty environment all krogan had to deal with from birth. The klixen, also native, but insectoid, reminiscent of the krogan's most famous enemy, the rachni. Though rachni spit poison, not fire, and can move a little better, for all they don't have organic dropships.
How long had it been? Half an hour? A little longer? Garrus followed Grunt and Shepard down the wall, back to the Keystone. He was surprised at how tired he was. Less so by the warm, fuzzy feelings he had about all the vicious monsters lying dead on the ground. A long, drawn-out shootout is better than a therapy session. He looked sideways at Grunt, imagining the restlessness he sometimes felt dialed up to eleven and tossed in with a cocktail of adolescent hormones. "I think I get it," he said, meaning the jitters and blood lust that had been driving the kid crazy for a couple weeks now. "Feeling better?"
Grunt understood at once. He grinned through the soot and blood streaking his face. "Never better, Garrus! Alright, Shepard?"
"Sure," Shepard said, deadpan. She cocked an eyebrow at a disembodied klixen leg. "I'm usually against hunting for sport, but these bastards sort of have it coming, don't they? There'll be more." She nodded at the blinking keystone. "There's a thousand years of krogan history we haven't covered yet."
"It makes sense that krogan teach history with object lessons consisting of enormous, deadly battles," Garrus observed.
"Damn right," Grunt laughed, and pounded the Keystone.
Once again, the krogan voice blared out from the loudspeakers over the torrent of the nuclear winter. "Now, all krogan bear the genophage, our reward, our curse. It is a fight where the only goal is survival!"
This time, apart from the wind, there was no sound. No baying, no scrabble of legs on cement. But again, Garrus felt a signal had gone out. This part would be different. The first two tests were meant for Grunt to show his strength. This one was about survival, to weed out the weak. This one was meant to terrify him, to destroy him if he was unworthy. And what was coming now was bad enough everything else around had fled.
The earth shook, and Shepard's tan skin went gray. "Feel that?" Grunt said quietly, looking around. "Everything is shaking . . ."
"Shit," Shepard whispered, shaking herself. Her eyes were bright and shining, absolutely terrified, and suddenly, Garrus knew. "Shit. Shit. Fucking hell!"
Adrenaline started coursing through Garrus at new speeds. His blood was electric as he looked for exits, cover, a better weapon, anything. They were alone on the devastated plain. He could run maybe forty-five kilometers an hour for a short sprint. Shepard would be a little slower, Grunt slower still. The thing headed their way now could move twice that fast for a lot longer. It could take them all out in one shot at a greater range than Shepard's Widow. And the shaman had taken the truck.
Grunt hefted his shotgun. "I'm ready!"
"No, you're not!" Shepard shouted, holstering her SMG. Her fingers trembled and scrabbled as she pulled out her Widow. She jerked the gun at the ruined columns and walls around them. "Get into cover, and stay down! Listen to the Keystone! The goal isn't to wipe it out this time; you'll pass if we survive." Tentacles erupted on three sides, venomous blue and waving at the clouded, stormy sky.
The thresher maw was hunting, feeling for the prey the Keystone had told it was here. Its skin would feel vibrations in the air, and when it did, it would strike with unbelievable speed for the largest known terrestrial predator in the galaxy. Thresher maws had taken down entire colonies, entire squads of highly trained soldiers. They'd taken out Shepard's unit, early in her career. Fifty Alliance soldiers plus a colony. She'd been the only survivor.
Raw, animal terror was overwhelming Garrus's brain. The primal, prey instinct to kick up his heels and run, stronger than anything he'd experienced in fifteen years. Shepard reached out, and with a grip so tight it shrieked on his armor, she hurled him back into Grunt toward the wall she'd indicated. Grunt's eyes were wide as he realized what they were up against—something that had Commander Shepard in a panic. He found Garrus, and Garrus nodded, and ushered him into the cover Shepard had recommended as she hoisted the Widow high, peering through the scope at the tentacle furthest from them, choosing where the maw would attack. "Alright, come on, you son of a bitch," she breathed, and fired.
The response was immediate. Orange blood spurted as a hole the size of Garrus's head was torn through the tentacle—and it was still whole and waving. Grunt was hurled to his feet in the shockwave as the thresher maw reared up from the earth, shrieking in pain and rage. Acid dripped from a razor-sharp mandible, three times as wide as a tank. It was impossible to tell if those bulbous blue eyes saw them, but its mouth shot open, and an arc of viscous liquid flew toward the place Shepard crouched behind the wall. If it touched her, it would burn through her armor and skin in seconds.
"Look out!"
