Chapter 16: The Pleasure of Despair
The reek of stale air, recycled countless times within this section of the depths of Omega, rushed to assault him as he drew in a deep lungful, even though the permeating aura of oldness did little to mask the stench of fear that was nigh-tangible here. The inhabitants of this block knew that few knew about them, and even fewer cared about them. Once, that had been a strength, sparing them from the worst excesses of the ceaseless gang warfare that wracked the station. Now, however, no one could be bothered to try and defend them, leaving them to the mercy of the Cerberus troops that now spread throughout the station like a virus.
Jonathon glanced around casually as he meandered down the cracked, ancient rockcrete that made up the street, headed towards a nondescript building, who's only defining mark was the unmistakable evidence that many people had hastily entered only recently. It was, he thought with a smile as he pushed open the slightly ajar door to the seemingly-abandoned dwelling, an apt metaphor, considering his position and role within the Cerberus assault. There were many half-forgotten places like this scattered throughout the station, their inhabitants merely trying to eke out a meager existence in a world that cared nothing for them, and he, along with a handful of others, were to ensure that they understood their place within the upcoming regime change.
One way or another, Jonathon thought as his eyes finally caught sight of what he had been searching for: a heavy metal hatch nestled away in a dark corner. Walking over, he pried it open and clambered down the rickety metal ladder that greeted him. Upon reaching the bottom, he slipped at hand into the battered coat that covered his armor and pulled out a rebreather. Donning it, he drew the coat around him tightly before making his way towards the entrance to the ancient emergency bunker, a relic from the days when Omega was still nothing more than an asteroid filled with eezo and the miners labored in incredibly unsafe conditions. It would not do for them to realize just what he was. Not yet, anyways.
He indulged himself for a moment after banging on the rusty metal slab that masqueraded as the bunker's door, lifting his rebreather for a split second and letting the stench of the air, the notes of fear that sprang to life in response to his knocking, and the overtones of despair that shrouded the entirety of the station. All of it blended together to form a heady concoction that was almost physically intoxicating to him.
A hoarse voice cut through his momentary lapse, and he glared at the door, furious at the interruption. Clearly the inhabitants had decided to respond to his intrusion. "Who the hell is it?" demanded a man's voice, it's owner obviously trying to project a sense of confidence. Too obviously, as he could plainly hear the nervousness underlying every syllable.
"Please," he faux-begged, careful to play the part of a piteous wretch desperately seeking shelter while not overdoing it. "I need in. Cerberus is getting closer and closer out there, and I don't want them to find me!"
There was a moment's pause, as the inhabitants most likely discussed amongst themselves what to do next. "How do we know you aren't Cerberus? How'd you even find this place in the first place?"
"I was hiding in the house above when I found the hatch," Jonathon lied, fighting back the urge to retch into his rebreather as he did. The Grandfather despised those who used deceit and treachery as their tools, but it was a painful necessity at the moment. "And besides," he continued, allowing a note of annoyance slip into his voice, "if I was Cerberus, would I have even bothered to knock?"
There was an even longer pause this time before the door began to hiss as hermetic seals disengaged. Part of him was surprised such mechanisms even still worked, but that was soon drowned out by an overwhelming sense of joy that spread through every inch of him. Now the hard part was over. Now the Grandfather could be praised through his deeds. Smiling beneath his rebreather, he moved through the now-open door and nodded at the man who stood glaring at him the entire time.
"Apologies for my friend here," said a woman that approached him smiling nervously, gesturing towards the doorkeeper. "He's only trying to keep us safe, you understand."
"Of course, of course," Jonathon said jovially, smile growing wider as the sound of the metal door closing echoed resoundingly through the survival bunker. "His suspicion was well-founded after all."
"What do you mean?" asked a man as he pushed his way through the crowd that was rapidly assembling to take a good look at the new arrival.
"That one can should never trust a stranger, not truly," Jonathon said, his smile dipping slightly into a sneer. "Only family can be trusted unconditionally." And, he added mentally as he glanced around at the assembled faces, all within would soon learn the true value of being a part of Nurgle's family.
It took the civilians a moment to pierce together what he had meant by those words, but the sharpest amongst them caught on surprisingly fast. Clever, he thought as murmurs turned into shouts of fear, and the civilians collectively flinched away from him, as if he were about to pull a weapon then and there. Jonathon shook his head minutely at the idea. As if he were as simple and crude as the followers of the War God were.
