Chapter 3: New Developments
Shepard groaned as he pushed himself up off of the oversized bed that dominated the lower landing in his cabin, resigned to yet another night with no sleep. It felt like forever since he had last been able to just close his eyes and simply sleep without visions and dreams constantly pounding away at his sanity.
Rubbing his eyes to rid himself of the blurriness that had marred his vision, he stood up into the dull gloom that pervaded his poorly-lit cabin. The Alliance had taken out most of the lights that Cerberus had installed up here during their six month-long retrofit, no doubt claiming the lights were needless and wasteful. Shepard himself secretly suspected that the engineers had simply done it to spite him. Either way however, the lighting accompanied his present mood perfectly.
The Normandy currently orbited that nuclear-blasted wasteland known to the rest of the galaxy as Tuchanka. It had only been a few hours since he, Garrus, and James had managed to disarm a truly massive and ancient bomb that had been planted inside the planet's surface over a thousand years ago by the Turians at the end of the Krogan Rebellions. Cerberus had planned to detonate the bomb, fracturing the nascent alliance between the two species before it could even begin, and it had taken the sacrifice of the Turian Primarch's son, alongside most of his platoon, to prevent such an event from happening. Shepard grimaced at the fresh memory. Another good soldier lost to this damnable war.
How long would the universe expect him to keep fighting and surviving? He had survived the hell that had been the raid on his homeworld of Mindoir when he was just a kid, watching as everything that had seemed so consistent and unchanging up until then burn before his eyes as Batarians sacked the place of his birth. He had survived the Blitz, giving his all to ensure that there would not be another Mindoir on a different planet, no matter the cost. Hell, he had even died. One might have thought that would earn him some sort of reprieve. Instead all he had earned in exchange for his constant sacrificing was a body full of cybernetics and a head full of nightmares.
The terminal in the landing above his bed began to beep softly, indicating that someone wished to speak to him. Shaking his head and wondering if he would ever find the time to relax and enjoy a full night of sleep, he ascended the stairs that led to the desk that held the awaiting terminal that continued to beep insistently.
"Commander, Admiral Hackett wishes to speak to you on the QEC," came the voice of Samantha Traynor, the Normandy's comm specialist. "He says it's incredibly urgent."
"Thanks Traynor," he said as he digested that statement. Hackett always seemed to project a sense of serene calm about him, never hurried or bothered no matter how bad things turned out. If the Admiral thought this was urgent, then Shepard hated to guess at what had flustered the man so badly. "I'll be right down."
Terminating the link, he hastily threw on a shirt that had been discarded onto the floor an hour earlier, making his way into the elevator and pressing the button for deck two. Shepard scowled as the doors closed on him and the cabin shuddered, marking the beginning of the descent. Two versions and a retrofit, and the elevator still moved slower than an Elcor mired in a swamp made of molasses.
After what felt like an eternity in Hell, the elevator dinged cheerily, informing its lone occupant that it had reached its destination. Stepping out into the CIC, he brushed past a pair of crewmen as he made his way through the checkpoint that blared angrily at his deviation from programmed protocol. Neither of the guards dared to ask him to allow the machine to complete its scan, not after Shepard had loudly and painstakingly made it clear how the Normandy was his ship and that he did not need to submit to a scan every time he needed to visit the War Room, which was frequent.
Entering the circular room that was dominated by a holographic representation of the Crucible project, he brushed past his old friend Urdnot Wrex, who simply murmured a hushed "Shepard," the massive Krogan completely focused on the updates that were flowing in from his homeworld. The room's other occupant, Primarch Adrien Victus, simply nodded his acknowledgement at Shepard's presence before returning to his work. Shepard, for his part, ignored the two of them, completely focused on reaching the QEC.
He sealed the doors behind him as he entered the room housing the device. If Hackett thought the information was urgent, then no one else needed to hear. Hopefully the news was not bad though. He had had enough death to last him the rest of his life.
Activating the machine created an incredibly accurate and incredibly blue likeness of the Admiral. Clearly the man had been staring at his own QEC, impatiently waiting for the second Shepard contacted him.
