A/N:
A sort of between chapter to move people into place.
A lot of stories I like have updated since the last time I posted a chapter. A new story is from BeneziaWillLive, called Blind Chance, that needs more attention. And of course Aberron and his masterpiece Living an Indoctrinated Dream needs more reviews!
As usual, a giant thanks to the Editing Gang for their efforts, corrections, clarifications and fixes. They deserve more credit than I do.
'The fundamental nature of warfare is one at odds with what I would term strategic use of force. Any cretin with hands can pick up a rifle, but force in and of itself fails when not coupled with vision, elan, and purpose. Sadly, that doesn't stop the foes of Mankind from trying.'
- General Jason von Grath, 'Memoirs of Those Days'
Jason von Grath examined the ancient metallic Prothean tablets with a rueful grin on his features, and exhaled as he pulled up his notes on the workpad by his desk. The sounds of the Arcturus Sphere waking up were muted by the surroundings of the von Grath estate, but he could see it if he glanced out the triple bay windows overlooking the holding. Lines of air-cars crawled along the skyways and the busy thrum of pedestrians thronged the walk paths. Arcturus, as the saying went, never slept.
He smiled a bit at the grandiose view, then grunted in satisfaction as he swiped symbols around on the workpad, eventually coming up with what the computer felt was a ninety-four percent accurate translation of the Prothean script. This one, like most of the others found in the stack from the Mars Archive, was some kind of primer on spatial hyper-geometry. Most of it was gibberish, but that made it oddly easier to translate for him than other Prothean texts.
He didn't consider himself an expert, but his work was more than a mere lark - much of the material in the Mars Archives had only been decipherable once Shepard and her wife provided a primer into the Prothean language, and even then much of it was so riddled with allusion and oddly missing gaps that making sense of it was difficult. Most of the Archive's various metallic hexagonal tablets had been digitized and distributed to human researchers who could be trusted. It was slow going, but already some useful bits of technology had been unearthed.
He'd immersed himself in his various hobbies since his dishonorable discharge, in the aftermath of the retrieval of Shepard's body. It galled him to have to cover for a group like Cerberus, but his short and ugly conversation with the Illusive Man had opened his eyes to one truth – Shepard had been set up to die, and revealing Cerberus involvement wouldn't solve a thing.
So he'd used his resources, 'lost' a scout ship, and taken the fall along with Moreau and Zorah, and endured the loss of his career. His father had been proud of his choices, and Jason had realized how tired he'd been. While he sometimes missed the chance to lead the charge against the geth, he also knew that his days of dropping hot into a battlefield had probably ended at Noveria, and mere tactical and strategic puttering was not the thrill he sought.
His retirement had started with him withdrawing from the Family at first, unsure of how his discharge would affect House von Grath. He spent five months managing the shipping interests on the outer colony world of Seris IX, then another three on Bekenstein, immersing himself into local politics. Chakwas had accompanied him to both worlds, stating she needed down time herself.
When it became clear that his discharge was not going to negatively affect his House, he decided to come back to Arcturus. He'd married Karin, and thrown himself into the business of his noble house – shipping and heavy industry – and his hobbies – fencing, raising prize roses, Prothean archaeology, and winemaking. It was the sort of life he'd expected living in his seventies, rather than in the late prime of his life, but it was satisfying in its own way.
He finished his adjustments on the translation frame when he heard the door to his workroom open, glancing up even as the scent of bacon wafted into the room. Standing in the door frame was his wife, who folded her arms and gave him a gentle smirk. "Mucking about with the translations this early, dear?"
Jason sat back in the chair behind his sturdy armaplast work desk and grinned back at Karin Chakwas von Grath, his wife of roughly a year and half. She wore a white lab coat over an elegant black and silver bodysuit, and he tilted his head. "Well, to be sure, you are already dressed for work, so it seems hardly fair to chide me for my hobby."
Karin glanced around the study – the bookshelves with dozens of expensive primers on Prothean history, the shelves of staggeringly expensive minor Prothean artifacts, and of course, the copy of the Key, the rough translation of the Prothean language put together by Shepard and T'Soni before their brutal deaths. Her smile faded a bit at the last, but she shook her head.
"My dear man, lives depend on my hobby, unlike yours. Breakfast is ready and your father is nigh unto cavorting with the servant girls... again."
Von Grath cackled as he rose from his chair, pausing to save his work with a single key press. "Right, mustn't allow the old man to do what he has probably been doing since before either of us was born. The only family with more bastards than von Grath is the Chu."
