Side project.
Paired with = Not in one's own plate
No, spam. Pls.
PST – Pacific Standard Time (US West Coast for us non-Yankees)
CASMT – Casimiria (City) Mean Time
DD/MM/YY
When it rains, it pours.
"What a shitshow!" exclaimed a man, hands in his pockets, covered in shadow up to his thighs. His lips were faintly lit by his Cuban cigar, mechanical eyes shining icy blue.
The faint tapping on the metallic roof breaking up the silence was a midnight drizzle from an oncoming cold front.
"They're going to tear us a new one for this." Said his snazzy suit-wearing compatriot scratching his chin, facing the window illuminated by magenta neon signs. Infatuated with the tremendous cloud-piercing spire-like building in the distance, stealing the show.
Many smaller ships circled around it wildly, the city reverberated with the sounds of police sirens.
"You boys worry too much." The woman behind them murmured, completely hidden within the gloomy apartment. There was a small device near her, equipped with a diode glowing faint yellow; it beeped.
All three intently listened with suspenseful agitation to a radio broadcast on this fateful late Friday night. To them, it was mockery, a re-roll of a tape, all three were well aware of the trouble ahead, whatever their goal might be.
"Welcome back to Dipole Radio, bringing you an exclusive objective first-hand recounting of events, interviews and live broadcasts! Following is the unofficial report circulating the events surrounding Dr. Farruco Melendrez. At 2500, shots were heard from the underground parking lot of Summit's Peak! Once security arrived only a unconscious Melendrez was found, lying in a pool of his own blood with a gun in hand. On-hand medical personnel was called to stabilise him until Trauma Team Premium arrived. Despite their best efforts, Melendrez condition worsened and has according to an independent source passed away, today at 0035 CASMT. Details are held private by a swiftly formed investigation committee at Throuph HQ, the eleventh consecutive host of the Yearly Societal Rendezvous. The following is a statement by the committee's speaker. Never ever before had the Summit been so blatantly, so violently attacked! We are deeply ashamed of our failure to safeguard this new years Rendezvous, we regret the death of a man that was supposed to be in the most secure place on this planet. We vow to apprehend and bring these criminals to justice, whatever the costs, whatever the stakes! As for the curfew. It was put in place to protect the public, the appropriate authorities are working around the clock and will lift the curfew in five hours time from now. Thank you, goodbye. Another spokesperson stood up on stage to alleviate fears, but most questions about the case were dodged, citing that the company didn't want to tip off the perpetrators. However our inside man has managed to sneak out audio recordings from the backstage, it is yet unknown..."
Tap, tap. The deluge intensified, emptying the streets below, and rapid tapping turned into a wet drumbeat, drowning out any other sound. They could no longer hear what the presenter was blathering on about. And when they left, it didn't stop raining, and the radio kept echoing through the night.
"…ack with the official press statement from Mayor Mehrians' office, after this short break."
/*/*/*/*/
Trimidia's Orbit | TDV PT-44B2, Facula-Class Corvette | 1355 PST/0155 CASMT 05.01.2156
People darted from console to console, tools in hand, orders shouted, a fascinating watch of the well-oiled machine that was the Trimidian Defence Force. Hackett was dazed, phasing through a different world of his own, partly due to a stressful day. He came down to engineering simply for the ambiance and told the others he needed a minute to unwind. This place calmed his nerves whenever he was distracted and helped him to think straight. But right now his mind was a blank, all he did was sit by and closely gaze into the distance, not particularly at anything or anyone. It felt like time slowed as it passed him by, an odd feeling, a comforting one.
"...so, what do you think?" The question unfazed him.
He did not reply until the querier jabbed him in his abdomen.
"Hey, hear me?"
"Huh-who?" He blurted out in his absentmindedness.
It was Anderson.
"Steve, you're daydreaming again, aren't you?"
"Guilty as charged." He quickly admitted.
Anderson joined in, sitting next to Hackett on the cold metal bench.
"Time's a luxury, don't you know?"
"Just a minute."
"I'm all out, those damn glass lickers wanna to see us about this ordeal."
Hackett hung his head low; their patrol was responsible for inspecting leaving/landing vessels. Trimidia's intelligence branch, the Territorial ('terror' common slang abbreviation) Secret Service, was on the prowl and apparently had reasonable suspicion that their particular ship failed to stop & search a public cruiser that the killer used for his escape. An hour ago, Ilian Zhivkov – the patrol group commander – was intensely interrogated by the TSS. He stepped forward in hopes that the terror would back off, but their tunnel vision was far too fixated on the two rising fleet officers.