"Shepard, sorry to do this to you so fast but I need you to leave Tuchanka immediately," Hackett said before Shepard even had the chance to salute his superior.
"Admiral?" Shepard asked, confusion and disbelief warring in his tone. "The genophage cure is nearing completion, Mordin should have it ready within the next couple of days," he stammered out, trying to make sense of the Admiral's order.
"This takes priority Shepard. Even above the genophage."
"What is it then?" If it was even more important than curing the genophage and cashing in on all the benefits that the cure would bring to the desperate alliance of races, then this new development had to be huge indeed.
"You remember your mission to Benning? Cerberus' occupation?" Hackett said impatiently, as if afraid that any delay could ruin his orders.
"Yes sir, evacuating civilians. What about it? Did you find out what Cerberus was doing with them?"
"Negative Shepard. We've just received word from the officers we managed to insert in the aftermath of your raid. The planet has been liberated. And not by us."
"Then by who?" Possibilities spun through Shepard's mind at a dizzying rate, each one more outlandish than the last.
"That's the kicker. We have no idea. We don't even know what species they are, though we have some strong suspicions. That's why I need you there, before we lose track of them altogether."
That statement shut Shepard up like nothing else could. An unknown species? Suddenly the possibilities that he had been pondering a moment ago shattered into a thousand fragments, before being replaced by a million more possibilities. "You're sure?" he managed to croak out, his voice high-pitched in surprise.
"Positive. And they've got technology that makes us look like children hitting each other with sticks too."
Shepard was sure his brain had shut down at this point, subconsciously deciding to ride out the rest of this galaxy-shattering conversation with an attitude of dull amazement and acceptance. "Let me guess," he began, "you want me to bring them onto our side."
"Absolutely Shepard. The images and feeds coming in from Benning are unlike anything we've ever seen before. Cerberus never stood a chance against them. Do whatever it takes, promise them anything you have to, just get them on the ground next to our men."
The Commander felt his arm rising on its own while his mind began processing the enormity of his new task. "Consider it done," he said in an attempt to reassure both himself and the Admiral.
"Good to hear Shepard. Hackett out." With that the blue light filling the room disappeared, leaving Shepard in the darkness. He took a moment to appreciate the symbolism before contacting the Normandy's resident wiseass and helmsman. "Joker, set a course for Benning. Get us there as fast as you can and then some."
"Getting tired of the weather here?" came the voice of Joker over the intercom.
"Getting tired of losing this war," he returned before turning to exit the QEC room.
Pushing the thought of these strange new beings out of his mind for now, the only thing that remained was the question of how he would break it to Wrex that they were leaving his people to their fate for the time being.
"And EDI, tell Doctor Chakwas to standby, just in case." He had a feeling that this may hurt a lot.
"Yes Shepard."
Apothecary Slenarr stared at the tech-ridden body that lay stretched out before him in the Apothecarium. The heretically-augmented man had so far resisted his most basic attempts to extract information from him. Idly, he mentally ticked off the benefits that the renegade's implants conferred upon him. Increased resistance to pain, a slightly faster healing rate, and a reinforced bone structure, all of which brought to mind the genetic enhancements that the Guard performed upon their veteran Stormtroopers.
All at the cost of being reduced to slightly more aware than a servitor. A soldier capable of following orders but unable to formulate plans of his own. Obedience at the expense of creativity and flexibility. It disgusted the Apothecary to see the depths that mankind would sink to when not exposed to the enlightenment that the Imperium of Man gave freely. Why the Captain thought this man would be a source of information was beyond him.
"I ask again, renegade," he said with a voice lined with barely-constrained impatience, "why were you and your compatriots on this planet?"
