Kalan McCordus was tired. For the past several days the Alliance's Vice Admiral had been sifting through report after report sent in from all over what was left of Alliance-controlled space.
A fresh batch of N7 Commandos had just graduated, mostly made up of young, upstart lieutenants and such.
Zones thirty-six and thirty-nine back on Earth were deemed semi-habitable, allowing scientists and engineers to perform the needed tests to see if repopulation was in order.
Proxima Noble, a mining world in the Terminus Systems where rather large amounts of precious metals were being harvested, went dark roughly seventy-hours ago. Absolutely no contact from anyone. Reports were coming in that the Batarian Hegemony had openly attacked the planet in force, smashing the satellite defenses before rushing the facilities on the surface.
Alliance patrols in the area hadn't reported in.
"Nirvana?" The Vice Admiral beckoned aloud.
"Yes, Admiral McCordus?"
His eyes narrowed as he pulled up Ryker's report again, one he had gone over and over again for the past several hours. The krogan had pledged a very tentative loyalty to the Alliance, their demands were very blunt. They wanted the best tech the quarians could provide, the best weapons the Alliance could give, and above all, they wanted a cure for the genophage. Uerthe Araxx was very clear when it came to this.
He didn't care if it took decades, centuries, or a millennia. The krogan wanted a cure.
The salarians sure as shit ain't gonna do it, Araxx had said.
McCordus pulled up the exact numbers of warriors the krogan clan Uerthe, along with several other factions loyal to Tuchanka's dominant group, had offered up.
Clan Uerthe: 563.
Clan Gatatog: 312.
Clan Vurtek: 279.
Assorted minor clans: 110.
Nearly thirteen-hundred battle-tested soldiers. 'Living-tanks' many described them.
"Admiral McCordus? You called for me." The AI kindly reminded, her naked and ghostly figure appearing next to the man.
"Yes." The Admiral sighed. Over the past few weeks, a personal battle had waged in his mind.
Earth was far-gone, the colony worlds were the true future of humanity. Millions now lived far beyond the Sol system, fighting for a new life. Resources incalculable in value waited within the Terminus, ripe for the taking. But he had let the likes of Admiral Mikhailovich and Commander Ryker forget those goals. They had led him to believe that cutting off the head of the Council and taking the Citadel would bring mankind into a new era, that everything would be better for all.
"Tell Admiral Zahretsky to ready Second Fleet and our krogan friends. We're heading to Proxima Noble."
"Sir, I don't believe this decision is a very wise one." Ryker stated as calmly as he could as he looked out the viewport to see the grayish-red planet of Proxima Noble floating in the void. The holographic figure turned to Admiral Gustav Zahretsky, "My sources tell me the Citadel is divided! If we hit them now we can take the station."
"Billions of credits worth of rare metals are processed through Noble's facilities." The Admiral stated matter-of-factly. "I don't have to tell what that means to all our fleets if we lose the planet."
The Commander held his tongue as the Admiral's eyes watched the man for a moment.
"Anything else, Commander? Or are you done questioning your superiors?"
There was obvious venom between the two. More than once had Zahretsky and Ryker butted heads like two old rams.
"What happened to the patrols in the area?"
Zahretsky's omni-tool came to life in his hand, "Decimated. The frigates were completely wiped out, the only cruiser on patrol was sheared in half and was left dead in space. No survivors."A sharp grimace. "Definitely batarian handiwork."
The colony was the same story, all contact lost, shortly after the patrol was cut off. That's were the Second Fleet came in.
"If this was the batarians, though, where are they?" Ryker asked as he looked over the radar panel that appeared before him. "No ships of batarian make or model in the area, not a single trace of one. To me this seems more like pirates. I mean, they even go so far as to scuttle what's left of their ships so they can't be traced."
"And where do you think pirates learned that? The Hegemony is among, if not the most secretive of governments in the galaxy." Zahretsky nervously scratched his cheek, feeling the indentations from where shrapnel had torn through. "Dismissed, Commander."
Without even a salute Ryker cut the holo-transmission, his image disappearing before Zahretsky.
But he barely noticed the lack of respect. Just the thought of batarians made the man's skin crawl a little.
It brought him back nearly thirty years, when humanity encountered its second form of intelligent alien life.
During the First Contact War, the Admiral was just another young Lieutenant willing to 'stick it' to the turian 'menace'. Being attached to a recon flotilla didn't exactly give him that chance, though. He was stuck scanning planets and hiding from patrols. While that had been exciting at first, Zahretsky had always wanted to go groundside and fight alongside the marines. But as the end of the war came, Zahretsky's flotilla came across the batarian race for the first time.
