Haestrom, Dholen system (27/03/2184)
Tali's fingers flew over the keyboard as she typed frantically, trying to repel the hacking attempt. She knew the stakes all too well - and cursed herself every moment for dragging the others down, for leading them into this trap. Sure, back on the Citadel it sounded like a worthy risk, and she was aware that her team members were all volunteers, but still - she was an Admiral's daughter, they all looked up to her for leadership (even that polite, extremely competent, definitely too formal and absolutely not imposing or attractive bosh'tet Kal), and she failed in her duty, led them right into the blindingly obvious trap. And now, unless she managed to repel the geth hacking avalanche, nobody would even know what happened with them. Eyes narrowed behind her faceplate, Tali willed her fingers to type faster, her omnitool to compile the programs even quicker - she would not let her people down. She would not disappoint her father. She would not let her team down. She would make her uncle and friends proud - even if she had to work through an increasingly blurry HUD, failing suit filters and heat regulators. And no, she would never, ever admit that those were not mechanical failures - keelah, Garrus and Shepard would never let her live it down! The sound that leaves her throat is definitely not a weird mix of sob and laughter; how could it be, when she has not seen Garrus for months, and Shepard even longer? She was not even sure if the human has recovered, or was still in a coma; she thought sometimes to contact Liara or maybe Wrex to see if they knew more, but always refrained, because honestly, she was afraid to know. At least this way, she could always hope.
Lines of code blurred past the screen, too fast for even a seasoned STG operative to follow, and Tali felt a justified surge of pride that she managed to keep up with state-of-the-art geth cyberassaults using centuries-old quarian equipment. Still, she was all too aware that it was only a question of time - and when she failed, the likely last records from the time of the Morning War would be gone, the chance of making peace with the Consensus along with them. Sure, she was far from certain that the data and recollections contained within the archive were the full truth, considering how contrary they were to the official Migrant Fleet memories, but that was the main reason she believed they contained more than a sliver of truth. She snorted. Obviously, the time she spent away from the Fleet has affected her deeper than she thought.
Her omnitool chimed, signalling another batch of the ancient databank being encrypted and readied for transmit - not that she had any ship in range for receiving it. Still, it never hurt to be prepared. After all, Kal's team may succeed in destroying the geth jamming.
Tali scowled, shook her head. No, she did not really believe even Reegar capable of that. Keelah, it would have been a very difficult task for Shepard's team, and they would not have had to worry about suit punctures. Not that those were the main problem on Haestrom - and she refused to worry about the sun's erratic behavior. Even compared to the data from the quarian observation logs, Dholen seemed to age at an alarming rate, and there was no real explanation for it. What geth data she could access from the hacked databanks, it seemed that the geth could not find a reason either. Or at least, the sane geth couldn't. These so-called heretics, as the emissary platform called them were rather different - more advanced in a way, more similar to the ones she saw and fought against during her time on the Normandy.
She shook herself, as she realized the sounds of firefight coming ever closer, wincing whenever a scream of pain cut through the comm channel, or a team member's vitals went dark in her HUD. She bitterly regretted not having the same remote medigel-administering software that Spectres had, but with all the interference and jamming, it may very well have been useless anyway. Still, at least it would have been a chance to do something. Knowing that what she did was important was a very, very small and distant thing when her people were dying out there, trying to protect her, to protect their future.
Tali cursed herself for letting the easy beginnings of the operation lull her into a false confidence. Sure, she did set up some halfway-decent security options, early warning systems, multiple encrypted comm channels, but really, if not for Kal'Reegar's insistence and quiet competence, the first heretic attack would have overwhelmed them physically.
Her omnitool chimed again, and she focused once more on the console, frowning. Sure, her firewalls and anti-hacking measures held up, but the geth attacks were coming closer to a breakthrough, shaving away nanoseconds from the safety net of response time available to her with each attempt. Tali estimated that at best, they would have a few hours before the machines overwhelmed her systems - then she laughed, a bitter, cynical sound. From the noise outside, they would be lucky to survive another hour physically; what would the electronic systems matter if they were all plasma-burned corpses anyway?
With the historical and astronomical data packed, she begins what, perhaps, should have been more important - then again, she is still young, and very much her father's daughter, so it's perhaps understandable that she thinks on her people and their legacy first, current events only second. Her fingers fly over the omnitool's keyboard as she starts to compile and compress the data her team gathered on the heretics since the insertion two weeks ago. Combat profiles on the various platforms, including preferred tactics, weaponry, equipment, movement and attack patterns. Useful hacking tricks. Encryption protocols and comm channels used. Estimates on the surface-side relay the geth have pointed at Dholen itself, and the weird electromagnetic phenomena surrounding it. The cyclopean towers reaching for the system's star, their peaks sometimes covered in eldritch light, constantly radiating an aura of dark, intoxicating, eternal suffering. Platform structural weaknesses. Estimates on the various characteristics of the particle weapons used by the geth. Combat logs and footage. Information paid for in blood - her team's blood. And she almost ignored or forgot it, because she felt the historical data more important. Was that how her father felt, all the time? Did Wrex ever feel like this? Did Shepard? Or Garrus? Oh keelah, even with the dire situation, she would like to have the smug turian around - at the very least, he could make her laugh. And it would be fun to see him and Kal interact, so similar and yet so different.
While the data packet was being compiled, Tali turned her attention to the screens displaying the still-remaining connections she managed to wrest from the geth in order to access the orbital relays and the FTL comm buoy. Sure, there were still open connections, but they were degrading by the minute, and even before her team's dead, they would be cut off from outside, and with the unstable comms, she could not be sure that her data packets would manage to punch through the geth jamming to reach the Citadel. She narrowed her eyes at the sensor ghost flitting in-system - it was again that weird electromagnetic signal traveling between Dholen and Haestrom, and now there was something in the outer system as well. Clearly, the instruments were suffering the constant pressure of the assaults on the datasphere, not to mention the insane conditions of the system itself.