"You're one of them, aren't you?" asked the other man, his voice a mixture of defiance and fear. "One of Cerberus?"
Jonathon smiled pleasantly beneath his rebreather, raising his hand brush away his jacket and to tap the icon that was emblazoned upon the remains of his half-dissolved shoulder plate. "You wouldn't be wrong about that, my friend."
He shook his head pityingly as the assembled civilians recoiled in fear once more as their suspicions were proven to be well-founded, and hands began reaching for holdout weapons. "Please!" he begged, speaking loudly so that all might hear. "I didn't come here as your enemy!"
"Bullshit!" spat one of the civilians. A woman, in what looked like her late thirties, he noted idly. "You people murdered so many people when you came here! You killed my husband and my son!"
"A regrettable act, to be sure," Jonathon said, coughing slightly as he conceded the point. "But have you considered that while we may seem like your enemy, your true enemies are the ones who claim to be defending you?"
"What are you saying?" asked a man who was shakily holding a mass accelerator towards his rebreather.
"I'm saying that you so eagerly call me your enemy, simply because I wear the emblem of Cerberus. But what about the mercenary gangs? What about Aria? The ones who have exploited and oppressed you for year after year, growing fat off your misery?"
Weapons paused, their wielders beginning to glance at one another. Jonathon smiled behind his mask. Now they were thinking. Now they were remembering just how miserable their lives had been before Cerberus had come to the station.
"You say that I am your enemy, but when in reality, Cerberus is your salvation. Your guns should be pointed at those who view your lives as currency, rather than at us, who are here to bring liberation from your alien oppressors, and the light of the gods to you!"
"Gods?" sneered the second man, mass accelerator still pointed at Jonathon's rebreather. "Everyone knows the old religions are dead you idiot. Alien life and all that? What, did Cerberus not get the memo or something? There are no gods, and your invasion is nothing more than that. And that's the truth of the matter, no matter what sort of shit you spew."
Several of the civilians laughed at that, and more weapons were pointed in his direction. Jonathon shook his head, appalled by their blindness even though he understood it. After all, had it not been only a short time ago that he too had been like them, ignorant to the harsh realities that underscored the universe?
"The truth?" he sneered mockingly, reaching up and yanking off his rebreather as he did. The crowd gasped at his hideously bloated and corrupted face, tumors of corruption and waves of rot clearly visible upon his face even in the low red light of the survival bunker. "The truth, my good man, is in the bacteria that you inhaled the moment I entered this bunker. You most likely thought it was just another lungful of stale, refiltered Omegan air, but the truth, which you seem to so highly prize, is that even now your insides are slowly becoming more and more bloated. Soon, the viruses and diseases that are even now incubating deep within you will bloom, and you will die. Most painfully, I might add."
The enclosed space of the bunker echoed with yells of disbelief and indignation, yells that quickly shifted to screams of despair and shouts of pain as the signs of the corruption within them became more and more obvious. Skin became pallid and corpse-like, outbreaks of coughing spread like wildfire, and a few even began vomiting pools of diseased blood onto the floor.
"The complete truth however," gurgled Jonathon with morbid glee, his voice no longer disguised by his rebreather, "is that not only will you be dead, but you will also rise again as mindless plague zombies in the loving service of the Grandfather." He drew a rattling breath, his throat riddled with phlegm, before continuing. "Of course, it doesn't have to end like that."
"W-what?" gasped one of the civilians, her body wracked by spasms. "How?"
"Accept," he murmured, the smile on his face now genuine. "Accept the corruption within you. Grandfather is always happy to accept new followers within his flock. He cannot stand to see you like this you know. All he wants is for you to be happy in his embrace, and to spread his love to others. Accept, and this trial will be made into a blessing!"
One of the civilians gasped, a hoarse death rattle expelled from his lungs as his body collapsed onto the floor. A flash of cruel vindication spread through him as he noted that it was the man who had mocked him for his belief. His soul would go on to become a plaything for the daemons that infested Nurgle's garden, and there would be no denying the existence of the divine for him as his spiritual essence was ripped to shreds.
"So fall all unbelievers," he sneered, coughing slightly as he did. "If you will not serve the Grandfather in life, then you shall serve him in death. Such is the Cycle of Decay, the holy creed by which all must abide."