He slid his arm around her waist and kissed her, and she rolled her eyes in amusement. "Maybe so, but it makes obtaining breakfast a hassle. Come along."
He walked alongside her, thinking quietly of his next steps with the translation he was working on as they passed into the main hall of the von Grath mansion. A part of him was still a bit stung and melancholy over the loss of his real career, that of a soldier and general, but only a tiny part.
The reaction of the people of the Alliance to his discharge with dishonor had drawn most of the pain from that wound. There had been actual riots, and not merely of the poor masses either. People across the entire Alliance were outraged the Navy would cashier him. Neo Berlin, Mindoir, Dirth, and a half-dozen other border worlds had been infuriated that the person who made it possible to bury Shepard's body had been turned out by the military.
Not to mention the aliens. The asari were not exactly displeased by the death of Liara T'Soni, but the turians felt the fact that P. had been attempting to sell Shepard's body was the height of dishonor and that if anything, the rescue should be celebrated. And the quarians had been infuriated at the dismissal of Tali'Zorah... although from what he had heard, that ended poorly.
Then again, he mused sourly, certain elements in this pack of idiots we purport to call our government probably thought that was a capital idea, and of course disgracing the family that called them out so many times in the past was the real goal.
He idly stroked his chin as he followed Karin around the corner, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. If the idea of dishonorably discharging him had been to break House von Grath, it had backfired badly. Despite the discharge, very few of the nobility saw his actions as dishonorable – and fewer still cared much for the military's opinion anyway.
Not to mention the reverence for Shepard aided him. While certainly Shepard had not been the sort of nobility that had evolved since the Days of Iron, there was something about the steel in her that had, since her death, subtly but firmly changed people's attitudes toward her.
Once seen as distasteful, the series of stories of Shepard's life and death by Emily Wong – replete with horrific footage, teary survivors, and grim snippets from a few Commissars – had elevated Shepard to a near saintly status. What stuck in most people's craw was how she died, given that she could have easily gotten away from her own demise in exchange for a few pods of crewmen.
That she hadn't – that she'd died with defiance on her lips and iron in her soul, taunting her enemies and protecting her crew...
He shook his head clear to prevent the damnable dust from making his eyes water. Damned servants never cleaned properly.
But by all the gods, even the turians had called her courage mighty. She might have been a brutal, uncultured killer with all the social graces one assigned to a small bag of rocks and the subtlety of a krogan demo team, but no one could fault her courage, her fierce desire for justice, or her determination to do the right thing, even if it cost her everything.
He arrived at the dining room, to find his ancient father deeply ensconced with a discussion with one of the house servants about something, and no sign of the aforementioned serving girls. He chuckled, knowing that his father had probably been hamming it up just to get under Karin's skin. As they entered the large room, his father glanced up, and made a subtle gesture of dismissal to the servant even as he spoke.
He waved a thin hand at the foot of the table, which was still piled high with food, and greeted them curtly. "I'll eat in a bit, dig in. Jason, I've sent Eric and Markus to Pentha IV, to run the mines there. We'll need to talk about that later, but it's going to be a rather busy day."
Jason von Grath nodded, pulling out a chair for Karin, then seating himself next to her as servants placed a loaded plate in front of him and his wife. Knowing his wife wouldn't eat and talk – she had to be at the hospital in less than a half hour – he dug into his own food, thoughtfully, while eventually drawing his father into conversation.
As usual, those were mostly about the little things. Arthur von Grath had gotten a bit shorter and frailer over the past two years, and much of the family's business was now in Jason's hands. The family's finances, once shaky, were glutted with cash now – not only because of certain shady deals struck by his father, but due to Karin's invention of a medical procedure to cure a particularly stubborn form of virus-induced immune deficiency disorder - one that had seemingly come out of nowhere - that was sadly common on some of the outer colonies. The formulation for that had netted them nearly fifty million credits, and licensing and all of that worked out to even more.
For all of their success, though, Arthur was slowly dying. He could no longer walk all about the corridors as he once had, and at over a hundred years old, his energy and vitality were slowly dropping each day. He'd lived a full life, as he had told Jason – seen his great-great-grandchildren grow up, the turians beaten like rugs, the Alliance grown and now part of the Council, and his eldest boy married off.