With a deep breath, she focused on finishing the program she worked on for the last few days, almost without any pause - for the chance that she might create a sure way to ensure that the last transmission of her team would be safe. She did not want to dwell on the similarities between her hastily cobbled-together VI and the precursors of the geth. She did not want to consider she might be sending a newborn sentient into its practical demise. Then again, if the geth and the Reapers to whom they apparently swore fealty manage to achieve their aim, that nascent hybrid of a VI and AI she created will be less than a drop in the ocean of casualties.
With an effort of will, she forced herself to calm down, so she could give her orders (not that Kal's team needed it, but still), as the final chunks of the data packets were compiled, ready for burst-transmission. The heretics were battering down the old observatory, and she could see a number of oversized siege platforms lining up - obviously, Kal's sabotage mission was not as successful as they hoped it would be. Tali checked her shotgun, and she thought for a moment on her self-styled uncle - maybe if she had accepted his offer of Urdnot escort, they would have fared better. After a moment of deliberation, she shook her head. It likely would not have mattered, and anyway, when it came to fighting geth, not even the krogans were a match to her people. She only hoped that Zaal'Koris could convince the other Councilors and the Admiralty Board to give this peace a chance.
Tali closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths to center herself - it would not be long now, she knew. There were barely a dozen of her team still alive, and according to Kal's terse report, the heretics would bring their siege platforms online in less than ten minutes. After that, well, not even her skills with machines would be enough to keep the kinetic barriers of the observatory up and running while fending off geth cyberassaults.
Something drew her gaze towards the sensors once again - that flitting ghostlike image, an elusive trail of something heading in-system, and her eyes went wide. She knew what could cause that particular type of blip. She served on that ship, after all. But it could only have been wishful thinking - that ship was destroyed by the Collectors, after all, and she heard nothing about either the Alliance or the Hierarchy rebuilding it. No, it was not real. Likely the lack of sleep and food finally caught up to her; she did read that people got sometimes delusions, hallucinations when suffering extreme stress and exhaustion, and being under constant geth assaults for two weeks certainly qualified. That sensor blip could only be her wishful imagination. That incoming communications request, a hallucination.
"Need a hand, Tali? We were in the neighborhood, figured I'd drop by to see how my favorite quarian princess is doing."
Streaking across the electromagnetic storm battering its systems, the Normandy SR-2 swooped down with a deadly grace and precision, her main battery spitting blue-white positronic energy at the siege platforms, turning the imposing geth machinery into half-melted debris piles.
The fragments of the destroyed geth siege engines were still in the air as the sleek human frigate slowed its approach, hovering in place as its docking bay opened, and a Kodiak shuttle dropped out, heading towards the wartorn observatory.
"Have fun down there, Commander, and give my regards to Tali!"
"Will do, Joker. Just don't scratch my ship."
"Aye, Shepard. Punch it, EDI!"
"Acknowledged, Mr. Moreau."
Joker's hands flew over the haptic screens, practically turning the Normandy on its tail as he sped away towards space, away from the ground team. A glance confirmed that the orbiting geth fleet located them and was naturally on an intercept course.
"Adams, can you squeeze a bit more power from the core?" The pilot swerved around the corpse-green beams intent on tearing the frigate apart. Not waiting for the answer, he spoke again. "EDI, how is the stealth system, can we go silent?"
"Negative, Mr. Moreau. Atmospheric conditions and electromagnetic interference are slowing down the cooling cycle. It will take approximately 7 to 8 minutes before we can engage the stealth system again." A second of pause, as the Normandy shuddered, the kinetic barrier flickering under the hit. "Deploying countermeasures and decoy drones."
"Great, thanks EDI!" As the main battery's indicator signalled fire readiness once again, Joker turned the Normandy once more, and an incandescent beam of energy tore into the dead-black, insectile hull of the closest geth cruiser, carving a deep furrow into the superstructure, secondary explosions flickering from within. An alarm shrilled, warning the pilot about numerous target locks, heralding incoming ordnance. "Adams, about that power boost … now would be a good time."
"We are already running the reactor at full power, Joker." There was a clear warning in the Chief Engineer's voice. "I can run it up to 110, but you know very well what that would mean in case of a barrier failure."
The Normandy reached the upper edge of Haestrom's torn atmosphere, screaming towards the void of space just before the five remaining cruisers could box her in, and tear her to scraps. Free from the gravity well, Joker sent a grin towards his copilot, forgetting that she was a synthetic unit - not that the voice made remembering that little fact easier. Come to think of it, neither did her figure - maybe that was intentional on the Alliance's part? Surely, if they built infiltration units, it was just as well that they were not obvious at first glance...
"What did I tell you, EDI? Those flashlight heads are no match for my girl."
Paging through screens and menus with inhuman speed and efficiency, EDI answered with a distracted
"I was not aware that you were part of the Normandy's design team, Mr. Moreau. Your service record does not indicate shipyard deployments either, or involvement with the development of synthetic mobile platforms. Thus, I fail to see how you could claim that I am your girl."
Joker sputtered, his eyes wide in disbelief as he stared at her - yet even so, he managed to evade the incoming volley of the geth ships. His jaws worked as he tried to muster a coherent answer. The android turned her face towards him, and he could have sworn she grinned at him.
"That was a joke."
The Normandy shuddered as another particle beam hit the barrier. The lights and displays flickered for a moment, and EDI's head snapped towards the distant geth cruiser, her eyes narrowing, voice going flat and businesslike.
"Geth attempting to overload the systems by brute force. Adjusting defensive measures accordingly. Compensating power draw." Screens flickered past before her with inhuman speed. "Geth cruiser squadron moving to maximize efficiency of cybernetic assaults."