"Imbecilic blame game," Hackett cursed under his breath, "they were the ones that let him slip by!"
"Sure, but it's unlike them to take responsibility." Anderson agreed the response time was poor, the spaceports were closed far too slowly – two crisp hours the killer had, enough to book first class and laugh all the way to the bank.
"You know –" The clanging against a grated metal floor stopped him. A pair of sleek dark blue armour-clad soldiers strolled by Anderson; he glanced in their general direction, not making eye contact but still carefully waiting for them to pass. "You know, Zhivkov thinks the same."
"Then why doesn't he go to internal? Terror can go bother someone that enjoys it for a change."
Anderson snorted bitterly. "I dunno. Something this Melendrez guy was working on is being kept hush-hush, the Summit is on red alert. Feels like the end of world over there."
"You were groundside?"
"Mm-hmm. Shuttle ride, dropped Zhivkov off. Has some admiralty meeting."
Just their luck, the only one that could cover their flank got called away. All too perfect. Hackett sighed deeply; he was getting more nervous as each second passed. They were in serious trouble.
"Well, we'll just have to do our best until he returns."
Hackett finally forced himself out of trance. "They in the holding room?"
"Bet." Anderson got up.
"Huh." Hackett sniffed, slapping his knees. "Going to be strange sitting on the wrong side of that table."
/*/*/*/*/
Hackett and Anderson both routinely stopped a handful of ships, oddly enough, many of those they scanned were clean, and their unit had the least amount of caught criminals and ordered charges per search. On paper, suspicious, and many people only had this narrow view of their work. Despite that, they sat plenty of times in the holding room, questioning captains and individual crewmembers on their illicit cargo and expired licenses. This time around, it was them being prodded and poked at. One grumpy uniformed officer – arms behind his back, covered head to toe with a variety of cyberware, showing little to no skin – stood behind a friendlier looking cop. Strange company for the spook. Usually, the police didn't like being in bed with terrors; Hackett also saw the role reversal in a more sinister light, that the TSS was given carte blanche. The environment they previously earned their name. The cop was the one asking, whilst the agent glanced over his shoulder, despite being more trained and equipped for the job. One might think he was mute, responding only with grunts to any inquiries his partner made.
Anderson was first up; Hackett thought nothing of it. He was his XO, in charge of all the daily routines on their ship. Once he came out, he pinpointed questions about crew negligence, and assumptions were made about Hackett's orders but nothing out of the ordinary; in fact, he mainly was vague with the interrogation. Hackett entered, and the procedure was just about the same. The cop seemed more interested in him directly.
"What did exactly happen tonight?" Open ended questions.
"I just want to establish the events here, Steven." Casual tone.
"We might be able to persuade command not to relieve you of duty." Fear alleviating.
"If you are going to answer my questions, then I will leave you unmentioned. There's plenty more officers on my list to retain anonymity." Cheap tricks.
It was a surprise that the cop didn't have the interrogation rule book tucked under the table or a cheat sheet scribbled on his palm. Hackett's refusal to play nice had the policeman's noggin jogging; regardless, both men kept their composure and professionalism. He asked about the ship and if the procedures were followed. Hackett repeated himself multiple times, quoting Anderson even. Regardless the interrogator ran his mouth. Spouting question after question...
There was, however, a specific one capable of piercing Hackett's shield.
"Rear Admiral Zhivkov." He intently stated. "Real, hard-working man! Good to his subordinates I hear."
He is. Zhivkov knew the importance of an armed space fleet, he oversaw the creation of the TDF's doctrine, navigated routes back when he was a settler. He was strict but fair; played by the book as he helped write it.
"Is he your friend?"
"What bearing does this have on the investigation?" Snapped Hackett, perhaps too vigorously.
"It's a simple yes or no question."
Terror behind him glared; for whatever reason, this was getting a tad uncanny. Insistence or not, he'd not snitch on his commander.
"He's my superior. Beyond that, is no one's concern." Hackett was rankled alright.
The policeman nodded, "I see. As you know we have – reasonable suspicions. Some of those are linked directly to the admiral."
Hackett instinctively raised his eyebrows. "He's under investigation?"
"Been awhile. You see, Zhivkov has had clashes, with some people at top. Lot's of tension, but I'd rather avoid that minefield."
It was an off-handed mention but news to Hackett.
How dare they accuse him? I'll have to warn him.