He could die happy, secure that he'd done his duty, and that his family was taken care of. So they talked of baseball games and cars, of the fishing Jason had done the last time he was back on Earth – they'd finally detoxified the Black Sea enough to reintroduce fish to it, and rumor was they were moving to detox the Great Lakes of America next, or maybe the Baltic if they could make a seawall from what was left of the flooded wreckage of Malmo to Gdansk.
He watched Karin get up from the table and kissed her goodbye, smirking as her lips tasted slightly of the strawberry jam she'd had on her toast. He'd been something of a rakehell until he'd met the doctor, but two years with her had finally convinced him he'd found his match. The romance had been more intellectual and less physical than most of his trysts, but then again neither of them was exactly young anymore... and it had gotten physical enough at the proper time.
He smugly leaned back in his seat, nibbling on a bit of biscuit, and watched her walk out of the door toward the powerful air-car she drove to work in. Arthur watched his son for a long moment before chuckling. "You did well, there, boy. She's quite a woman."
Jason nodded absently. "Yes, she is." He sighed, eating a bite of toast. "About the mines, I was thinking that—"
He broke off as a loud chime sounded, the signal from the house Knights that something was amiss. He frowned at the alert – the knights wouldn't interrupt breakfast for anything not very important – and tapped his omni. "Yes?"
The voice was that of Sir Reginald, senior of the knights that served von Grath. "Apologies, milord – but there is a delegation here to see you from the Alliance... and Commandant Hazred." He paused. "They are here to see you, sir, not His Grace."
Arthur looked alarmed as Jason sat bolt upright. Michael Hazred was the real power in the Commissariat, and what he'd be doing at the front gates was hardly anything good. The fact that they wanted him and not the Duke was even more confounding.
"Please have them shown into the manor, Reginald – I'll be along immediately."
He stood, scowling, and glanced at his father, who nodded. "Go, but keep me informed."
Five minutes later, he stood in the greeting foyer of the manor, watching as the group entered. Michael Hazred was first, his pale gray eyes at odds with his otherwise mixed African and Arabic features, his crimson greatcoat surmounted by a black sash. Behind him were two men in the cutaway coats and ties of the AIS, and a naval commander with the silver tabs of the Judge Advocate General's office on his shoulder.
Jason bowed precisely toward Hazred. "Be welcome in House von Grath, Commandant. How may we be of service?"
Hazred's smile was wintry. "Thank you, milord. Do you have somewhere private we may speak? I'm afraid we're in a bit of a hurry."
Tugging at his handlebar mustache, he nodded, leading them down a side corridor to a formal meeting room, often used to handle business deals with commoners. He snapped his fingers at a servant. "Water and tea, if you would be so kind, and then inform His Grace I will be occupied for some time."
The meeting room was, like most of the house, richly appointed without the lavish gold-plated tackiness so common in some noble venues. Jason sat down at the head of the polished walnut meeting table and watched the others settle in, and smiled as a few seconds after the last one sat a servant came in with two decanters and five glasses.
He allowed the servant to serve tea or water, taking a glass of tea for himself, then dismissed the man and triggered the room's security fields. "We are private now, Commandant. What is all of this about?"
Hazred met his gaze evenly. "You are being recalled to active service, General. As of this morning, the Commissariat, in conjunction with a ruling from the Judge Advocates office, has vacated your dishonorable discharge and dismissed all charges against you. Your rank has been restored along with two years back pay and time in rate bonus, and the High Admiral has been informed that you are to be accorded every respect."
Jason sat back, truly astonished, and to cover his confusion sipped his tea as his brain worked. A dishonorable discharge was not simply 'undone' in this fashion. There was no appeal from the Court of Military Justice, after all, aside from direct petition to the High Lords, and such was guaranteed to fail as the Lords of Sol preferred not to act openly without very good reasons.
After a long moment, he spoke, his voice softer than usual. "Commandant, I am of course overjoyed to be allowed to serve once more... but it has been two years of retirement for me. I am ensconced in duties to my House and to my own business affairs, and I have not bothered to keep abreast of military developments."
Hazred nodded. "This we know. The reason for your reactivation is due to classification and security concerns... and to make you subject to command requirements. There is a situation that must be dealt with and your input is required. Cooperative assistance in this matter would allow us handle the situation much better."
The Commandant lifted an eyebrow as von Grath started to speak, and gently shook his head. "This was authorized, milord, by the Lords of Sol." He withdrew a red-tinted card, heavily embossed with a complex seal, and Jason felt the color and blood drain from his face.