"Put their likely course on my screen, EDI." The tactical plot lit up, and he evaluated it for a brief moment with narrowed eyes, his mind racing, searching for appropriate tactics, evaluating approach vectors, calculating course corrections, a hundred other small details. A possible solution clicked in his head, and Joker spent another second analyzing it for weaknesses, before nodding in confirmation. Yes, he could use this trick now - if only this once.
"The decoy drones are still active, right?"
"Affirmative."
"And the geth don't really pay them much attention, correct? Their sensors are sophisticated enough to pick us up at this range, right?"
"Yes, Mr. Moreau."
"How much fine control do you have over the drones? And how much fuel do they have remaining?"
"I can mimic any maneuver you pull with less than a second's delay. Their fuel reserves should be enough for 10 minutes of sustained combat maneuvering." The mech's head tilted sideways a bit. "However, as most of my processing power is required to repel the geth cybernetic assaults, I would advise you to consider the drones an order of magnitude slower than the Normandy itself, Mr. Moreau."
"Good enough, EDI." He took a deep breath, before keying the intercom. "Traynor, I need you to keep a comm channel open for each drone; do not let the geth jam them at any cost. Taylor, on my mark, fire two spreads of C-type torpedoes, and slave their guidance to the decoy drones."
Not waiting for the acknowledgements, Joker's hands flew over the haptics, and the Normandy turned, burning full speed towards the geth ships, dancing between the murderous corpse-green beams of energy clawing at her hull. A quick check during a turn, and Joker shouted into the comm.
"Taylor, first spread now!"
The frigate shuddered as a trio of warheads shot from the launch tubes, as the Normandy passed by one of its decoys; the electronic signature of the ordnance lost in the proximity of the human ship and the ECM of the drone. Joker grinned madly, as he saw EDI adjust the drone's vector to parallel the Normandy's vector closely, yet ensuring to keep a proper distance, maintaining the illusion of a VI-controlled, mindless decoy.
Blue-white and corpse-green beams of light illuminated the void above Haestrom, as Joker positioned his ship with machine-like precision over the second drone just a minute later.
"Taylor, second spread, now!" Joker took a deep breath, swallowed nervously. "Adams, go to 110 percent on the reactor."
"Aye, Helm."
"EDI, reroute all non-critical power to barriers and thrusters. Traynor, keep those comm channels open for two more minutes, no matter the cost!"
The Normandy shot forward, her kinetic barriers shining under the close hits not even her skilled pilot could fully evade, as she raced towards the closing geth formation, her main guns spitting coherent beams of blue-white fire at the enemy ships.
A part of Joker's mind was aware of the warnings flickering on the various screens, of Adams' voice telling him about the reactor status, EDI running a commentary on the geth hacking attempts against the Normandy, but these were all irrelevant. Most of his attention was focused on the tactical plot, tracking their own course, hoping and praying that the geth, even upgraded to this extent, were machinelike enough to be predictably logical - and sure in their technical superiority. If not, well, he had flown against Sovereign and survived, he could deal with five geth cruisers. Of course. Easily. Especially if…
He grinned, as he saw the aspect change in the geth formation. They did indeed took the bait. A quick check on the course of the drones, a flick of the wrist to chart the course needed for the two decoys and to send that over to EDI - and the drones veered off, burning through their fuel reserves in mere seconds, the geth targeting systems ignoring their presence, the targeting systems punching through the jamming to find the human ship itself. Just as planned, really. Now, if he could only keep the Normandy from a direct hit for a few more seconds...
"Taylor, detonate warheads, now!"
And the cold silence of the void came alive with howling, giggling insanity, as six vortices of white unlight unfurled their tentacles amidst the geth formation, tearing into dead-black hulls, turning the insectile vessels brittle and grey. Green lightning coruscated over the hulls of the geth cruisers, trying to burn away the burrowing tentacles before they could rupture the ships and devour the sentience within. The Normandy's ECM systems went to full power, EDI doing her best to disrupt and slow down the geth response, not giving the machines the nanoseconds needed to effectively combat the effects of the torpedoes. Joker turned the frigate once more, and blue-white beams of coruscating energy reached out from the main gun, punching through the shuddering geth cruisers being digested, sparing them the agony of being consumed by the beings released from within the warheads.
Joker slowed down, turned the Normandy back towards Haestrom in a lazy arc, to provide support if needed. Not that he thought it would come to that - not with Shepard on the ground. Still, it was what one did; and extra firepower never hurt.
"Jeff … look at that."
The pilot's eyes went wide as he took in the sight of the sensor screen; his mind almost buckling as he tried to make sense of the gossamer-thin halo of energy, electromagnetic distortion, gravitic field, tentacle of stellar matter that seemed to reach from Dholen towards Haestrom, lancing with unerring precision towards the landing zone - and he could not suppress a shudder at the malevolence emanating from the thing as he yelled into the comm, trying to warn Shepard and his team.
Miranda Lawson panted from the exertion. It has been a scant few minutes since Cortez dropped them at the quarian observatory, and Shepard had since then driven mercilessly forward, having left a fireteam and half of the Migrant Fleet marines to ensure Tali could finish her work. With the teams of Campbell and Westmoreland, and Kal'Reegar's half-dozen marines, the Spectre was pushing forward towards that cyclopean building.
The geth resistance was as stiff as she expected. Of course, she did extensively study the combat data from the Saren Crisis, especially the logs from the battles on Virmire and the Citadel. Thus, she could keep up with the rampaging Shepard, fighting hard to suppress her own smug satisfaction at the job well done. The already-deadly N7 Delta was an even more potent combatant, the months of regeneration allowing him to get used to the implants, to utilize them to their fullest capabilities - and to wreak havoc among their enemies. She well knew what he was capable of before his coma, but his current performance surpassed even her most optimistic estimates. Despite her own perfected physique, despite her own bleeding-edge implants, years of experience, it was all she could do to keep up with Shepard.