Shepard had ducked just in time. "No shit!" she screamed. Her voice was almost unrecognizable. "Distract it if you can, but stay behind the stone!" She crept along the wall, changing her position. "God oh God oh God, damn it!" The words were a mantra, spoken under her breath, but the radio picked them up. Garrus heard her inhale. He swung out from cover, aimed, and fired at the same time she did.
His Mantis left a smaller, neater wound than Shepard's Widow, but both shots did what they were intended for. The thresher screamed, and blood showered down from two of its bulbous eyes into the others. It rotated its head, blindly searching for the threat. Grunt had rolled up behind another column and opened fire with his pistol, able to reach the thing when his shotgun wouldn't. His shots hit harmlessly on the thing's armored sides, but they served to confuse it. The earth rumbled again, and the thresher maw dived back into the ground in a geyser of dirt and mud.
Garrus tripped as the earth quaked and rumbled beneath them. "It can't come up through this rock," Shepard yelled at them. "That's why the Keystone's standing! Watch the perimeter!"
A chill swept all through Garrus. In a moment, they could all be dead. If they misjudged the thresher's next attack, it could finish them. It could move over the concrete overland and crush them. Shoot them from an unexpected angle. He saw rock shifting over to the right and shouted, "There!"
"Find cover!" Shepard ordered them, slinging her Widow back over her shoulder and pulling out the Cain—too late. The thresher had heard her voice. She dropped to the ground as acid spewed over her head and spattered, hissing, on the concrete a decimeter away from her foot.
Grunt howled. Moving at a dead run, shotgun in hand again, he fired again and again at the gross, towering body of the thresher. Three shots went wide. A fourth hit an armored segment. The fifth blew off a leg the approximate shape and size of a harpoon. The thresher maw doubled at the site of the wound. Its body came rushing down toward Grunt, but he'd already angled away, back toward cover, roaring his defiance. Lunatic. The thought was the merest, incredulous whisper in the back of Garrus's skull as he raised his rifle again from the shadow of the pillar he'd found. All he knew was he had to keep firing, had to keep bouncing the maw's attention away from the others. Just until the time ran out. Just until the shaman came back. He will, won't he? We just have to survive. Just have to survive.
In the periphery of his vision, he saw Shepard, crouched behind a wall, Cain carefully balanced over the edge. There was a red light tracing from the barrel—the tracking laser, focusing, aiming.
She released the trigger.
A single, twenty-five-gram explosive slug came rocketing out of the barrel, and in less than a second, it was done. The thresher maw went red, yellow, then white in an instant, then blew apart in fragments too small to see. The stormy sky of Tuchanka turned a bright, spring green in the blast, and a wave of heat and radiation swept out from the mushroom-cloud center so intense that Garrus could feel the radiation gel cook right off of his face. And against the glow, there was Shepard. Tears were streaming down her stricken face as she stared at the blast. She didn't care about the radiation. Didn't move to shield herself from the falling blood and ash raining down from the sky. She staggered to her feet and turned, wild-eyed.
She saw Garrus, seemed to register he was alive and in one piece, and her eyes moved past him to Grunt. She walked over to their baby krogan, clasped his arm, and hugged him once, hard.
"Spirits, Shepard," Garrus breathed, as Grunt began to pound Shepard's back, grinning from ear to ear, and she just buckled under the blows—Grunt was too excited to check himself—and took it. Garrus walked up behind Shepard, in front of Grunt. Grunt stiffened, and Garrus thought he'd realized what he was doing, until his nostrils flared. He released Shepard and pulled out his shotgun again.
"We have company! Good. I want more."
Garrus moved Shepard behind him. "You're the bravest person I've ever met or heard of," he murmured to her. She didn't seem to hear him, but her eyes were tracking again, focusing on the krogan squad coming up the hill behind them.
The shaman had warned them the traditionalist, Uvenk, might try to interfere. He had about seven others with him, as far as Garrus could see, all well armed and armored, but none of them had raised their weapons yet. Instead, they were staring at the blast zone ahead, the fragmented rocks and concrete where the thresher maw had been killed, the pools of orange and yellow-green running together to create an ugly brown, the ripples still moving in the air. Three of them muttered something too low to catch.
Uvenk was looking Grunt up and down. "You live," he said. "And you brought down the thresher maw. No one has done that in generations. Urdnot Wrex was the last."
Grunt clenched one fist and gestured with the other hand at Shepard and Garrus. "My krannt gave me strength beyond my genes, which are damn good."
Uvenk pressed his mouth together. "This will cause discussion," he grumbled. "I wonder . . . you say you are pure? No alien meddling in your construction? Just the Warlord Okeer?"
"Okeer distilled the best krogan traits into Grunt," Shepard spoke up, sounding hoarse. She cleared her throat.
Uvenk scowled. "His design is the problem. But not made by aliens, and he is truly powerful. That is a tolerable loophole."