Upon the surface of some backwater world, Zahretsky and a group of soldiers were dispatched to respond to a distress beacon from a downed super-freighter.
It was a Seoul-class Mover, meant for heavy-lift operations in deep-space. Illegal salvage teams favored them for their high cargo payloads.
The ship was in high orbit when it was struck by a ship-to-ship antimatter charge. It had hit the ground hard, creating a crater in the planet's surface almost akin to a small asteroid. Despite the violent impact, the ship had mostly held together.
Looking back, the Admiral wished he could erase the memory that was burned into his mind when he stepped over the lip of the crater. The batarians were tall, muscular aliens, the shortest one easily outsized any human. But their size wasn't what shocked Zahretsky.
The aliens were dragging the surviving crew members out of the ship by these nets attached to their omni-tools, the sharp wire digging into their skin. They pulled one man from the ship, a lanky man, most likely the captain of the vessel. When the nets were retracted, the biggest alien held him down while another took a small device and rammed it into the back of his skull. The captain screamed in agony before slumping over, passing out from the pain.
It was a slave-trade practice now known as 'culling', where a control device was forcefully implanted in the back of some poor soul's skull. The device would then forcefully rewire one's brain, turning them into a mindless, obedient shell. Perfect slave material.
That's how the batarians kept their Hegemony afloat, the slave trade.
Zahretsky forced his mind back to the task at hand. Opening up the comms, the Admiral spoke, "Chief Wesley?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Are your men ready?"
There was a slight hesitation. "Uh…as ready as there gonna be, sir. But, are we sure we're dealing with batarians?"
"Dead sure."
"Whooooooooo!"
Mitchell turned to see Cortoza on the other side of the room, shifting to either foot. She clutched her rifle tightly, a devilish grin splayed across her face.
"All aboard the freight elevator to hell!" She shouted with glee, all the while strapping her grenade launcher upon her back. "Going. Straight. Down!"
A deep chuckle grabbed the Private's attention. It was the krogan Travak, staring it the woman. He then began to lick his lips, orange orbs thorough looking over the marine. "She'd make a fine krogan…" he muttered under his breath, "…if only she was just a bit bigger. Heh heh heh."
Mitchell rolled his eyes and went back to checking his gear.
The other marines were going the same, gathering their weapons and armor. Wesley had already briefed them on their destination and what they expected to come up against.
Proxima Noble, a harsh planet located deep within the Terminus system. Her atmosphere was a nasty mix of carbon dioxide and neon, winds blew hard and were always constant, days where hot enough to melt lead and nights were cold enough to freeze pure alcohol. Acid-rain storms poured for days on end, only to clear for a few hours before the next storm came rolling in. The world was an inhospitable nightmare, her only redeeming qualities were the literal mountains of rare earth metals that were ripe for the taking.
And thus, the Alliance dispatched several mining teams, adding up to over two thousand men and women over several complexes dotted all over the surface.
They were going to the CC, or 'Capital Complex', as the miners living there had dubbed it. If anyone was going to hit the planet, they would surely start there.
"All right!" Wesley shouted, clad in full combat armor plus a breather helmet. "We are dropping straight into an acid storm! I expect you all to be in full survival gear, because I sure as hell ain't gonna write to your mommies and daddies tellin' them how your face melted off cuz you couldn't keep your helmet secure! Now get your rears onboard that dropship!"
Travak laughed again, "I was getting bored up here anyways."
"Wait," Mitchell gawked as the krogan hefted a gigantic shotgun. "You're coming with us?"
"Of course," the krogan curtly said, "not going to sit up here all day, might break something." He glared right at the marine, his breath fogged Private's visor, "Or I may just eat a little human when he least expects it."
Shuffling backwards, Mitchell suddenly felt ill.
"This is Stormbreaker Three-six, approaching the LZ. No signs of life. I got nothin' on thermals, over."
Travak was ready. You could see it in his eyes, the way his body moved ever so slightly. Such a gigantic beast, yet so still in the moments just before combat.
Every human onboard was the exact opposite. Cortoza still shifted around as the ship pulled in to land. Mitchell squeezed his Revenant and then released, squeezed and then released. Walton and Fuller, the two flamethrowers in the squad, kept checking their weapons over and over again, trying to find faults that weren't there.
Wesley just sweat like a dog locked inside a sauna. He was soaked to his underpants before the dropship broke atmosphere.
The ship's frame rocked as it hit the CC's landing deck, bringing Wesley to his feet.