The translation matrix that had been created by the Duty's Shadow's technical officers and finalized by Techmarine Manswell crackled in his helmet as the prisoner gasped and strained against his bonds. No doubt he sought to free himself so that he could commit suicide in an attempt to deny his captors any information. Unfortunately for him, however, Slenarr had already removed both of the poison capsules embedded within his molars by forcefully removing the molars themselves. His scans had also picked up on the presence of what appeared to be miniature grenades embedded within the man's eyes, so he had forcefully removed them as well, leaving a shell of a human being splayed out in front of him. Red blood oozed sluggishly from empty eye sockets, and the enhanced sight of the Apothecary meant that he could see the faintest hints of bright blue mixed in with the dark crimson.
"Speak," he hissed as his annoyance increased with each futile gesture. "Or I shall make you speak myself."
"We…" the man grunted out. "Civilians. Capture them."
"I already know this," Slenarr grumbled as he lifted a large injector from a nearby tray that was filled with a dull gray liquid. "One last chance. Why were you and this…Cerberus… on the planet? What was the purpose of capturing civilians, as you so eloquently described it?"
When he was met with only silence in response, he carefully but forcefully exposed the man's neck before ramming the injector into the flesh and introduced a drop of the liquid into the renegade's bloodstream before removing the device. The effects were near instantaneous.
The husk of a man jerked and shrieked as his veins suddenly felt as if they were being melted by the gray liquid. Truth serums rushed from the injection sight and into the man's brain, rewriting neural pathways to make him much more amenable to the Apothecary's questions. Slenarr stared at the sight impassively, arms crossed, remaining silent until the prisoner stopped twitching.
"Speak, or I shall repeat myself," was all he said.
"Don't know," the man gasped, trying to force air into lungs hoarse from screaming. "Told…they were to benefit mankind."
It was all Slenarr could do to restrain himself from breaking the renegade's neck in frustration right then and there. Of course he would not have been told anything important. After this was over, he would have words with Brothers Klivak and Yonthul about their woefully inadequate abilities when it came to obtaining worthwhile sources of information.
"Who did the world belong to?" he asked, attempting a different line of questions. At the sight of defiance beginning to spread across the man's face, he wordlessly and minutely prodded the man's neck once more with the injector that hung in his hand, a promise of further agonies should he continue that trail of thoughts. Any resistance that might have sprung anew was quickly and brutally crushed by that one tiny hand gesture.
Broken, the renegade managed to stutter out, "Systems Alliance, government of humanity. Many worlds, spread out," before lapsing into unconsciousness.
Curious. A lost pocket empire of humanity? Perhaps this world was merely an outlier, with the main worlds in a nearby system. Something to report to the Captain, at the very least.
A minute passed by as Slenarr stared at the limp form that had wasted so much of his valuable time, judging whether or not he should question him further at a later date or to simply kill him now. While he doubted that the renegade had anything useful left to tell him, he would be lax in his duties if he were to not make the effort to wring every last scrap of information from him.
Another minute passed before Slenarr headed out into the main wing of the Apothecarium, leaving the soldier quiet and alone. Brother Vendrak's bionics needed to be constantly monitored to ensure no rejection occurred. He would return later, after letting the Captain know about his initial findings.
It had begun nearly a full half an hour before.
One of the remaining officers of the planet's defense forces had approached the leader of Beta squad, requesting to meet with the Marine's superior officer. Brother Tenthul had then proceeded to vox Nemros aboard the Duty's Shadow, which had caused the Captain to board Thunderhawk One and head to the surface to meet with the man.
That was how Nemros had found himself rapidly approaching a situation that he considered himself uniquely unsuited for: diplomacy.
While the Space Marine Legions of old had often brought worlds into the Imperium's embrace with bolter and chainsword, they had also encountered many civilizations lost during the Long Night that had peacefully and willingly reunited with mankind as a whole. Before being reunited with their Primarchs, the masters of each Legion had hordes of diplomats and bureaucrats attached to their fleets to expedite the integration of each world within the burgeoning Imperium. However, with the end of the Great Crusade and the breaking of the Legions as per the Codex Astartes, the civilian functionaries no longer accompanied the Marines, who in turn devoted themselves to the defense of the Imperium rather than its expansion.
Nemros considered himself a finely crafted weapon, a tool in the Emperor's arsenal against a galaxy that would see humanity destroyed beneath its uncaring weight. But weapons made for poor peacemakers.