It was a Sigil, a form of the Red Note used to designate the bearer acted with the complete authority of the Lords of Sol after a unanimous vote. The last Sigil he'd even heard about was in the First Contact War. A Sigil literally put the power and authority of the entire Alliance into the bearer's hands. To defy one was punishable by execution on the spot.
Hazred's voice was wry. "To wit, then. We will require you to travel to the Citadel and take part in a review task force being conducted as part of an investigation. What you will be working on is classified at the highest level of security and cannot be vouchsafed to anyone, for any reason. Your wife is also being picked up as she is to be involved in this as well. Military transport aboard one of the new scout frigates is standing by at the docks."
Jason narrowed his eyes. "And what exactly is the purpose of this grandiloquent trip, if I may be so bold as to ask?"
Hazred glanced at the AIS men, one of which nodded back grimly and spoke. "General, you were in command of Sara Shepard for many years, correct?"
Baffled by the question, he nodded. "Yes... after I had her transferred from the Penal Legions to the Second RRU."
The AIS agent nodded. "And you are familiar with her tactics, her combat operations, how she thinks tactically?"
Jason's eyes narrowed. "To a degree. I understand that she underwent training with Admiral Ahern after her elevation to Spectre and Major of Marines... but I fail to see the point in that information, as she is dead." His voice grew bitter on the last word.
The two AIS agents glanced at Hazred, who nodded, and then the first one spoke again. "General, if someone was attempting to pass off a... clone or an impostor of Shepard, do you think you could identify such a thing?"
He restrained himself from snorting. "I should think so, agent. While I will not say I was her closest of confidantes, I observed her closely both in the field and between battles, and was not unfamiliar with her in later years. As you will recall, she was married here."
Hazred nodded. "We are aware, milord. We have a situation that is of perilous concern to the Alliance as a whole." He exhaled. "Based on... a great amount of analysis of various information and reports, it is believed that the person known as the Butcher is either some form of clone of Shepard... or possibly Shepard herself."
Jason von Grath's training failed him utterly as he felt his jaw drop a moment before anger flooded him. "I would not normally question the sanity of a Commissar, but what you suggest is flatly impossible. She was buried on Earth."
Hazred shook his head. "That was, we have determined, a flash-clone. No autopsy was performed on the body we received from you, based on the... gruesome amount of damage it had taken. But the body was exhumed and tested and is definitely not her. That means either whatever Commanders Moreau and Zorah recovered was not her from the beginning..."
He paused, narrowing his eyes. "...or that she never actually died to begin with."
Jason shook his head. "She died, sir. Her wife—"
The AIS agent spoke again. "That's the problem. From testimony, we know that Doctor Sedanya of the Kazan rendered Liara unconscious and did something to prevent the bond-linkage they had from killing her with Shepard's death. But all the asari we spoke to said that should be impossible, that every single time a bond of that strength had been broken, it resulted in the death of both parties."
The second AIS agent spoke, his rough voice at odds with his dapper appearance. "Furthermore, we cannot seem to locate the doctor, as she has... vanished. Along with a number of other personnel close to Shepard."
Hazred tapped his fingers on the table. "The most recent intelligence we have on the Butcher is that she is working with – or for – Cerberus, General. If Sara Shepard fell into their clutches in some fashion, the information she has about our operations could do incalculable damage."
Jason von Grath stood, moving to stare out the smoked glass windows of the meeting room out at the small meadow behind the House proper. After a long moment, he flexed his cybernetic hand. "Your premise seems... highly improbable. But I see the need for concern. How do I – and Karin – fit into this mess?"
Hazred smiled. "You were both close to her. We're assembling a team to go over the evidence and determine the truth of the matter. And if it turns out it is her, then we need tactical and strategic advice on how to capture her."
Jason gave a harsh laugh at that. "Capture, Commandant?" He turned to face him. "If, by some dark miracle, that Butcher person is Shepard, then you have no idea how much damage she could do. She was the very best N7 the program ever produced, and her acts after that point speak well of her prowess. She was the best we had."
He exhaled. "But this concept strains credulity. I never had the -no doubt dubious- 'pleasure' of meeting Doctor Okeer, but I've heard enough stories to know that the Shepard I knew and fought with would have ended up a splatter fighting a krogan like that, instead of killing him in single combat."
Hazred arched his eyebrow. "I find it curious you raise her up in one sentence and then say she was incapable of killing Okeer in the next."