More collapsed with each passing second, their bodies twisted and bloated beyond recognition as the blessings of Nurgle raced through their bloodstreams. But a few remained standing, fighting through the pain and agony. Jonathon nodded approvingly at them, choosing to ignore the few hateful stares that they could muster despite the terrible pain. The Grandfather smiled upon those who were strong enough to stand against him, even if it were only for a fleeting time.
"Please," murmured one of the few remainders, the skin on her face becoming more and more plaid with each second. "Make it stop, make it stop," she repeated endlessly, a mindless mantra that accompanied the ending of her life.
"Accept, and Grandfather Nurgle will bless you beyond even your wildest dreams," Jonathon said as he bent down and caressed her face, feeling the blistering heat that emanated from her. "Accept, and you will never feel pain again."
The woman looked up at him with broken eyes, and he smiled at the despair contained within. "Ok," she said, voice barely louder than a whisper.
Still smiling, Jonathon straightened back upwards, his eyes never leaving her prone form as he felt the Warp shift around him. The woman's form twisted and shuddered as the love gifted freely by Nurgle raced through her very essence, transforming her into a vessel of plague. He fought back a pang of jealousy at the sight. The Grandfather was very free with his gifts when he deemed the recipient worthy of them, and Jonathon hoped that what he and his fellows sought to accomplish today would make him very worthy indeed.
As the twisted form of the woman and several others who had been illuminated pushed their way off the rusted metal of the floor, he gestured towards the rotted forms of those who had died defiantly. A flicker of the Warp pulsed through him, binding their lifeless forms to the wills of him and the newest followers of Nurgle, and they too began to rise. "Brothers and sisters!" he said, letting his voice echo through the bunker. "Truly we have been blessed this day, for the Grandfather has smiled down upon us from within his garden of rot. Let this be the sign, undeniable and terrible, that shatters the hopes of this galaxy and leaves it to fester in the miasma of its despair!"
And as he watched his newfound comrades gurgle their praises to the Plaguefather, Jonathon heard the laughter of Nurgle echo through his soul, slowly changing him bit by bit. He would be truly blessed after this was all over, provided he survived. And surviving meant moving on with the next phase of the plan. The Illusive Man had more than amply proven time and again that he had little patience for failure, and that had been before Cerberus had been enlightened.
"Come, brethren," he said as he gestured towards the bunker door. "Let us go and spread the blessings of Nurgle. None can stand before us, for none can resist the call of decay!"
There were no battle cries as plague-ridden forms shuffled out of the bunker and upwards into the streets of Omega, for the deceased needed no such herald of their coming. There were no shouts of unity as Jonathon led them to meet up with several, similar, groups led by other heralds of Nurgle, for rot broke down such traditional bonds of brotherhood. And there were no howls of triumphs when the shuffling, pain-resistant plague zombies drowned the desperate defenders of the closest major life support sub-system before repurposing it to pump out a dozen different diseases and poisonous gases, bathing swathes of Omega in death and pestilence.
For the triumph of death, Jonathon, thought contentedly as hordes of plague zombies and despair-addled worshippers of Nurgle marched past him towards the remaining sections of Omega that still held out against the Cerberus assault, was inevitable.
"This whole place is fucked, yeah?"
Barthod sighed deeply as he glanced over at the Salarian that had spoken, half-listening to the frog rambled on once again about how everything had gone to hell in a handbasket for the third time that hour. Guarding Afterlife was a fairly easy job, Cerberus invasion notwithstanding, and the pay was double what he had been making before. Still, he could think of far better company to pass the time with. "You don't say?" he asked dryly, layering on the sarcasm so thickly that even a brain damaged Krogan would have no problem recognizing it.
Sadly, for him, the Salarian, who went by the name of Greth, failed to notice it. "Walking dead? Strange powers? Insane berserkers rampaging through the station? Open those damn four eyes of yours and perhaps you'd see, moron! And now that they've taken all the hangars, we're stuck here with them. So yes, I do say!"
Barthod grunted, looking away. The Salarian was correct, of course, but he would not give him the pleasure of agreement. The truth of the matter was that Barthod was scared. Ever since the new Cerberus fleet had translated in-system a few days ago, the situation, which previously been just fine, had gone down the shitter faster than he could blink all four of his eyes. The station's defenses had been destroyed without a shot being fired, boarders had forced their way onto Omega with little effort, and stranger, more impossible, things had been reported since.
It was enough to make a Batarian think. Such as if those Reapers that everyone had initially been so worked about were even the real threat after all. After seeing what Cerberus was capable, he would have taken the giant sentient death machines any day of the week over those psychotic freaks.