Shifting uneasily as he waited for the Thunderhawk to finish its landing sequence, and to his shame, the Space Marine Captain briefly entertained the notion of simply recalling all of the Marines stationed on the planet and leaving the inhabitants to their fate. Surely the Emperor had need of them elsewhere? They could simply file a report to the Administratum upon their return to Imperial space, detailing the discovery and location of a non-Imperial human power, and that would be the end of that.
But no, he was a Space Marine. He and his Brothers had been created to defend humanity to their dying breath. To leave otherwise would have been the blackest of betrayals of the chapter's honor and to spit on what it meant to be one of the Adeptus Astartes. He buried the treacherous thought beneath the weight of duty, leaving it to die a slow death while he focused on the task in front of him.
Beneath his feet, Thunderhawk One jolted as its landing gear made contact with the planet's surface, hydraulics straining as the aircraft's ramp lowered to allow him a means of exit from the adamantium cage that he was entrapped inside. Pounding down the ramp into the miniature dust storm that had been kicked up by his arrival, he nodded to the black and gray figures that he knew to be Brother-Sergeant Thram and his squad as they approached him.
"Captain, it's good you have arrived," Thram's face was hidden behind his helmet, but his voice revealed just how relieved he was to be able to pass this situation on to someone with more authority than he. "The local officer has been very insistent that he might meet with you sooner rather than later. Vocally insistent."
Nemros chuckled at the plight of his Brother despite the fact that he himself felt the same. "I'm afraid that you'll have to put up with him for a while longer. I wish for you and your squad to accompany me to these negotiations."
Thram, to his credit, simply nodded at the unpleasant order, accepting his role in the Emperor's designs. Nemros had considered bringing the two Terminators instead, but had decided that such a decision may prove to be detrimental to his cause. Such a show of force could provoke the locals instead of intimidating them.
"Come, let us go and do the Emperor's will," he said as he set off towards the large building within which the negotiations would take place, Thram and his squad trailing behind him in formation.
Why do you resist Vargus?
Within the confines of his mind, Epistolary Vargus twisted and writhed, trapped within his mental planescape. He had to escape. He had to warn the Captain. The company's journey through the Warp had tossed them into a strange place and an even stranger time.
An unsuspecting galaxy, ripe for the taking. With my aid, you could become the lord of a realm that spans countless worlds.
The Voice had been his only companion ever since the battle outside the Navigator quarters, an echo of a people betrayed by one that they had trusted entirely, long before mankind had ever begun to start thinking of grasping for the stars. Their dying screams had produced a reverberation throughout the Warp that still lingered to this day. A reverberation that lurked within the darkest recesses of his mind.
They were weak, but I was made strong through their sacrifice.
Before, the constant pounding of Neverborn against his psychic defenses had been a tiring yet predictable pattern, but now the whispers slowly ate at his psyche, eroding it tiny piece by tiny piece. It promised him power and life unending, but he clung to his duty, the only thing capable of helping him resist the temptations.
Power that even that screaming corpse could only have dreamed at. Worlds would live and die according to your whims. Entire species would bend at the knee unquestioningly with naught but a thought.
Suddenly, he could feel the heavy fog that had settled over his thoughts begin to lift as consciousness began to return to him.
You and I are bound together now. Think about what I can offer you.
Opening his eyes, his vision was filled with the white power armor that denoted one of the Duty's Shadow's apothecaries. Reaching out with a feeble and shaking hand, he grasped the Marine's torso armor as hard as he could, though his strength but was a laughable remnant of what it had been.
"Where is the Captain?" he rasped out in a voice cracked by dryness and disuse.
"You are not leaving the Apothecarium," the Apothecary said, obviously nonplussed by Vargus' abrupt return to reality and sudden demand.
"It is important," Vargus gasped, forcing out the words with a tongue swollen by dehydration.