Jason's augmetic hand clenched. "What I am saying, sir, is that Shepard was one of our best, but in no way, shape or form was she the unholy walking nightmare the Butcher is described as! I have no possible idea what in the everliving fuck could have happened to the poor woman in between her 'death' and now that allows her to do such things."
His voice tightened. "And if she's working with Cerberus... " He trailed off, shaking his head. "She must be beyond merely angry at this point. For her not to reveal herself, to hide behind a false persona, working with or for a group she herself destroyed… that is very much unlike her. And if that is Shepard, the only reason I can think of for her doing such a thing is that she sees the Alliance as untrustworthy. If that is the case, she's going to kill anyone you send after her with hostile intent."
His voice softened. "Trust me, you do not want to see what happens when that girl loses her temper. Ask the dead fools and walk through the mass graves on Horizon, Dirth, and Torfan how that goes."
Hazred shrugged. "Be that as it may, milord... my orders – and now your orders – are very clear. We are to determine if it is her, and her possible threat to the Alliance. I take your words as they were meant… but I do not need to explain to you the problems caused by her working with Cerberus, I trust?"
Von Grath smiled thinly. "No, I can grasp that much. I don't like it, but I know my duty. I'll need a few hours to put my affairs in order, I trust that will not be an issue?"
The Commandant stood, gesturing to the others. "The scout frigate Banquan is at dock 5S Alpha, and will cast off tonight at 1900 hours. For the moment, you and your wife are formally attached to the Military Security Group KERES, under the nominal command of Admiral Ahern. If there should be any media attention paid to this event – unlikely at best – KERES is devoted to strategic planning purposes."
He pulled out a keycard and ID card embossed with the Alliance Command symbol. "The marines at the dock have already been alerted that you will be arriving. Please be at the dock no later than 1700 hours, and pack lightly. With any luck, milord, this event will only take up a few days of your time, and you can return here and get on with your life as you wish."
Jason nodded curtly. "Very well. I must, of course, inform my father the Duke..."
Hazred smiled. "His Grace will be receiving a communication directly from the Lords of Sol shortly explaining what he needs to know. I thank you for your courtesy in receiving me. If you have any questions, my TTL is 540-Beta-Six. Go with the grace of our Father, milord."
Jason watched them file out of the meeting room, then after taking a deep breath, exploded into profanity.
O-TWCD-O
"Commodore David Anderson, please rise."
The large room Anderson was in was only sparsely populated despite its size, and decorated in the usual harsh white and blue Alliance décor. David Anderson suppressed a wry smile at the layout, which looked almost like how a court-martial was arrayed, as the Sergeant-at-Arms gave the command to stand.
Before him were five naval officers, by his side was a legal aid and a Commissar, and at the side of the room were a panel of various doctors, intelligence officers, and psychologists. Aside from the heavy security in the room – four Commissariat Lancers and an additional Commissar at the exits of the room – the only other people in the chamber were Kahlee Sanders, Yonis Chu, and Tradius Ahern.
The five naval officers sat behind an elevated desk, and Anderson took in each one as he stood, still feeling stiff from his long confinement. He'd been shaved and barbered and given a fresh uniform, which hung almost loosely from his form.
The two officers at the ends were mere captains, meaningless functionaries. They were there solely for legal reasons, to ensure the hearing followed procedure, and unless something legally dubious came up, were unlikely to speak at all.
The center three figures, however, were admirals, and the eventual deciders of his fate. Alliance Chief Medical Officer Alisa Han was a Chinese woman of advancing years, and an Admiral of the Green, the highest ranking medical officer in the Systems Alliance. Her cold, lined features were set in a neutral expression, although her eyes were fixed on the doctors to one side rather than Anderson. From what Anderson remembered she was something of a political appointment, and strongly aligned with the old Coleman Administration.
She was a study in contrast with the darker-skinned Admiral Thomas Wychair, command officer of the Alliance Certifications Board. Although his own Euro-Chinese heritage was also apparent in the shape of his eyes and dark black hair, his features were strongly built and almost thuggish, and his gaze was coolly sanguine even as he tapped the fingers of his cybernetic hand on the desk. Wychair had a reputation for straight-shooting and direct, even harsh truths.
Between them was the grizzled and corroded features of Admiral of the Red Vance 'Jack' Dill, ostensibly the most senior admiral in the entire Alliance. He was formerly the Chairman of the Armed Forces Military Board, providing advisement on purely political matters to the High Admiral and the Fleet Master. In practice, he was more occupied with managing BuShips than dealing with actual fleets any longer. Given his noted antipathy toward the N7 program as a waste of money, he was a curious and somewhat ominous choice to lead the board.