It was a somewhat humiliating and exhilarating experience for her. Though she did not have a formal N-level training, she always estimated (based on training and field experiences) that she could consider herself on par with N7s, especially with her own esoteric abilities. She knew that there were a number of outstanding operatives who would surpass her, Shepard amongst them, but this was way beyond her expectations. Shepard mowed down even these improved geth with comparative ease, never standing still for a moment, never wasting a single shot or biotic field, never losing sight of his subordinates, always ensuring that their advance was perfectly coordinated, effortlessly integrating the quarians alongside the Alliance fireteams to create a finely tuned warmachine. She could now fully understand why the Illusive Man was willing to invest so much into bringing him back - and why the marines held him in such high regards. And, if she was honest with herself, she could easily see how and why the sheer physical presence and control Shepard exuded would draw even people like Liara … and herself.
A quick glance from behind the ruined wall she used as cover, then after a deep breath, she threw herself forward once more, her SMG bringing down the shields of a geth Juggernaut with a short burst, before a mnemonic gesture wrapped it into a biotic field, and slammed it against another of his kind. Behind, the marines laid down suppressive fire, before the biotics of the two fireteams could get into position to mimic her feat, while from further back, the quarians concentrated heavy weapons fire on any geth heavy or massed troops - and when such could not be spotted, their combat drones prowled around the formation, ensuring that no cloaked geth could approach undetected.
Miranda concluded that so far, things have been going well - almost too well, really. Sure, Shepard's presence and experience were significant factors, as was her own contribution, but still - since they started the assault, not a single member of their force went down, not even with a wound. Not even the fragile quarians. Yes, they were good - but not this good, especially not in such hostile conditions; with the way the electromagnetic storm played havoc with communications and shortened out shields, they should have had at least some light casualties. No, this definitely felt off.
She opened a private comm channel to Shepard, to warn him in case he did not yet come to a similar conclusion - and felt warmed by his affirmation of her estimate. His decision to continue, however predictable, still sent a chill down her spine; sure, it was not like they had much of a choice in the short run. Both of them could feel the higher dimensions swirling in chaos above the cyclopean tower, and knew that they had little time before whatever was coming manifested. She huffed, flashing a sardonic smile - it's not like it would be the first Opera Night she attended.
Corpse-green halo played along the side of the cyclopean tower, erupting in crackling lightning at the top as they reached the wide-open gate of the building. The electromagnetic storm picked up, even the light itself flickering, and minuscule tremors were spreading from the building. For a moment, Miranda thought she could hear the tortured moaning of Haestrom itself - probably just debris and masonry shifting, she considered. There was no indication that the geth had any aptitude or knowledge of the n-dimensional equations needed to reach Beyond, and call up the beings of the aether. Still, that did not mean their technological abilities should be underestimated - and, she realized with a shiver, she should not discount the possibility of the machines being given pointers by the Reapers. With a last check at the tortured sky, awash with multi-hued discharged, crackling arcs of energy, and suffused with an onrushing feeling of menace, she stepped inside the tower, following Shepard.
The building felt alive, in a loathsome, mechanical way - Miranda suppressed the urge to vomit as her mind immediately painted the image of a biomechanical womb ready to devour those who enter, just to feed its offspring of nightmarish abominations. Here and there, corpse-green lights shone faintly, seeming to emphasize the shadowy darkness of the vast chamber. The complex seemed to breathe with a slow, regular rhythm, each breath sending out a small shiver along the metallic floors. Deep canal and tubes ran from the sides to the dais illuminated in the center, traces of a metallic liquid still dribbling along the veins. Above the central podium, a geth Prime was visible, or at least the faint image of one.
Miranda's eyes narrowed, her visor cycling through various modes - every single one confirming that the dead-black Prime was just a mirage, yet she could feel something off with it, an undefinable presence, a cold, hungry menace radiating from it. The thing looked down on them in disdain, green lightning flickering over its bulk, its arm lifting with deliberate, uncaring slowness, corposant flickering around the yawning maw of the cannon.
"Scatter!" Shepard's shout tore into the air a second before a coruscating beam of sick green light carved a furrow into the metal floor, barely missing Campbell. The marines fired on the run, the withering barrage leaving absolutely no trace of damage on the machine, which gazed down on them with smug superiority. Miranda's lips twisted into a snarl. The thing underestimated them, badly. Even without her and Shepard, the marines would have figured it out eventually - but that's why the two of them were here. To see what was supposed to be unseen. To fight what was supposed to be untouchable. And to remind these mechanical abominations that humanity was no longer a mere prey of the darkness gnawing the roots of the sane universe.
Miranda took a deep breath, maglocked her SMG, her HUD magnifying the Prime, her eye looking for patterns, artifacts, possible weak spots - and when the next volley of the marines, along with a rocket from Kal'Reegar, passed through the mirage once more, she flashed a vicious, triumphant smile. She rose, biotic energy pooling in her outstretched hand, her mouth forming words in a language older than mankind. Resisting the sideways pull of the fragmenting dimensions, she reached out, her biotic field tearing into the metallic body, the flickering artifact deforming, melting under the onslaught, before an explosion sent everyone but Shepard and the Prime flying, the machine solidifying atop the dais, cold fury and the promise of eternal retribution in its gaze as it glared at Miranda.
With a grating, metallic howl of rage, the thing charged, its cannon flaying barrier, armor, flesh and bone from an unlucky marine, the man's scream of agony cutting off abruptly as the beam disintegrated his torso and lungs. The others fell to their knees, clutching at their heads, weapons falling from trembling fingers, as the sound ate its way to the nerves, paralyzing, rewriting them, pushing sentients toward mindless, terror-driven flight. Miranda barely managed to throw up a barrier in time to deflect another blast, saving one of their snipers, then she realized she left herself open. Her hand blurred towards her SMG, even though she knew it would not be enough, as she threw herself to the side.