The Apothecary was silent for a minute, no doubt contacting the Captain regarding his stubborn patient's intractable demands. "You are in luck," the Marine healer announced after a minute of silent discussion. "The Captain is on his way back from the planet now. He will see you upon his return."
"Thank you, Brother," said Vargus as he began to work his way up off the metal slab that he had awoken upon, only to be forcefully shoved back down.
"You are not leaving in your state," the Apothecary said, steel in his tone as he glared at Vargus through his helmet. "Attempt to do so again, and I will begin removing limbs until you are no longer capable of trying. You must heal, Brother. You were in a dire state when your Brothers dragged you in here."
"Very well," the Epistolary grumbled as he settled back onto the slab. Though his warning was urgent, he had no desire to push his luck. The Apothecaries of the Fifth Company were notorious for their ways of ensuring that those under their care fully healed before heading back to war.
"Nemros, if you never took my advice before, then I pray you take it now," he mumbled after the Apothecary had walked over to another injured Marine. The circumstances were far too dire to allow for anything else.
Brother-Sergeant Thram eyed his Captain warily as he sat down across from Nemros inside the Thunderhawk. He could not remember the last time that his superior had been in such a foul mood. Though his countenance projected a façade of serene calm, Thram could feel the annoyance and frustration bubbling just below the surface, threatening to erupt at any moment. Only centuries worth of iron discipline and will kept the swirling emotions in check.
The negotiations had been a farce. In reality, it had been more of an interrogation than anything, with the local officers demanding to know who they were and how they had arrived on their planet. Nemros had said little, only giving vague and noncommittal answers in lieu of actual responses. No doubt the Captain had spent the entire hour weighing whether or not this other group of humans would be joining the last one in watering the earth with their blood.
Tensions had reached their peak when one officer had had the gall to demand that the Marines hand over their weapons for study by what passed for techpriests. Even his comrades had been appalled by such a suggestion, while Thram had been ready to grant the man the opportunity to study a bolt shell in great detail. A Marine's boltgun was not a tool to be used and discarded. It was the instrument through which the Emperor's finest dispensed their wrath upon the enemies of mankind, and in doing so, shielded innumerable innocents from the horrors that stalked the galaxy. To so much as suggest that he give up his to a group of primitive strangers and never see it again was practically heresy.
Thankfully the locals had backed down after that, seemingly remembering just what the Marine weapons had done to the occupying force and having no desire to have such devastation inflicted upon them. Another officer had joined them, announcing that a higher ranking officer was on his way to the planet to continue the negotiations, while Nemros had received a transmission that had necessitated his return to the Shadow. Both sides had departed thoroughly unhappy with the other.
"Thram," came Nemros' voice over the roar of the Thunderhawk's powerful engines as it took flight.
"Yes Brother?"
"Your thoughts on how I should proceed from here?"
Thram paused momentarily. Nemros soliciting advice from his squad leaders was not unheard of, though uncommon in frequency. "Either proceed with extreme caution, or kill them all and let the Emperor sort out their souls. So far I have not been impressed with them."
Nemros took his recommendations in a stride, letting out a tired chuckle as he settled back against the hull of the Thunderhawk. "Neither am I, thought I get the feeling that they are more than a little desperate at the moment. In hindsight, I suppose I should not have been too surprised by some of their more outrageous demands."
"Desperate, Brother?"
"One of their worlds was lost. This so-called Systems Alliance is most likely very disinterested in losing any more to the Cerberus group. Given how easily we destroyed the renegades…" Nemros trailed off, letting Thram draw his own conclusion.
"Fine," Thram grunted after a moment. "But I sincerely hope you do not expect me to comply with their demands."
"I don't. I have no intentions of handing over Defiance myself."
"Good. One of them mentioned something else entirely. Reapers I believe the term was. What did you make of that Captain?"
"It could have been a slip, or merely a word our matrix was unable to translate. Either way, I would not worry overmuch about it."
"As you say."
"Know no fear, Brother. This will be resolved shortly, and then we will be able to return to the Imperium and the chapter."
Thram simply grunted again. Deep down, he felt that the Captain's words would prove false over the next few days, one way or another.