Unofficially, he was a bastard child of the Manswells, and his ancient features were close enough to those of Maxwell Manswell to start rumors that the two were half-brothers. Certainly, Dill had always landed on his feet, having been Fleet Master and High Admiral both before moving to the semi-retirement of the Armed Forces Military Board.
Admiral Dill glanced at a padd on his desk, then back up at Anderson, his flinty and narrowed gray eyes still sharp despite his age. "This hearing is now in session. Commissars, please engage the static lock devices." A moment later the pins-and-needles feeling of anti-spying fields washed over Anderson.
After a long moment paging through his notes on the padd, Dill spoke, his voice as heavy and gritty as his battered looks.
"Commodore, you have served Sol and the Alliance with dignity and honor for well over thirty years. You were the very first to graduate from the N7 Academy, one of the first in the fight against the turians, our first pick to be a Spectre. While it's fair to say your career hasn't been an unbroken chain of successes, you've had a few moments of glory."
The Admiral took a breath. "Which is why this... event that you've undergone has been so disturbing, and why there is a good deal of resistance to your return to active duty. Your service record is outstanding, but is also littered with incidents that demonstrate a certain failure to heed consequences. Being taken hostage in New York. The shootout on Arcturus. The…" Dill paused, eyeing Ahern with clear dislike. "...mess in the aftermath of the protection of the Turian Primarch and his son. All of these things lead me to question your judgment."
He made an opening gesture with his hand. "In line with that, you've sponsored five officers over the years, and all but one has turned out to be a disgrace to the Alliance uniform. Your only success, the late Major-Commander Shepard, was hardly a credit to the Alliance for much of her career... and I question whether you had much to do with salvaging that mess. Altogether, you're a little too reckless for my taste, and this incident seems to be more of the same, and with little cause."
The expression of the Commissar sitting beside Anderson hardened, but Dill went on.
"Nonetheless, based on the large amount of testimony and evidence presented by certain parties, it's clear Shepard was very much like a daughter to you. Her unexpected death was traumatic, and having you in charge of the recovery party on Alchera was not one of Admiral Branson's brightest ideas, but that failure cannot be laid at your feet. I'm not sure how I'd react if one of my daughters was blown out of the sky and then we didn't even have the balls to get the body."
Admiral Han made a moue of distaste at his phrasing, while Wychair was clearly smothering a grin.
The Admiral glanced back at the padd. "I don't want to suggest that what happened on Alchera was excusable – the actions you took were those of a madman, Commodore. You destroyed a valuable omni-tool that may have had information of vital importance to the Alliance, you nearly killed a Commissar, and you disobeyed a direct order. I will say that this board can empathize to some degree… but there are limits for such sympathy, and this crosses them."
Dill laid down the padd. "Ultimately, it has been argued by several people – including your own medical officer – that you were mentally imbalanced at the time. However, others have argued that you had other motives, perhaps malevolent ones."
Admiral Dill glanced at Admiral Han, who gave a glacially calm nod. Her voice was flat, lacking any melody save that of cold iron, and her expression was pitiless. "We have reviewed both the Commissariat and medical findings. The testimony presented by the medical and psychological officials overseeing your treatment inform us you suffered a psychotic break. We are told that you have no memory of events from a period roughly four days after Shepard's death. Is that statement correct?"
Anderson nodded briefly. "It is, Admiral. I was informed they tried some various techniques to counteract that, but... I can't remember anything from that point until I woke up in the mental hospital at... wherever I was held."
Han's eyes narrowed further. "I find that extremely convenient, Commodore. Troublingly so. I'm of course familiar with those techniques, and usually they do not engender memory loss. Certainly not of such a convenient duration."
Anderson arched an eyebrow. "Ma'am, it seems to me that if I have no memory of the event that it becomes more difficult for me to explain my motives at the time, which is unlikely to do me any good in convincing this body to restore me to command status. If I remembered anything, I'd say so."
Susan D'Alte frowned. "Admiral, the medical report already stated that the memory loss had been independently verified. Might I ask the point of the statement?"
Han smiled. "Merely pointing out issues that trouble us in our decision-making, Commissar." She glanced at her own padd. "To wit, the AIS had informed us some time ago that Shepard's omni-tool was likely to contain some information in relation what was given to her by Cerberus. It was the considered opinion of several operatives that Shepard was possibly investigating something else, which may have been one reason she was killed."