Time slowed down, as the Prime bore down on her, every minute detail etched with unnatural clarity into her senses. The marines moving as if wading through molasses, their regained guns lifting with painful sluggishness. Her own body still only halfway through drawing her sidearm, the words of power not yet reaching her lips. The dead-black bulk of the geth, minuscule, insectile creatures swarming over its armor as it towered over her, having crossed the distance in the blink of an eye, the yawning maw of its cannon igniting with murderous corpse-green light, aimed straight at her face, hoarfrost creeping over the machine, the ground, her armor.
With a resounding boom of displaced air, Shepard drove a fist into the chest of the Prime, his lit omniblade missing the CPU by a hair, even as he forced back the mech. The two of them moved in a whirling dance of flashing barriers, seemingly levitating droplets of liquid metal and blood, sickly green flashes opposed by sparks of golden radiance, hoarfrost tracing patterns on the floor under their feet.
Time resumed with a crash, and Miranda coughed, spat blood on the thirsty, eagerly trembling metal of the cavernous chamber, her voice rising with a strident cry as she relayed her instructions to the marines, counting down the seconds, praying that Shepard could keep the Prime focused on himself while the two other biotics raced to her side. Making a mental note to thank both the Spectre and her instructors for having drilled the usual marine battle cant in her brain, she outlined her plan with a few words, barked orders for Campbell and Westmoreland, trusting in Kal'Reegar to keep up with the heavy and sniper fire as best he could.
The trio of biotics lit up, their coronas meshing together, the concentrated biotic power reaching for the Prime, attempting to push the mechanical monster outside the normal flow of time. Miranda's eyes widened a fraction of a second before the biotic stasis field and the chronometric device countered each other in a concussive detonation, that sent everything flying. She was barely aware of the sickening crack as the neck of one of her biotics snapped. She did not register the barely-suppressed howl of pain as the other fell into one of the canals criss-crossing the floor, and the living metal began to digest him alive. She barely spared a glance at her HUD or surroundings to check that barely half dozen of them were still combat worthy.
She only cared that the Prime-thing was pulling itself up, its previous wounds slowly filling with liquid metal solidifying into the familiar dead-black carapace, his stance mocking, superior in its might, sure in its victory. She could feel a hateful, defiant snarl distorting her lips, and she stood tall before the monster, another presence at her side. They exchanged a brief look, communicating in a way only frequent visitors of the Opera could - and then Shepard was off with a boom of displaced air, his charge sending the recovering geth stumbling.
Miranda swallowed, and began to chant, her hands tracing patterns older than humanity, the sigils glowing with baleful light, as the Prime began to glow, the unnatural heat boiling away the dead-black carapace layer by layer, the regeneration slowing down as the insectile nanomachines were fried by the increasing heat. Steam obscured the mech and Shepard, as the Spectre fought to keep the beast's attention from Miranda, his omniblade scoring deep gashes into the armor, sending liquid metal spraying into the air, his eyes blazing with golden power.
Precise shots tore out gobs of molten metal from the Prime-thing, as the surviving marines opened fire whenever an opportunity arose. The mech lashed out with crackling arcs of sick green lightning, boiling away those too slow or unlucky to avoid them, and with each death, the summit of the cyclopean tower lit up with eager, hungry flames, and the ever-present trembling intensified, as the comms howled under the strain of the electromagnetic storm's lashes.
Miranda heard her own voice assume that gurgling, frothing quality she well knew; distantly, she was aware of the blood vessels rupturing within her lungs, brain, and eyes, as she forced herself to keep up the chanting, the mech no longer able to move or shoot, before it transformed into a white-hot inferno of superheated metal, and she fell down, coughing blood, her armor flooding her system with medigel to stabilize the operative.
She could feel the survivors hobble closer, checking for lifesigns, movement, anything to indicate that there was no further immediate danger - and her bloodshot eyes widened, as both armor sensors and instincts screamed a warning.
"Shepard, Guard, now!" Barely through the first syllable, the Spectre already moved, his voice echoing in the vast cavern, the coruscating lattice of crystalline power flashing into existence around them, as the tower's walls and roof peeled away. She faintly heard a gurgling, giggling cry ending with a thud as someone's mind apparently buckled under the sight, and she herself could feel the pull of insanity crooning its siren song for her.
Beyond the thin layer of the compressed dimensional maze, the dying star was visible on the sky, half-hidden by the crackling energy of the electromagnetic storm. Hunger and malice flooded the ruins, as the presence coalesced, the crust of the planet howling and trembling in agony as the towering metallic figure stepped from the air, veins of magma radiating from under him, the shadow of flames flickering behind its silvery hide. Reality wept and howled as the presence of the infant being solidified.
Shepard grunted, as gravity pressed down on the Guard, the weight of a neutron star sending cracks spiderwebbing across the labyrinthine depths of the crystalline maze. Light coalesced into a blade of heated darkness, as the fiery shadow burned itself into the aegis.
In a city of shadows, lies and treachery, a blacksmith looked up, his face a mask of hatred. His will reached out across the vast distance, and in the darkness of the void, his creation answered, its engines igniting as it moved with purpose, guided by the small fleet of kindred vessels along the pathways of the vast web.
In the depths of an oceanic trench, the Apex Race contemplated the flare of oh-so-familiar, hated presence, knowing full well that they could not effectively intervene.
Quakes shook the Noctis Facility on distant Mars, as if something vast shifted beneath the skin of the planet, almost like a sleeper struggling for awakening.
In the extragalactic void, hunger flared with murderous fury, as the Harbinger sensed the delicious feast of power that drew more and more of its consciousness towards full awakening.
And on board of a fragile vessel braving the currents, an ancient navigator checked his compass, and nodded towards his oldest companion, as he steered the ship towards the firestorm.