The rest of the interrogation proceeded as both parties expected. Few mentions of Zhivkov were made here and there. Eventually, a conclusion was reached. The ship might've been used by the killer/s or at least corroborating evidence suggested so, the TSS ran with it. During the interrogation, a call came in, for the terror. Afterward, the questions seemed to fly by, and little to no comment was made by the interrogator. The terror informed Hackett he'd send a recommendation to the fleet, fat lot of good that'll do, his inner voice grumbled. With a goodbye and placid thank you, they left Hackett to ponder the immediate future. His career was at a crossroads, the sword of Damocles dangling over his head. Either some desk jockey would scribble all over his papers without a second thought, or worse the people upstairs would look to give someone a rough treatment for their own incompetence. Hackett had no illusions whatsoever; Trimidia was always valued for the image of unparallel security offered, this image paid huge dividends. And if there's a universal truth to this world, it was that money talked louder than words.
/*/*/*/*/
"How the hell is one murder worth so goddamn much?" Growled a furious Anderson.
Feedback from Internal – "Due to the poor judgement of our commissioned officers relating incident flight PERN-55G10 a report has been filed on behalf of the Internal Inspection Commission for Armed Forces. Territorial Secret Services have recommended immediate temporary duty suspensions for the involved individuals. Under Act No. 051/2145, the officers will remain within Trimidian borders until further investigations are conducted." – was plain abysmal.
"No really, the people so deathly afraid right now are the same breed that sit in ivory towers while gang wars play out on their doorstep."
Act 51, in short, meant having to deal with appointments to the inspectorate of Internal. Re-training, tests, pointless exercises. It also meant the terrors had full access to their files. Essentially leave without pay. And shit smeared on their faces for good measure; everyone loves being defamed.
"You tell me." Said Hackett, stuffing his bag with personal items.
Anderson pre-packed since he had a premonition. "We're the fall guys, just convenient lambs."
Bingo.
"It's how the game is played. Just happened to be the wrong time, wrong place." He said with resignation, packing a few last-minute things into his duffel bag. As much as his gut instinct told him to fight, to thrash around, reason was the dictator. Maybe Zhivkov can salvage their situation.
"You think Zhivkov got the same end of the stick?"
Speak of the devil, Hackett's retina lit up yellow. /*Incoming Call, /* Rear Admiral Ilian Zhivkov
Hackett connected; immediately, he heard Zhivkov panting his way down a flight of stairs. "I need you and Anderson down here, stat."
"Is something –" Hackett was cut off.
"As yet? No. Don't worry about the suspension or the bleeding curfew. I need you down at the Summit." Zhivkov sputtered. "It's critical."
Zhivkov ended the call abruptly.
"Amen," Hackett replied to himself. He threw a pair of boots in the bag and zipped it up. Bursting full with his other personal effects. He began tying his shoelaces whilst Anderson meandered around the changing room, looking grim.
"So? What he did he say?"
Hackett looked up at Adam, "To meet up. Sounded important."
Anderson grunted. "Well, it's not like we have nothing but time on our hands."
True as it was, Internal would still be breathing down their necks. Though you couldn't exactly disobey and admiral either. And both men knew who'd they rather be taking their orders from.
/*/*/*/*/
Casimiria City | Summit's Peak, Throuph HQ | 1520 PST/0320 CASMT 05.01.2156
The wet, drab cloud cover made way to a dimly lit city. Anderson watched from the shuttle window. They passed several skyscrapers, underneath them was the sprawl of Casimiria, the capital city. He glanced at the HUD display on his wrist, it showed him that all systems were nominal, arrival ETA 1 minute. The shuttle decelerated as it entered city boundaries, soon he saw air traffic control lights coming into view from the side of their craft. A few seconds later the ship landed smoothly onto a landing pad on one of those tall buildings; Throuph HQ, Summit's Peak. The Summit - as most called it – was a kilometre tall, slim steel and glass pyramid-like structure. It was coated in black paint, one-way windows, a few UV lights stripped to the landing pads, as neomilitaristic as you can get. Anderson and Hackett disembarked through the rear hatch, stepping into the very late morning drizzle. The annoying whine of the shuttle's fusion engines got louder until it sped off into the distance. "Verification acquired," said an synthesised voice over the comms system. Both men descended off the pad's ramp and walked down its length toward the front entrance. As they approached the door, a small security camera above the entry flashed green. The door opened for them revealing a waiting room, two lightly armed guards stood in an entrance booth mulling something over. They wore an TDF military police batch, Hackett scanned them to confirm. One turned towards Anderson, who saluted while Hackett gave a polite nod. They both stepped through the checkpoint unmolested and went up the elevator at the end of the hallway. Their destination wasn't too far away: Level 142, Executive Floor. Hackett took the lead, as he had been here once before. This building housed many other agencies besides Throuph, offices assigned to all sorts of governmental branches, the law enforcement and bureaucrats mainly.