Setting her padd down, her smile became even cooler. "However, with your memory gone and the omni-tool destroyed, we have no way of verifying that. This is of concern to us, as it calls into question both your fitness and judgment as an officer and leads us to wonder if this was caused by a psychotic break at all."
She glanced at Wychair, who spoke in a warm, calming tenor at odds with his clipped delivery. "Normally, if this was a simple case of combat fatigue or the like, this hearing would be a formality before a restoration to command status. However, given the fact that you violated the military justice code and due to our... uncertainties, we find ourselves in the unusual situation of deciding your ultimate fate, Commodore... and perhaps your life."
He squared his shoulders. "There has been a proposal to submit you to experimental procedures to retrieve these memories. The charge of attacking a Commissar and disobeying orders alongside your other acts is enough for us to have you stripped of your citizenship and submitted to Alliance Medical for such a procedure. One you are unlikely to survive."
He glanced a moment at the blond Commissar standing next to Anderson. "Certain parties oppose that decision, but unfortunately for you, there is enough uncertainty about your actions that, if we so choose, we can authorize complete neural modification beyond what you have been exposed to in order to retrieve the missing information... and your motives for destroying it."
The Admiral shifted his shoulders. "There are three goals of this hearing. First, to determine if the medical possibility exists of restoring such memories – or at least obtaining the information. Second, if the prior is an impossibility, to determine exactly what should be done with you. Finally, assuming this panel does not see fit to discharge your service, your future." He paused. "If there is a possibility of restoring such memories, then we will have to make that determination based on the likelihood of it occurring, not merely its utility."
Dill's voice was cool. "On the plus side, if we can conclude these events were from a psychotic break you won't have to have a courts-martial for your violations, and we can dismiss the matter forthwith if memory retrieval seems unlikely. Do you understand, Commodore?"
Anderson nodded. "I do, Admiral."
Dill glanced at the Commissar next to Anderson. "You may be seated, Commodore. Commissar D'Alte, you said you had a statement? I would like to hear it before we hear the presentation of evidence."
Susan nodded, holding up a padd. "A copy was transmitted to your docket for review. In short, however, the Commissariat has reviewed all the available information, reports, and known facts of the case. We believe that the actions of the Commodore – particularly in attacking a Commissar – are the definite results of a mental breakdown. Commodore Anderson's career may have 'incidents' as you put it, but none of these were direct violations of orders."
Susan exhaled. "Additionally, the Commissariat suggests mental experimentation is unwarranted and unjust. The chance that memory restoration techniques could recover useful data is very low, and the fact remains that Commodore Anderson's life should not be thrown away for a single psychological breakdown. The acts he has committed do not warrant a death sentence if he was mentally compromised."
Admiral Han leaned back. "I find that a very... curious stance for the Commissariat to take, given your views on guilt and punishment."
Susan shook her head. "This is exactly in line with our views, however. The Commissariat punishes crimes, acts, and thoughts made deliberately and those made out of either negligence or ignorance. We do not, however, punish those who have no control over their actions. We are not justicars, madam. We fully believe the acts performed by Commodore Anderson are criminal. They are certainly worth punishment. But no one has demonstrated that they were made with malicious intent rather than psychological failure."
Her voice firmed. "Most importantly, the scale and scope of the acts are not, however, worthy of execution, nor can one make even the slightest plausible case that knowing what was on that omni-tool is of any value, since we do not have any firm idea what was on it to begin with."
Admiral Dill frowned. "That argument reeks of legalistic spuriance, Commissar. And without knowing the contents of the data in question, it strikes me as sophistry of the highest order. One might as well claim that if we catch a spy before he delivers his information to his masters that he is innocent."
The legal aid next to Susan spoke, her voice quiet and accented with the tonals of Arcturus. "Correction, Admiral. The Alliance Code of Military Justice clearly states in subsection seventeen that any prosecution of events that leads to capital punishment can only be defined on known, assessed values. The AIS suggestion that the omni-tool may have had valuable information is not even legally usable, as they did not at any time possess it or have any way to do more than conjecture without facts as to its contents."
Susan arched one golden eyebrow. "With all due respect, Admiral, and taking in mind what Lieutenant Morez just said, I don't feel that assumptions of importance can justify the choice to possibly kill the Commodore. Whatever happened to cause him to break may have had nothing at all to do with any information on the omni-tool. For all we know it captured Shepard's last, most likely horrific moments alive in graphic detail and that broke him."