There could be no consensus about the insanity unfolding outside. All runtimes, all its processing capabilities were tasked to capacity trying to keep up with and make sense of the phenomena outside the Argo's hull, when the vessel dropped out from FTL within the atmosphere of Haestrom. Already that maneuver was enough to send a number of Legion's constituents questioning the mental state of organics in general, and Major Pieterzoon in particular - still, the overwhelming majority pointed out the bizarre past events involving locations the strange compass of his lead the trio to. That, by itself, would not have been enough, all things considered. The deciding factor was when the selfsame runtimes suggested employing a concept that has been previously thought a strictly organic characteristic. It was not scientific, predicated on uncertainty, on feelings, on outside factors that may or may not have existed at all - yet those questioning runtimes had to acknowledge the evidence, especially in light of the code upgrade still lying dormant within Legion's platform. Yes, this reaction merited forming the consensus, and the geth emissary, as first of its kind, placed its faith into an organic being.
Of course, faith alone was not enough - not when the previously unshakeable constants, the very laws of the universe were threatening to collapse. There had to be understanding. There had to be a reason behind all this. And, more importantly, there had to be a way to undo all this, to prevent it from spreading, from consuming the humans on-planet, not to mention the still-surviving creators. Legion would have preferred to claim that the sensors are defective, or that they were being jammed, suffering from a highly sophisticated cybernetic assault; any of those would be better, easier to understand, to manage, to counter, than the impossibility its own instruments are relaying to its runtimes.
Haestrom is suffering from extreme tectonic and volcanic activity. Veins of magma radiate from the ruins of the cyclopean tower, plumes of molten rock spurt into the atmosphere at over nine hundred locations and counting. The planet screams like a tortured soul in the audio pickups, as the upper crust is disintegrated, laid bare down to the molten core, the fire within spreading its agonizing touch over the surface. Newly-born volcanoes push upwards, yawning maws of fire and heat intent on swallowing the tortured sky. Gravity is going berserk, dropping to zero and increasing to several hundred standard Gs simultaneously at the same locations. Darkness becomes light, light becomes darkness, as the electromagnetic spectrum inverts itself. A vortex of heat distortion is forming around the fiery creature shining with solar flares. The very fabric of the material, real, sane universe is burning away from its presence, the energies of a dying star nourishing its immortal, eternal hunger - and yet each of Legion's runtimes can sense the creature wanting to devour more, swallowing all into its burning, depthless stomach, to feed its all-consuming wrath.
Legion managed to pinpoint two minuscule islands of normalcy on the surface of the dying planet - and a few of its components expressed their disbelief that locations enclosed within cracking, multi-dimensional barriers that hold up in defiance of the laws of physics can be considered normal. The consensus of Legion's runtimes was, of course, that compared to the other phenomena affecting the planet, these were minuscule in scope - and had clearly documented precedent. A scant few runtimes marked it as a type of reward for the simulated emotional investment; after all, they reasoned, the emissary had proclaimed its opinion about a singular being currently on-site, traveling with them. In the unknowable universe, where apparently even the fundamental rules of physics and sanity were anything but constant, that claim about the enigmatic creature that called himself Professor Munir Yildirim may very well live up to the epithet that Legion appended to him.
As the Argo hurtled through the suffering, agony-wracked atmosphere of the tortured planet, the emissary of the Geth Consensus struggled alongside an ancient human veteran of countless journeys, both intent on keeping the vessel and its passengers alive long enough to salvage the situation - even if Legion could not form a consensus on how exactly that was supposed to happen. What it could do however was to shelve that discussion for a later point - the topmost priority was ensuring the evacuation of the still-living sentients from Haestrom.
If not for focusing all its considerable attention and processing power outwards, the geth emissary may have noticed when the sharp tang of ozone suffused the interior of the ship, or when the light within took on a warm, golden hue, as the being standing behind them readied himself to meet the howling vortex of destruction outside.
Legion was not aware of these small changes, but a fraction of its companion's mind registered all this, his hand flittering to the ancient symbol he wore around his neck for a fraction of a second. The major knew. He had witnessed a similar event before, after all - and he prayed that the saint, the knight, the dragonslayer would once again triumph.
Tali was frantically typing, while praying to whatever ancestors she could think of, as the world went mad around them - and if not for the small trinket Shepard gave her so long ago, they may not have survived even a second. As it was, the dome of scintillating, refracted dimensions sheltered the wounded, tired quarians and SA marines from the destruction raging on the other side. She desperately tried to make sense of it, to analyze, to document the phenomen - just to predict and prevent it in the future. The young quarian suppressed a chuckle that threatened to turn into a sob - this was not the time for her to fall apart. Sure, the universe went mad. Sure, they would likely die within minutes, at best. Sure, there wasn't anything meaningful she could contribute to combat whatever was causing havoc. Still, she refused to just sit and wait. Even if the data she collected was insane, and proved unusable in the unlikely event she managed to time it correctly and send it before the comm channels collapsed completely under the onslaught of the electromagnetic storm overhead.
Her breathing quickened as she realized the barrier between the insanity and their shelter was shrinking, as it was burned away seemingly by the very air, as it too caught fire. The coruscating inferno of the dying planet painted the skies crimson, the fissures spreading on the ground vomiting forth magma in great, heaving bursts, the constant, tormented shrieks of the physical constants drilling into her ears as she tried to focus on her instruments, compiling these phenomena to another data packet. And above all, Tali tried not to think what could have happened with the others, with Shepard's team. Clearly, they must have failed, as she was sure the Spectre would have prevented this insanity with his life, if need be. If Shepard was not enough, what chance did any one of them have to combat this insane star-spawned monstrosity?
She swallowed, over and over again, fighting back her tears. She would not give the monster the satisfaction of breaking down. Not while she was alive, not after she was long dead. She was a quarian, the daughter of an admiral, adopted niece to a krogan warlord, member of a Spectre's crew when saving the galaxy. Tali turned, her glowing eyes narrowing in the direction of the cyclopean tower with determination.