Without hesitating he ordered Walton and Fuller on point, ordered to torch anything that had four eyes and a bad attitude. Everyone else would file in behind them, with the krogan taking up the rear.
Personally, the Operations Chief would want the alien in front of him at all times, but Ryker said Travak was as reliable as any other soldier. Thing was, though, that Wesley took Ryker's words with a pinch of salt. He didn't know why, but he didn't like the Commander one bit.
"Dropping the ramp." The pilot said mechanically. "Good luck boys, give 'em hell."
Walton lit the end of his flamethrower and jettisoned a stream of fire into the atmosphere of Proxima Noble, Fuller quickly did the same.
"Flame one is hot!"
"Flame two hot!"
With that, both marines led the squad through the acidic rain, quickly towards the entrance of the main complex. Lighting fixtures flickered weakly as they passed by, distorted shadows danced about.
The main power to the facility had been cut, silencing any alarm and security systems in the process. Emergency power was the only thing left keeping the place running.
"Anything on motion?" Wesley called out as they settled in front of the main doors to the facility. He could hear the fizzle of acid as it burned against his barriers.
"Negative, Chief." Cortoza replied quickly, staring down at the tracker crudely taped to her rifle. "Nothing out here but us and the rain."
Grimacing, the Operations Chief eyed the tall doors in front of them. The main entrance was meant to allow the mining trucks quick access so they could dump their payload and head back out into the field. This meant the doors were almost always open, even in the event of a storm. Now they were closed.
Lightning flashed as Wesley turned to Mitchell, "Young? Think you can get this door open?"
The Private gave the metal portal a once-over and nodded, "Yeah, no problem." Bringing up his omni-tool, Mitchell attempted to get into the complex's security systems, but the lack of power made it impossible. "Agh. I can't get in. Emergency power is only meant to keep life support running, I can't get this door open, Chief."
"Great," the Chief snorted, "that's just great. All right, the auxiliary entrance is on the opposite side of the complex, we'll start there." Wesley turned to the two jarheads hefting the flamethrowers, "Well, let's move ladies! Walton and Fuller back on point!"
The squad quickly moved to the opposite end of the building, still no signs of life. Travak was getting restless now, complaining about the lack of things to shoot.
Wesley couldn't blame him. The batarians were most likely long gone, they would never stay hidden for this long.
Walton reached the door first and immediately tried the panel nearby to open it. He placed his flamethrower on the ground and then motioned Fuller to come over and assist. Digging their fingers into the crease between the doors, they pulled with all their might. It didn't budge.
Snickering, Cortoza took a knee and watched with enjoyment, "What's wrong boys? Door giving you trouble?"
The rest of the squad circled around the entrance, weapons ready. But the longer they took, and to no avail, the soldiers began to enjoy the scene of their two comrades struggling with the portal before them.
Rolling his eyes, Travak shoved past all the marines and bluntly told them to stay out of his way. Cracking his knuckles, the alien forced his stubby fingers into the crease and with what seemed like little effort pried the doors open.
Flashlights came to life to illuminate the dark innards of the CC.
"Marines! Move it up!" Wesley hissed, "Clear the facility, room by room. Give me a status update every two minutes. Krogan!" The leviathan turned, "You're with me."
In pairs of twos, the marines filed inside, branching off down different hallways.
Not waiting for the human, Travak marched inside, glad to be out of the rain. The place was ransacked. Windows were smashed, lockers were wide open, and bullet holes dotted the walls. There was a lot of blood too, either spattered like paint across a wall or dribbling in puddles on the floor.
But no bodies. Not even one. As Wesley and Travak began to push deeper, the story was the same thing for nearly every that housed a person. A lot of blood, but no body.
Soon every marine began to report in, all telling the same tale. Until Cortoza came on.
"Uh, C-C-Chief?"
Wesley halted and pressed a finger to his helmet. Cortoza never stuttered like that. "Go ahead, Corporal."
"You need to get over to the command center right now. You n-need to see this."
Taking off in a dead sprint, Wesley followed the painted markers along the walls to lead him all the way to the command center. He found Cortoza leaning against a wall, hands on her knees. Her whole body was shaking.
Stepping past her, the marine immediately found what shook Cortoza to the bone.
"Holy hell…"
Three bodies were strung up by their feet, dangling from the ceiling like meat. Their throats had been slashed, skin covered in lesions and bruises.
Wesley approached slowly and readied his omni-blade so he could cut down these pour souls. But something stopped the man dead in his tracks.
The foremost body that was left hanging had the crest of the Batarian Hegemony carved into his forehead.
I figured I had to get this out sooner or later. Forgive me if it's not up to par with my previous chapters.
Peace.