At least the Reapers would have the basic decency to kill you, for the most part. Some of the things that Barthod had seen while out on patrol still gave him nightmares, and he was certain that there were far worse things that he had not seen.
"Heads up," grunted a Krogan coming up behind him and Greth, breaking him out of his reverie. "One of the outposts near here just went dark without any warning."
"Which one?" demanded Greth.
"C16," said the hulking ball of armor and redundant organs, his hands tightening on the massive shotgun that he carried slightly.
"C16's supposed to be behind our established lines I thought," Barthod said as he hurried to put his helmet on, the piece of equipment hissing at it hermetically sealed.
"So did the rest of us," said the Krogan. "But C16 hasn't reported in for the past thirty minutes, and neither has the patrol we sent out to check in on it. So, shut your hole and suit up already."
"Right, right," grumbled Greth as he grappled with his rebreather before placing it over his face. "Really no idea?"
"That's what I just said, you stanking lizard," snarled the Krogan before he turned and walked towards another group of mercenaries.
"Fucking Krogan, I swear," sneered the Salarian as he slid a heat sink into his assault rifle. "Genophage was too good for them. We should've-"
"Eyes open," Barthod interrupted him as the doors to Afterlife slid open. "I think we're about to find out what happened to C16, one way or another."
The new arrivals were difficult to discern for the first few moments, a normally fatal slip in any other situation, but these beings strode into Afterlife with a casual air. The first thing that caught his eyes was the color of their armor. Barthod had seen hundreds of different mercenary bands over the course of his time on Omega, and he had thought he had seen everything when it came to color schemes. One Asari-only group, he remembered, had painted their armor an obnoxious, blaringly loud shade of neon pink with no regard for such elegant things like common sense or taste. But the garish mishmash of colors, applied haphazardly without thought or care, threw him off to such a degree that if the intruders had not borne the insignia of Cerberus on their shoulders then he would have never suspected them, the colors so far away from the default black, white, and gold that the organization usually sported.
Moments after he had taken in the sight of their armor came the cloying, sickeningly sweet stench of death mixed with the oppressive aroma of a blend of incense and perfume wafted through the air, disregarding his helmet's filters with ease and tearing his mind between responding with revulsion and pleasure. And their faces…
If his nose had left him conflicted, then the sight of their exposed faces left him with no doubt. Hundreds of minute scars traced their way across every inch of pale skin, seemingly haphazardly so. Yet the longer Barthod stared, the more and more he found himself drawn in by them, the marks, some shallow and barely noticeable while others were deep and jagged, coming together to form a whole that was deeply hypnotic. Shaking his head, he slammed his palm into the back of Greth's head.
"Eyes open," he said to the confused Salarian over their shared comm-link. "Something's very wrong here."
"Something's been wrong since we started getting reports of walking dead," snarled back Greth. "Got anything new for me?"
"Yeah, keep an eye on those swords," Barthod shot back, jerking his chin toward the pieces of metal gripped in the hands of the Cerberus warriors. "I don't know why the hell they're using them, it's not like they're Krogan. Still-"
"Yeah, I get it. Now shut the hell up wise guy, here comes Aria."
Barthod's four eyes blinked as he noticed the self-styled Queen of Omega stalk her way towards them, every single movement weighed and judged carefully beforehand in order to maximize the appearance of an alpha predator staring down its prey. But for him, who had served Aria for years now, he could see the barest of glimmers, so small that if he had not been so experienced in all of the Asari's subtleties he would have dismissed it as a delusion. But there they were, laid out before his eyes.
Aria was nervous, no matter how much she tried to cover it up. And if Aria was scared…
Barthod's eyes shot back towards the Cerberus soldiers, eyeing them more cautiously than before. If he had thought something was wrong with them before, now he was fully on edge, his nerves screaming at him to act. Fingers coiled tightly around the foregrip of his weapon, while his eyes narrowed in anticipation of bloodshed.
"I see that Cerberus has had to resort to the dregs for this operation," the self-styled Queen of Omega said liltingly, any previous hint of nervousness that Barthod might have glimpsed nowhere to be found within her voice. "Finally given up? Has that fool of a general sent you to ask for terms of surrender?"
A blink followed by a look of disgust that spread across the face of the one who must have been the leader of the disparate group. "You must be Aria then, if you think you can address me so," the man said, his voice pitching disturbingly as he spoke.