And above her, around her, small golden motes of power lit up the sky, their light and warmth igniting the spark of hope, of triumph, of defiance in her and her ailing comrades. She did not know how, or why, but she was sure - victory would be theirs, as the ancestors themselves seemed to stand by their side.
Above, on a descending trajectory, a small private yacht shot past, blazing with golden might, the laws of the natural universe reasserting themselves in its wake.
Miranda's mind raced, as her body convulsed in agony, blood trickling from her mouth, as she tried to assist Shepard in maintaining the Guard. She could see the Spectre pushing himself, could hear the gurgling quality of his voice, and knew better than any just how much stress was needed to push the new and upgraded Spectre to this point. No, she would not dwell on the impossibility of the enemy breaking through the supposedly-unassailable Guard - after all, it has happened before during the destruction of the first Normandy. Even without that, she knew well enough that for all their knowledge, all their might, no human, not even the best of the N7 Deltas could utilize the n-dimensional practices to their full extent; they had to be satisfied with pale, degraded imitations, whose main saving grace was that the power consumption and drain on the mind was tolerable enough for short times.
The surviving marines and quarians huddled close, uncertainty and a measure of terror radiating from their posture - small wonder, since they were face to face with an enemy beyond their skills and equipment, their only protection two operatives, and one of those was already almost out of the fight. Miranda bared blood-stained teeth in a hateful snarl of defiance as the flame-wreathed creature of liquid metal floated closer on wings of burning gravity, burrowing into the non-euclidean depths of the Guard with tendrils of black fire thinner than a pencil yet thicker than a human torso, the higher dimensions slowly but surely destabilizing under the pressure of the unnatural inferno. She began to put together her last incantation, the words of power necessary to hurt the monster - not to kill, she was not foolish enough to waste energy on that. No, she would strike at its ability to feed, to draw energy from the celestial spheres and mundane stars; others could then strike the finishing blow.
Her eyes widened as she spotted the closing ship braving the tides of fire and molten rock that was the sky of Haestrom, the yacht navigating the unseen currents of stellar matter and magma with preternatural skill and machine-like precision, a cloak of golden radiance trailing in its wake. Sanity and stability seemed to spread from the ship, the crumbling barriers of the physical reality, the universal laws and constants regaining their supremacy, halting and at places reknitting the burned, magma-encrusted boundaries. Motes of golden warmth, sparks of defiant power drifted in the pleasantly cool air beneath the failing Guard, as the sharp tang of ozone tickled Miranda's nose. She turned her head, looking for the source, as the tall, imposing figure seemed to step from a crack in reality.
She recognized him, of course. One could not obtain the skill and knowledge she possessed without meeting the professors from Kathmandu; and even though she has not met their elusive leader personally, she has seen his face in the files of the Illusive Man, in newscasts, in intelligence reports. She wanted to laugh at the cruel fate that when she finally met such a pioneer of arcanoscience, it was under the liquid metal wings of a burning angel - and that such a person would throw away his life for people like her and the marines.
The fiery monster halted for an eternal moments, before a voice of crackling tectonic plates and hissing, overpressurized magma rumbled forth from the featureless mask of flame-wrought metal. She could not understand the words, did not know the language, yet the boundless wrath, the all-consuming hunger and desire to see reality burn seeped into her soul, searing her mind for a moment, before a golden warmth embraced her.
+++THEY ARE MY PEOPLE, AND YOU SHALL NOT HAVE THEM.+++
And the confines of Yog-Sothoth's Guard exploded with golden lightning, as Munir Yildirim stood before the angel of burning wrath.
Dark flames spread their fiery shadows as liquid metal surges eagerly forward, intent on swallowing and eradicating the shining figure in its path, to consume its power, to feed the furnace of its boundless wrath. Golden light pulses, stabbing deep into the titanic shape, burning away the flaming essence of the ascendant star-god, stopping the onslaught. Thunder rumbles above them, as jagged streaks of blue-white lightning tear into the molten red-black magma of the tortured sky, chasing the veins of flowing metal threading towards the distant star.
Tendrils of hungry flames lick at and start consuming the very flesh of the golden figure, before exploding away into droplets of emotions, as a pulse of righteous fury washes over them. A flash of light illuminates the darkness at the heart of the yawning, flame-wreathed black hole threatening to swallow the planet, and a blade of solidified golden lightning stabs into the heart of the titan. Dholen and Haestrom wail in pain, the heartsblood of stars flowing freely from the wound.
The minuscule traces of life present at Haestrom unprotected by n-dimensional barriers perish as the vengeful gaze of the star-god sweeps over the field of battle, locking onto the shining figure with unending, boundless fury. Burning waves of cascading gravitic force and the flame-wreathed swathes of the electromagnetic spectrum seek to bury Munir Yildirim under the tidal waves of their combined force. Cold defiance and inhuman determination stop the avalanche of power in its tracks, the golden motes of power highlighting the spreading hoarfrost that weaves a web of stability over the surface of the disintegrating planet, its threads forming and reforming delicate geometric patterns.
Lightning blade and flaming metal clash in a symphony of destruction, as the two beings duel at blistering speed too fast to follow, on a level too slow to perceive by mortal senses, the blades flashing at human height first before meeting again in the molten magma of Haestrom's stratosphere. Droplets of golden light fall from the professor's fire-torn wounds, the dark fire of the star-god greedily consuming the motes of power, only to scream with a voice of continental plates grinding together, as the antithetical energies burn the black hole pulsating within its womb.