Grunt's hands tightened on his shotgun. "A what?" he growled.
"A reason to accept you," Uvenk clarified. He folded his arms. "You are a mistake," he informed Grunt, "but your potential could tip the current balance of the clans."
Because telling someone they shouldn't exist is the best way to get them to join your clan, Garrus thought. Sure enough, Grunt flared right up. "You spit on my father's name, on Shepard's name, but now you stop ranting because I am strong?" he demanded.
Garrus shot a glance at Grunt, surprised, both that Grunt would take offense at Uvenk's insult to Okeer, who he'd never seemed to care much about, and that—judging from his tone—the implied insults to Shepard counted even more. An hour of fighting monsters in the mud, and suddenly you're more than a parent to a guy.
"With restrictions," Uvenk stipulated. "You could not breed, of course, or serve on an alien ship." His lip curled over his teeth as he looked at Shepard. "But you'd be clan in name."
Grunt glanced back at Shepard, incredulous. She had a grip on her Locust and looked as tired as Garrus had ever seen her. "You're your own krogan, Grunt," she said quietly. "I'm not going to tell you what to do."
"I don't think you understand," Garrus murmured, as Grunt snorted in disbelief.
"Like I'm leaving your fights, Shepard?" he said. He lifted his shotgun. "I am pure krogan," he declared. "Uvenk, you are the pretender!"
In a second, Uvenk and all his friends had weapons ready. "Your head is valuable," he snarled, "Whether you're alive or dead!"
Grunt lowered his head, ready to charge. "Just try and take it!"
An incendiary from Shepard's omni-tool slammed into the eyes of one of the krogan on the right. Garrus opened fire on the left and dropped into a somersault, falling back to cover. On his flank, he saw Shepard flicker out of view, and he turned his thermal sensor back on to track her. He stayed low. Uvenk and two others were focused on Grunt—almost half of the force Uvenk had brought with him. The problem was, with Shepard faded out, the other five were firing at him, and two of them were moving toward his position. He flagged one's shields going down, saw a burst of fire slam in on another from the right. He took Shieldless, firing two shots in succession. His krogan went down; two others turned on Shepard's position. But she was already gone, moving behind fallen columns and tumbled walls to the rear of the Gatatog soldiers.
Garrus went left, firing as he went, forcing the krogan attention further away from Shepard's position. On his left, Grunt was using the body of one of Uvenk's soldiers as a shield as he charged, firing at Uvenk from beneath the soldier's arms.
One of Garrus's fell, and Garrus turned his fire to another, only to see he hadn't finished the first. Grimacing, spitting out three teeth and a portion of his jaw, the krogan rose, clawing at the remnants of a wall in front of him. But one of his buddies was too close, brandishing his shotgun. The closest cover was still too far. Garrus swung his rifle and fired again. His shots missed, but Shepard's didn't.
The unmistakable crack! of the Widow split the air, and suddenly krogan blood, hot, wet, and sticky, was flying in Garrus's face. "Nice!" Garrus shouted, swiping his gauntlet over his face to get it out of his eyes. He vaulted over the wall behind him and lined up another shot. But Shepard's usual sarcastic retort never came.
He saw her heat signature, slim and straight among the bulky krogan silhouettes and running a good bit hotter, behind a ruined doorway almost directly opposite him, at the enemy's rear. Leaning against the ruined doorway opposite him, breathing too heavily. She curled her omni-tool up toward her chest, and on the left, Uvenk roared and whirled as the last of his biotic barrier went down. He threw his fist in the air, and an orb of crackling biotic energy hurtled toward Shepard. She threw herself to her left and kissed the pavement behind another wall.
"Fight like a warrior!" Uvenk roared, and Garrus knew she'd gone dark again. One of Uvenk's three surviving soldiers wheeled around to form up on his flank. Grunt was grappling with the krogan with the bleeding jaw. Garrus lined up a shot at the only guy still charging him. Fired once. Twice. He twisted his wrist, taking out the shields of the only guy that still had them as Grunt returned his attention to Uvenk and the guy on his flank.
Uvenk roared again as an incendiary slammed him from Garrus's right and his armor began to melt onto his body. His krannt fired at Grunt, panic in his eyes as the adolescent krogan came at him like the proverbial unstoppable force. His shot hit, and Garrus saw Grunt's shields flicker out. Grunt's eyes narrowed. His first two shots hit his enemy in the throat. His third move wasn't a shot at all, but an armored elbow through the gaping hole he'd just shot, ripping through bronchi, vocal cords, and esophagus, tearing them raggedly above the krogan's breastplate. "I am krogan!" he screamed in Uvenk's face. It was a fact as true as mass or gravity.