Anderson and Hackett were both silent as the grave. The whole building was bugged, standard practice.
The elevators ride took all about a few seconds before arriving on level 142, they stepped into the glamorous avant-garde lobby, filled with expensive artworks, new and old, modern real leather furniture, and even some antiquities. There was also an perfectly sculpted marble statue of what appeared to be a centurion holding a spear and shield, ready for battle. It was dab-middle of the entire room, whilst above it hang a enormous crystal chandelier. A single guard sat behind a reception desk of some sort, she paid no attention to the men. There were obvious signs of cybernetics and genetical perfectionism, subdermal skin weave, artificial eyes, the lack of blemishes, wrinkles or freckles. She looked like she could snap a spine or slice an aorta, without breaking stride. She didn't look very happy either with a deadpan stare towards her computer screen. Rest of the lobby was empty far as Hackett could tell.
Hackett grunted, "Empty."
"Yet I still feel out off place."
Zhivkov was a no-show. Hackett checked the schedule sent to him, he found nothing of note except that the admiral was scheduled for lunch with a man named Kravosky tomorrow at noon. Other than that...
"You sure we're not here early?"
Hackett was certain Zhivkov was to meet them here. "No."
Sure enough.
The second elevator pinged, the doors opened. "Gentlemen." He said with a thick, Slavic accent, as some people preferred using their own knowledge of English rather than translators.
Zhivkov stood there in his two stared admiral's uniform, looking exactly as he did during last night's briefing. His face seemed more serious than usual though, his dark brown hair neatly combed back, his brow furrowed and his officers' cap tucked.
They each shook hands briefly. "Got delayed, follow me." Zhivkov led the way across the lobby, past the statue and then up the stairs. After passing by a couple of closed conference rooms, they arrived at an office suite, the door opened for Zhirinovsky when he waved his hand across an scanner. He kept his foot in the doorway as both men followed. Inside, it was spacious and brightly lit, the walls adorned with framed artwork depicting various scenes of space combat between various sizes of ships. One of them Hackett recognised, a missile cruiser, the pride of the fleet, the 004, the Kavala.
Holographic screens displaced newsfeeds from around human territory. Five chairs faced a large, round mahogany table which was covered with datapads. Zhivkov seated himself closer to the window, motioning them to join him. "Apologise for the wait... and the no doubt tense atmosphere." His speech was rushed but fluent. Both men nodded silently, Hackett sitting down first. Zhivkov poured himself a whisky, but the others denied the gesture. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table, fingers interlaced. Staring directly at Hackett for a moment. "I know you have questions. Let me answer the obvious one. I made a few calls, shook some hands. Internal won't bother you, I've arranged 'leave', so to speak."
"Leave, sir?" Hackett saw the prospect of putting up his feet as unrealistic.
"At least for now. The admiralty is not content to sit on it's hands and have their officers falsely accused of 'misconduct'. Right now, we need trustworthy people."
Anderson was puzzled. "So how does all of this tie in with us?"
"You now work for me and mine. I plan to clear your names and any dirt thrown on the force. Seeing as I've been promoted as lead to the Naval Bureau of Investigations..."
Zhivkov passed over a special clearance to his subordinates which manifested as a pop-up; it read: Under Section 7 of the Naval Intelligence Accord, Corvette Captain Steven Hackett and Lieutenant David Anderson are hereby transferred with immediate effect under command of the Admiral-Director of the NBI.
"So... " Anderson coyly smiled, "does that mean we're... the spooks?"
"You're still officers of the navy, technically, only your duties and privileges have changed. It should also make it harder for the actual spooks to scapegoat you."
All good news to Hackett, so far.
"Now, I want to debunk that steaming pile of nonsense the terrors cooked up. I have proof, that will convince Internal, they'll be a bother no more. Let them fight amongst themselves. The navy will be able to focus on Dr Melendrez's murder." Zhivkov leaned back in his chair. "But first..." He held up his hand as Hackett started to interrupt. "Let me bring you up speed. Dr. Farruco Melendrez was a lead in the project called SPOT. That means Sings of Planetary or Orbital Technosignatures. SPOT had dubious reputation, its research hanged on assumptions made by the co-lead Dr. Adam Kravosky that Mass Effect technology was no human invention and that Mars at one point was an alien observatory."