Barthod gripped his weapon tightly. He had thought he had heard every way a human could speak before now, from young to old, sober to pumped full of red sand and alcohol, yet it was clear that there was something terribly wrong here. The man's voice had been more than just inhuman, it had been just plain wrong.
"Oh?" Aria asked sharply. If she had been perturbed by the human, then she showed no sign of it. "And who might you be, if you're so full of yourself?"
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? But no. You aren't worthy, you alien bitch. None of you are." With that proclamation, the man's face smoothed out, and his tone became pleasant. Barthod sought to regain his mental footing once more as the human continued. "Still, I must correct you about your questioning. No, we are not here at the behest of that weakling Petrovsky, nor are we here to surrender."
The human raised his hand, and Barthod could see, even in the dim lighting of Afterlife, that one of the digits was missing, while the remainder of the appendage twitched erratically. "We've come here for you, Aria."
"If you think you can take me alive," Aria warned dangerously, "then you are sorely mistaken."
"Oh no, my good Queen, you misunderstand us," purred the human, his hand twitching more and more obviously with each passing second. "We didn't come here to capture you, or to surrender, or anything like that. No, the reason for why we are here is quite simple."
With that, the human's eyes took on a feverish gleam as he stared down Aria. "We're here to kill you, and everyone else in this pathetic excuse of a pit of sin." The human sneered before he spat onto the filthy floor. "Really, whores, alcohol, and drugs? How disappointing in its banality. There is no passion to be found here, but in the name of the Dark Prince we will show you true immorality."
There was a brief flare of blue before the speaker was blown away in a blaze of biotic power, Aria howling irately as she was finally allowed to let loose with all her frustrations and fears.
Disturbingly painted figures exploded in coronas of biotic power as the Asari matriarch bent her considerable strength towards destruction, while mercenaries opened fire from all around the club. In response, the sword wielders rushed forward, howling in pained joy as their bodies absorbed the punishment unleashed upon them and their blades flashed brightly through the air.
Greth was one of the first to die, greenish blood spurting out in torrents as a sword tip exploded out from the back of his neck, before the sword's owner twisted it and sent it flying away. Barthod gunned down the one responsible for the Salarian's death in a brutal staccato of mass accelerator rounds, sending the man to the floor to writhe weakly, though whether it was from pain or pleasure, he was hard pressed to say.
Afterlife was awash with a hurricane of color and noise. Screams of despair, laughter of the damned, and death cries all fought to take precedence as both sides butchered each other indiscriminately. Barthod shot down another sword wielder before another leapt in and pierced through his rifle. Rather than try to regain control of the now-useless lump of metal, he dropped it and brought his pistol to bear, unleashing a hail of rounds that brought the Cerberus madman down.
He turned to target another one of the bizarrely-colored humans when he felt the pommel of a sword slam into the faceplate of his helmet, the armor shattering beneath the force of the blow. He stumbled backwards, hands grasping blindly at the ruin of his face, only for whoever had dealt the blow to follow up and run him through, impaling him into Afterlife's wall.
A gasp of pain escaped him as metal twisted as it slid out of his gut, leaving him to slide uselessly onto the floor. Through the blood that clouded the three eyes that remained to him, he could see his killer step away and back towards the fight, such that remained of it. Most of the mercenaries were down, either dead or dying. What few that did remain were clustered around Aria, but even they were falling to blades or other, more esoteric weaponry.
The remainder did not take long to fall, with Aria herself lasting the longest before one of the Cerberus soldiers took her head off with a spectacular blow. The few remaining Cerberus troopers let out a hysterical, deranged cheer at the sight of the Queen of Omega's death, while Barthod could only groan and whimper in agony as more and more of his blood pooled outwards onto the club floor.
The noise attracted the attention of one of the Cerberus troopers, his armor a riot of bright lilac and void black. Walking over, he bent down and observed Barthod for a moment before seemingly reaching a decision. Reaching out, he grasped a broken shard of metal from the wreckage of his helmet and brought it down and across one of his eyes. It was all he could do not to scream in pain. He refused to give the human the pleasure.
"Merely a taste of what's to come, I assure you. It wouldn't do for you to die quite yet," the human crooned.
"You said," he slurred pathetically, rich red blood oozing out between shattered teeth and lacerated gums as he desperately tried to form words at the creature crouching over him, "you said you'd kill us."