Deep furrows are carved into the skin of Haestrom as the dueling gods unleash their powers. Veins of magma spew their hatred at the golden adversary, columns of smoke and noxious fumes coiling around him to suffocate and burn him away. Pyroclastic clouds and rivers of lava march against the lone beacon of defiance, eternal hunger and unending wrath pounding on his psyche with every moment the two spend locked in their endless duel. Pillars of black flames dance around the two, seeking to carve into the upstart newcomer daring to stand up to a nascent star-god. Lightning flashes in return, carving precise, deadly pathways into clouds, veins of magma and liquid metal alike. Golden power shines in a scintillating halo around the elder professor, as he defies the impossibility the will of the metallic angel of fire tries to impose on Haestrom.
Dholen itself pulses in agony, its life and energy siphoned rapidly across the vast, minuscule distance of the magma-veined conduit of black metal, solar flares and shuddering antimatter. The lightminute-thick, torso-thin vein of sustenance trembles and howls in agony as hoarfrost spreads along the barely meter-long part of it that stretches for hundreds of thousands of kilometers all the way to the system's star itself. Cracks spread across the surface of reality itself, the raw stuff of chaotic emotions bleeding through, the star-god shuddering with revolted satisfaction, as the morsels of that antithetical realm burn it as the wrathful vampire of flames and metal feeds on them in a desperate hunger of unending fury.
Light, darkness, time itself spirals down into an endless vortex limned by fangs of flame-wreathed, liquid metal, the transcendent parasite hurling oblivion at its adversary, intent on pushing the ancient anomaly beyond the reach of time itself, to erase all it was, is, and would be. The borders separating the dimensions buckle before tumbling down into the lightless depths, the star-god's burning might leaving only the ashes of physical laws, before even those are snatched by the howling volcanic winds. For a fraction of a second lasting thousands of years, the golden figure seems to fall outside the boundaries of time.
Then, the fragile pattern etched by the thin tendrils of hoarfrost ignites with golden fire, interlocking planes of higher dimensions closing in on the metallic angel of fiery hunger. The feeder tendril connecting it with Dholen bleeds flames, stellar matter and power as the blade of solid lightning cuts deep, almost severing it. The skies of Haestrom roil and twist as the universal constants reassert themselves, the rampant, redirected power of the star-god turning back time for the planet itself, undoing much of the damage caused. Tectonic plates moan and howl with pyroclastic anger, black flames of antimatter surge forward to snuff out the golden light, only to be flayed away by a coruscating barrage of lightning.
Cracks form over the liquid metal of the star-god's carapace, as the pressure of the higher dimensions forces it ever downwards, flensing away its very being layer by layer. The shrinking dome of power trembles under the constant barrage from within and without, the metallic vampire batters on the cage heralding its demise with burning wrath, black flames, molten magma; the flow of time shrieks and buckles as the ascended parasite attempts to reweave causality, redirect the trap that ensnared its might. To no avail; the cage is anchored too strongly, its focal points bleed their emotions, thoughts and desires, they wail and scream under the stress but they hold on, denying the star-god the chance to escape.
The wounded conduit of power connecting the figure of liquid metal with Dholen pulses with loathsome life and energy as the angel of fire drew on the already-tenuous connection to empower itself or at least to save its very being from the relentless pressure. Too little, too late.
In the dark void beyond the system's edge, motes of scintillating light started coalescing in firing chamber of the ancient Talisman. The dust of dreams, shards of nightmares, flares of passion merged with the screams of dead and dying, the pain of wounds, guilt of survival, fierce determination, joy of battle, terror, rage, awe - all that and more became encapsulated in those swirling points of impossible colors, fed and empowered by hundreds of trained minds, whose presence in that realm of emotions was so much stronger. The black void brightens, reality itself straining as the ancient mechanism hums ever stronger, building to a frenetic crescendo of insane unreality, a miniature star awakening to life in the darkness. Aboard the slender vessels accompanying the immense artifact, all crewmembers give way to their aeons-old hatred and rage, their warlocks and seers shaping, channeling the inferno of raw emotions to the shining crystalline mind of the Talisman itself, as the vortex of unnameable colors is born.
The scintillating, growing ball of light pulses with the heartbeat of imagination, of unreal potential, of the eternal wrath felt by the exiles towards those who brought them down; its tendrils of ethereal claws rip open the taut, thin veil of material reality, and then the impossible beam of incandescent light and power is born with a howl echoing in the mind of all sentients present in the Dholen system. The swirling, pulsing, immaterial beam races towards the bleeding, violated core of the system's star, the physical, sane reality of the materium weeping and warping in its wake.
The already-weakened Dholen buckles beneath the punishing onslaught of the timeless grudge, the star fading, falling inwards before the coruscating beam of power battering at its core overloads the straining heart of the half-digested star, and it explodes outwards, spreading its own mindless pain and fury to swallow all who hurt and tormented it.
The surface of Haestrom burns under the lashes of stellar radiation, heralding the incoming firestorm. Already-weakened continental plates and vents tear further, rapidly disintegrating under the strain of forces still duelling on the planet. The wounded, diminishing star-god, severed from its cradle, tries to funnel the incoming power of Dholen's death to replenish and rejuvenate itself, but only succeeds in throwing itself futilely at the bars of the dimensional cage. Too much of its very self has been flayed away already, too little attention has been given to the deceitful nature of its enemy. The nascent star-vampire fell to its own arrogance in believing itself stronger than the Dragon - and now it pays the price.
Gotha is consumed by the flames of the dying star, and destruction races towards the system's edge. A seemingly-fragile private yacht and an Alliance frigate are running towards the still-operational mass relay, barely keeping ahead of the vanguard of Dholen's fiery wrath. Charoum disintegrates under the lashing energy of the system's star, and the core of the relay shifts to a baleful red, before the ancient structure pulses once, then simply falls apart.
The vengeance of the tortured star ignites the dying Haestrom, and the planet joins its two siblings in oblivion, before the fury of Dholen is spent, and the star falls inwards, collapsing into a fraction of its former size and majesty, leaving the system scorched of any trace of sentients.