Damn, am I glad he's on our side, Garrus thought idly, as he took three more shots at the guy still taking pistol shots from the ruins and saw him fall back to the ground. Garrus looked for Shepard in his periphery, saw her heat signature coming back up on his flank. Slower than usual. As he clocked her, he watched the red-and-yellow outline of her foot catch on a rock. She pitched forward, and Garrus reached out into what his right eye insisted was empty air and wrapped his hand around an armored elbow. She twisted violently out of his grasp, both of her arms swinging back in a particular way. Garrus ducked, but then she caught herself before she brought the butt of the Widow around into his head. She relaxed, crouching next to him at the wall, and flickered back into being. Her face was red in a way he'd seen once before, and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The gel on her hair had burned off, and curls were springing out of her bun around her face.
Meters away, Grunt was fighting Uvenk, too close for either Garrus or Shepard to get a clear shot in. One of Uvenk's eyes was ruined. A bloody scratch ran down his face as he tried to bring his pistol around to fire. But as they watched, Grunt's boot swung up and planted in Uvenk's chest. Armor shrieked on armor, and Uvenk stumbled back. Three shots sounded at once. Garrus's, from an awkward angle, sent Uvenk's pistol—and his hand—flying off behind Grunt, Shepard and Grunt's hit the former ambassador's head, and it burst in a pulpy mess back from his body.
Grunt gazed down at the ruin of his enemy for about a second, then huffed. He stooped to smear the blood on his shotgun over a fallen krogan's armor and stood.
He walked back over to Garrus and Shepard and nodded once. "Uvenk is meat. Let's signal at the Keystone and get out of here. Leave him to rot."
It was a moment before Shepard seemed to react. Garrus guessed shooting a thresher maw less than a klick away with the Cain on Tuchanka counted as something crazy, because now he was sure she was burning, like Miranda on Haestrom. What was worse, though, was that visible tremors were going through her every two or three seconds, and her eyes had gone bright, glassy, and unfocused again. But when Garrus jerked his head toward Grunt, heading back toward the Keystone, she swallowed and fell into step behind him.
The shaman brought the truck back within five minutes. He was beaming as they opened the doors and climbed back inside. "You have passed the Rite of Passage," he boomed at Grunt, in the gunner's seat. "Earning the honor of clan and name. Many survive, but it has been years since a thresher maw fell! Your names shall live in glory!"
"Even mine?" Garrus said, trying to keep the sarcasm within a respectful range.
The shaman huffed, though, and it sounded something like a laugh. "Even yours," he said.
Garrus let the Grunt and the shaman rhapsodize about the fight on the way back—how it had felt to stand atop a pile of varren corpses and roar at those who would challenge them; the sound of the harvester screeching in the air beneath the tortured sky; the quaking of the ground beneath the thresher maw's wrath, still puny compared to theirs. Garrus kept an eye on Shepard. Her jaw was clenched, her eyes tightly focused on the truck door. She applied a layer of antirad over her face and neck without a word, raised an eyebrow at Garrus without moving her eyes and handed the tube over. He dabbed a bit on to make her feel better. It probably would be good for him, but he wasn't going to burn like she was. Every minute they rumbled over the road the burn looked worse.
He saw her swallow reflexively four or five times, but she didn't speak, kept her face blank and expressionless, while her fists clenched so tightly around the oh-shit handle Garrus could hear her armor creaking, while there was a little vibration from her seat every few seconds that had nothing to do with the rubble on the road.
Finally, they pulled underground, and the shaman brought the truck to a stop a way down an underground road. He shut down the vehicle, and they all climbed out. The shaman trudged around the truck to stand in front of Grunt. "Grunt, you are Urdnot!" he announced. "You may now own property, join the army, and apply to serve under a battlemaster."
Grunt shook his head. "Shepard is my battlemaster," he said firmly. "She has no match."
The shaman bowed his head, a gesture he somehow extended to Shepard. "Understood. Congratulations, Urdnot Grunt. Come! Your clan will wish to meet you."
Shepard spoke up for the first time in almost twenty minutes. "You go on ahead, Grunt. I'll catch up in a minute."
Garrus waved a hand at Grunt and the shaman. "Yeah, me too." Grunt regarded them a moment, then shrugged. He let the shaman swing an arm around his shoulders and walked off to meet his clan.
A/N: Probably one of Beth Shepard's biggest personal triumphs in the series. For a description of the event that triggered her this chapter, check out Chapter Four of The Disaster Zone: Soldier, "Akuze." Those of you reading this story along with Disaster Zone: Resurrection, which also takes place during ME2, after this chapter, you'll want to go read Chapter Five of that fic, "Of Maws and Men," for Shepard's perspective on the immediate aftermath of what happened here.
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