"And I will," the human said as he crouched down, hand stretching outward to gently caress Barthod's shattered face. "But not yet, I'm afraid to say. The Dark Prince will be quite pleased with the agony you will experience before the end, I think. What I have in mind will be exquisite, and I dearly hope that you'll agree with me, in-between all the screams."
With that, the hand shifted downwards, grasping haphazardly at Barthod's devastated armor, its owner uncaring of the surge of blood that sprang forth from the nasty gash that the sharp edges inflicted upon it. As his vision dimmed and the floor became the only thing he could see through his remaining two eyes, all that Barthod could hope was that he managed to bleed out before they reached their destination.
"Sir, the reports are coming in now," came the voice of Captain Swanson from his right. The dull orange cast from the omni-terminals scattered about the bridge backlit the captain of the Erebus, highlighting the hint of nervousness that had taken home upon his face.
"More phenomenon?" asked Petrovsky, his eyes never leaving the space station lay before him.
"Yes General," Swanson said, gesturing towards him with a data-pad. When Petrovsky made no attempt to reach for it, he retracted it with awkward hesitation. Petrovsky bit back a sigh at the sight, knowing that Swanson and the rest of the men under his command looked to him for guidance, now more than ever. His brooding, even under the best of circumstances, would have been inexcusable.
Inexcusable, but perhaps not understandable. Ever since the pair of Cerberus ships had arrived in-system over a week ago, everything had rapidly gone downhill. At first, the strange happenings had been easy to rationalize away. When he had witnessed the sight of Omega's anti-ship batteries opening fire against the defense fleet, he had easily managed to dismiss it as an advanced virus designed by Cerberus' elite hackers specifically for the situation. When the initial assault wave that successfully secured landing points for the bulk of their forces to land on the station had been reported to be little more than frothing berserkers screaming their lungs out about blood, skulls and a god of war, he had filed them away as drugged up ex-cons, forcefully recruited by Cerberus to serve as a source of expendable manpower.
But the oddities had kept piling up. From supposed mystics who harnessed energies that were very pointedly not biotics, to howled praises to various gods, each and every report had steadily worn down his willing blindness. When Major Stefan had personally informed him about the various rituals that were being performed upon the captured and the heaps of dead left in Cerberus' wake, both mercenaries and civilians, he had finally broken down and contacted the so-called Prophet that had spoken to him when reinforcements had first arrived.
Whatever hopes he had still nourished at that point were gone, never to return. When faced with Petrovsky's accusations and shown hard evidence of his force's actions, the Prophet had merely laughed. This, the other man had condescendingly explained, as an adult would to a child, was progress in the making. This was the future of mankind. The veil of unwitting blindness would be stripped away from the eyes of the galaxy, and only those with the strength of will to accept their places within the designs of the gods would have any hope of surviving.
Petrovsky had been disgusted with it all, of course. He had threatened. He had raged. But when he had sworn he would take everything he had and go to the Illusive Man in order to bring punishment down upon the Prophet, he had been stopped cold by one simple, uncaring declaration.
"You think I do this of my own volition? The Illusive Man was the one who authorized all of this. The one to enlighten us. You rage futilely against the light of progress, General, for treading the Path to Glory is what will truly bring our species to the fore."
That was when he had stopped talking and begun planning.
But for all the inherent necessity in what he and Swanson had begun preparing for, still he felt his mind protesting vehemently. He supposed that was good, for otherwise he would end up like the madmen who wore Cerberus' colors these days. Necessity was something to be endured, rather than relished in.
"Swanson, my apologies. My behavior has been absolutely atrocious over the past few days," he said as he turned to face the other man, forcing aside some of his misgivings as he did. Ill thoughts or not, he was a general, and generals were expected to lead, not mope about uselessly.
"It's fine, General. You've had a lot to think about recently," reassured the captain of the Erebus. "It gave me time to work on our, ah, project." Swanson's eyes narrowed meaningfully.
"Of course," Petrovsky said smoothly, not missing a heartbeat. "I trust you have the report for me?"
"Not on me, but yes. I delivered it to your cabin, but it seems you've not returned to it since then."
Petrovsky blinked, then felt a rush of relief at the captain's discreetness. They had a good measure of where the crew's loyalty would fall for the most part, but there was no sense in taking unnecessary risks. "Well then, I'll go take a look at it now then. I'd like your personal input, Swanson."
"Of course, General."
The walk to the General's quarters from the command deck was mercifully short, every step accentuating the mounting tension that the pair felt.