"A somewhat controversial take." Anderson commented.
Zhivkov nodded, "Hah, if you knew the half of it... You don't need me to explain how difficult it is to get governments or anyone else for that matter, to fund research on that. Especially when the world was constantly reminded by the same governments that there never were any aliens or anything else out there since the 1940s. Anyway, Trimidia had a vested interest in SPOT and was in a unique position compared to Earth governments." He paused, looking into his drinks, swirling ice cubes.
Hackett frowned, "What does that have to do with him being killed?"
"Well, let me give you a timeline. Two weeks ago, Dr. Kravosky disappeared without warning; it's said a conflict about the projects direction led to a split between two camps. Melendrez pursued a very linear direct approach, he was getting funds for something only referred to as 'Father Time', but any file regarding this are classified by the territorial, go figure. Protests by Kravosky lead nowhere and animosity remained with Kravosky planing to jump ship. He ended up reappearing three days after, seemingly content with the direction SPOT was headed in. He resigned from his position a day later. He took a paycheck from the European Space Agency and retreated from the public eye, happy ending. A week ago, someone invited Melendrez to give a speech at the Summit, I don't have to explain what a boon it would be to his project. He was supposed to arrive a day before the speech, however moved his schedule to last minute. He passed through security on a pre-arranged transport, from there details get muddy. Now I must stress, my report states that Melendrez was conflictual by nature and made a few enemies. Kravosky isn't the only suspect."
"How do we find him then?" Anderson asked, tapping his fingers against his thigh.
This Hackett already knew.
"Kravosky has already been called forward, he's made no attempt to spoof us so far. Leave him to me."
Zhivkov turned back to the holographic screens. He pointed to the one closest, it showed footage of a tall, muscular man in a lab coat walking out of an aircar within the garage. The video followed him meandering about the parking spaces before approaching the exit, where the video proceeded to lock up. The cameras didn't show any signs of manipulation. "Now as for Melendrez..."
Zhivkov sipped on his beverage for a while. "Melendrez, like most researchers in his field was reluctant to leave office or home - he wasn't very popular among peers. This does considerably thin out possible leads." Zhivkov held his chin, switching datapads. "There's a discrepancy in time when his body was found, some accounts point around 2310 others almost an hour later, nobody knows who killed him, let alone escape the premises undetected."
Anderson mulled it over, "Inside help?"
"That possibility exists." Zhivkov shrugged. "We can only speculate now, as we're trailing behind the investigation, TSS had considerable lead and the police are in their tracks. You'll act as an extension of me."
It was Hackett's turn to be puzzled. "What do you mean sir?" Events were moving fast, and he could see it in Zhivkovs eyes; they darted around, and at times he'd grab for an item that wasn't there. Another sign was his jittery leg.
"There are too many unanswered questions right now, and we lack credible authority. It'll be my job to wrestle some away from the TSS especially. The political world is unravelling, no doubt interfering with any investigation. This gentlemen, is the reason why we meet." Zhivkov paused and turned to face Hackett directly. "You, I need to go after Melendrez's killer, no matter what it takes. To this end, I have a few contacts that will help with their expertise."
"There's a private eye, by the name of Frank O'Dowd. He owes me, shouldn't be an issue if you remind him and don't punch too hard Anderson he's unequivocally Irish. The other has the material to clear your name, he goes by the name of Shepard."
Here's the believed abstraction, Cyberpunk cast in one story, ME cast in another, they then slowly mesh together. The world? Basis being Pondsmith's universe, that develops into Bioware's universe. Then some classic first contact with an altered humanity and similar FF ME tropes.
I'll admit to skewing the timeline a tad bit. I'll make one if there are calls for one, otherwise won't bother.
But, being in 2077 (beginning in 2021, ME has colonies in 2103, 80 year difference) we already have established colonies on the Moon and Mars, small as they might be. So the Prothean cache would statistically be found sooner, for my crossover this carries implications. And we know for a fact that ME's 2077 wouldn't hold a candle tech wise to Cyberpunk; as technological progress was fantastically fast after the Cold War in this AU.
So in that case, what's the fate of our hated/beloved ME (human) chars? You might ask. I mean, surely some wouldn't even be born? Let alone in the same year. Let's go for the suspension of disbelief route. End of the day its a ME+Cyberpunk crossover, some things aren't worth putting thought into. They'll exist, differently but still influenced by their main roles in the story, the Shepards included.
That's about the extent of where I'm steering this ship, hop aboard or get off at the next stop cause it's the last one.