"Report," Petrovsky said the moment the scrambler device that he had installed within his desk reported that it was operational. A heartbeat later the automatic doors let out a dull thunk as manually-initiated lockdown went into effect, triggered by the scrambler.
"As per your request sir," Swanson began, any hint of nervousness gone now that he could speak without fear of any unwanted attention, "I approached the other high-ranking officers of the fleet with your inquiry, along with conducting a thorough examination of our crews and their known dispositions."
"I trust that you were discreet in your questioning, Captain?"
"Yes, General," Swanson reassured him.
"Then start with the results of your examination first."
"Very well," Swanson said as he reproduced the data-pad from earlier, this time inputting a series of codes that brought up a heavily encrypted file buried deep within its systems. Handing it over to Petrovsky for inspection, he continued, "Enclosed you will find three lists. The first contains every crewmember and the ship that they are assigned to. The second contains every man and woman on the first list that has previously expressed a marked devotion to the advancement of Cerberus."
"I see," Petrovsky noted as he flipped between the series of lists, absently taking note of names that he recognized personally. "And the third?"
"Definite trouble," Swanson said without blinking. "Crew that will undoubtedly follow everything that comes down from the Illusive Man, no matter how… distasteful the order might be to men of principle."
"Men of principle," Petrovsky mused quietly as he took in the names on the third list. "What are we without principle?" He flipped between the second and third lists, trying to ascertain the numbers that added up between the two of them. "How many?" he asked after a few seconds.
"Nearly sixty from the third list," Swanson said, while Petrovsky's face hardened into stone at the number. "That's the best case. The second list contains those that we might be able to persuade to our cause, but in the worst case? Nearly two hundred."
Petrovsky cast his eyes back downwards at the data-pad, the innocuous electronic suddenly seeming to weigh a thousand pounds. Even if the best-case scenario came to pass, he was still consigning dozens of men and women to death, individuals who had in some cases served alongside him for years.
"And that is before we add on the next part of our discussion," Swanson said. "I misspoke when I said that the lists contain every crewmember in the fleet."
Petrovsky looked up at Swanson's grim face. "Explain," he demanded.
"I spoke with the other ship captains, as you requested, and all but one of them are with us. Captain Rast of the London was rather taken by the events occurring on Omega when I spoke with him. It was all he would talk about, if I may be completely honest with you. I could barely get a word in edgewise. As such, I saw fit to remove the London's crew from the lists."
Petrovsky grimaced. Rast. He should have figured. Rast was a true diehard, fanatically devoted to the Illusive Man, rather than any nominal goal of Cerberus. To hear that Rast would need to be dealt with before they could proceed did not surprise him in the slightest, even if he did not relish what had to be done.
"Do you think he suspects?"
Swanson snorted derisively in response. "General, it's Rast. Good at the helm of a ship, but not the brightest when it comes to anything else. I was sufficiently subtle with him. He's still in the dark."
"Good," Petrovsky said as he glanced downwards at the data-pad once more. "Have we received any word as to the current state of Omega's anti-ship batteries?"
"According to my understanding, the batteries are still intact, but firmly within sectors under the control of Cerberus." Swanson's face twisted in response to his own statement. "Cerberus. Here I am treating the organization to which I gave my loyalty for years as the enemy."
"Because as of a few days ago, Captain, they became just that," Petrovsky said sternly. "Even if we didn't recognize that fact at that time."
"I know," Swanson conceded quickly. "Still, it feels strange, that's all. The whole galaxy has gone mad, and it feels like we're caught right in the middle of all of it."
Petrovsky sighed gustily at that. "I know exactly how you feel Swanson." A long moment passed before he continued, "Is there anyone from the London that you think can be salvaged?"
"A few, but not many. Mostly low-ranking ensigns and senior non-coms. Those with any real authority are loyal to Rast first and you second, while the greenest crew are loyal to the Illusive Man alone."
"And you have a means of getting them off the London?"
Swanson nodded confidently at that. "I'll send a message requesting their presence aboard the Erebus. I'll say that you asked me to come up with a cross-ship training program for experience amongst different ship classifications, and that the group is a trial run." Swanson narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, before adding, "We could take the opportunity the send some of our unreliables in exchange as well."
"In the middle of a warzone?" Petrovsky asked, eyes narrowing.
"Trial by fire," Swanson assured him, "No better time, really. Besides, the space around Omega is secured, so if Rast protests then I can assure him that there is no real danger."
Petrovsky grunted, then nodded appreciatively. "Rast'll find the situation to be highly unusual, to be sure, but there's no way he'll suspect the reality. Alright, do it."
"Yes, General," saluted Swanson. "Then with your permission, I'll begin drawing the appropriate crewmembers from the Erebus' roster for the swap, along with notifying the other captains at once about going ahead with our plans."
"Granted," Petrovsky said curtly, disabling the scrambler and releasing the manual lockdown as he did. "For the advancement of humanity."
"For the advancement of humanity," echoed Swanson.
As the Captain turned and left, the only signs of his passage the data-pad still in his hand and the hiss of the automatic door, Petrovsky could only wonder at how it had all come to this.
The days had passed by agonizingly slowly, with Petrovsky growing ever more nervous and short with his subordinates as time stretched onwards. Preparations were moving forward smoothly, but each step had to be taken with extreme caution, lest the Cerberus loyalists, both in his fleet and the ones that had arrived with the self-styled Prophet, catch wind of what he was planning.
Finally, however, the time had come. Petrovsky's fleet was conducting, what was by all appearances, a routine patrol action through the system, while the two more recent arrivals were docked with Omega undergoing resupply. The London, commanded by Captain Rast, was at the fore of the fleet formation, while the Erebus floated serenely amidst its heart.
"Has the Delhi sent the signal?" he demanded testily, turning towards Swanson as he spoke.
"Just now, General. Captain Johnson sent out a message stating that the Delhi's mass effect core is undergoing abnormal fluctuations and is reducing engine output until its engineers can apply emergency repairs. Estimated time remaining is five minutes Earth standard."
"Very well," he said curtly, turning to face the rest of the bridge crew. Every one of them had been briefed about what they were about to do and why they had to do it, and the apprehension and tension that Petrovsky felt churning in his gut was clearly reflected on their faces. Despite that, however, he could also clearly see their resolve. There would be no hesitation from them. "Send the order to bring the fleet to matching speeds. Once the London is within optimal firing range of the rest of the fleet, have us open fire."
"Aye, General."
He allowed a grim smile to spread across his face for a moment before turning back to the command deck's viewport. Off in the distance, he could see the tiny spot that delineated the Delhi turning slowly, achingly so, towards the spot that he knew to be the London.
Minutes passed by, though they felt more like hours.
Finally, Swanson spoke, his voice slicing through the tension. "Fleet is in position, General," he reported.
Petrovsky inhaled deeply, before activating the priority channel that had the technicians set up between him and the Captains that he knew would follow him. "Commence," was all that he said, all that needed to be said.
Beneath his feet, the Erebus shuddered as its kilometer-long mass accelerator opened fire upon the ship that, until only a week ago, had been its sister. Around him, the CIC sprang to life as crewmembers sprung into action, relaying orders and bringing the warship to active combat-status.
"Target hit," reported one of the gunnery ensigns. "London's shields are failing. Estimated time before shutdown is thirty seconds."
"General, the Cerberus net just exploded with activity. Whatever's installed on those two new ships, it's not being affected by our jamming," shouted another ensign. "They know what we're up to."
Petrovsky did not deign to reply. By the time they were done with their task, the two ships would still be undergoing disengagement protocols, and even then, they would still have an hour before they could feasibly intercept the Erebus and its escorts.
The Erebus and its sister ships continued to fire, pounding the London over the course of several minutes before a mass accelerator shell punctured the heavy cruiser's mass effect core, causing it to detonate spectacularly for a brief moment before the void of space settled upon its corpse like a mortuary shroud. Their task done, the fleet of ex-Cerberus ships set course for the system's Mass Relay at flank speed, leaving Omega and their former comrades behind them.
As they approached the Relay several hours later, Swanson approached him, steps unsure and hesitant.
"Sir, the other Captains report that its done. All Cerberus loyalists have been purged," he said.
"Our casualties?" asked Petrovsky, his eyes never leaving the viewport before him.
"A few dozen, only nine of which are dead," Swanson said before joining him in gazing out the viewport. After a moment, the Captain turned to face him.
"If you'll forgive my temerity, General, what now? We've left Cerberus behind, and made quite the statement while doing so, but what do we do now?"
Petrovsky shook his head slowly, before glancing over. "I don't know, but someone needs to hear about this madness." Glancing back towards the viewport, he added, "And soon."