She tilted her head. "In any event, I have been instructed to state that the High Commandant and the entirety of the Judgment Cadres have reviewed the case and recommend reinstatement with heavy monitoring and ongoing psychological counseling, not what can frankly only be called experimental and untested techniques that may reduce a useful warrior of humanity to a vegetable."
Admiral Dill turned to the doctors along one side of the room. "I see. You may be seated, Commissar D'Alte. Thank you for your statement." He glanced at the padd. "Before we hear the testimony of the panel, I understand there are others who wish to make a statement?"
Tradius Ahern stood. "I do, sir."
Dill regarded Ahern with distaste, but nodded. "Proceed."
Ahern took a deep breath before standing and placing his hands behind his back. "I've known David Anderson since we were both stuck in a swamp prior to N-series training. In the thirty-plus years of that relationship, I have never seen him act in a fashion harmful to the Alliance. I do know he was very much attached to Sara Shepard, and that he was already under a great deal of stress at the time of her death."
Ahern's eyes drilled into Dill's. "I'm sure someone who isn't planning on having their brain become a science fair project feels doing so to Anderson might reveal something. The only thing it will reveal, in my opinion, is callous disregard for the sacrifices and dedication David has shown. And if it is performed and nothing useful comes of it, I intend to have the people who recommended and executed such a travesty brought up on murder charges."
He finished with a glare at the doctors to one side of the board and then sat down. Wychair looked amused and Han scowled, while Dill merely nodded. "I have added your statement to the record, Admiral. Now, for the presentation. First, Doctor Clengory?"
One of the doctors stood up, a slender man with drawn, sallow features, cold black eyes, and a shaven head. He wore the uniform of an Alliance Medical colonel, and his voice was a cold, flat baritone. "I am Doctor Alex Clengory, in charge of Alliance Medical Adjustments. It's my belief that the subject's memory loss is trauma related – almost certainly due to a combination of alcohol abuse, the shock of the death of Shepard, and clinical separation."
The doctor's features didn't flicker in expression as he continued. "Regardless of the statements made by non-medical personnel, the truth is that chemical alterations of the mind may lock down memories but does not destroy them. With proper condition and use of psycholinguistic reprogramming, along with... careful surgical adjustment... we estimate an eighty-five to ninety percent chance of recovery of the memories in question."
Dill nodded. "I see. And the likelihood Anderson would survive this?"
Clengory arched an eyebrow. "That isn't in my purview, Admiral. I'm sure his psychological analyst could provide more detailed information. I will admit there is a very high chance he would be mentally damaged by such an event. However..."
He paused to smirk insultingly at the legal aid. "...given that neurolinguistic programming is not a criminal punishment nor does it usually result in death, it can hardly be classified or restricted as capital punishment is. I believe the relevant section of the law is section forty-five – needs of the Alliance and medical procedures under duress."
Admiral Wychair interjected. "To cut to the chase – how likely is it we could retrieve the memories without damaging Anderson, Doctor? And what outcomes would happen if we authorized further work?"
Clengory shrugged. "I already stated success factors. I would say that the chances are not good to extract the memories and leave his mind intact. The most likely outcome would be additional memory loss, possible loss of motor skills, and worst case, significant brain damage leading to loss of cognitive function."
Dill nodded. "I see. Thank you. Doctor Barnes, can you speak to the Commodore's mental health, and this procedure?"
Barnes stood, and Anderson concealed a frown. Barnes had been his chief psychologist during his incarceration, and the man's continued attempts at getting him to remember anything of use had been frustrating. Anderson's memories were curiously foggy about a lot of things since he'd been placed in Barnes care, and something about him left Anderson feeling uneasy.
Barnes glanced down at a padd he held and spoke, his normally nasal voice coming flat and clinical in the wide area of the room. His receding hairline and weak features didn't conceal the sharp and intense gaze of his eyes, however.
"The patient was cooperative during his observational period, and once we completed basic cortical and chemical adjustment, ceased any display of aberrant psychological effects. Per instructions from the AIS and countersigned by the High Admiral, we then performed the stated stage six neurochemical adjustment in hopes of reviving the patient's memory."
He sighed. "The result was to induce a state of psychosis and homicidal rage in the patient, and we had to forcibly subdue him. As Admiral Han is no doubt aware, NCA is a relatively new and untested field, and we have already made the statement that it's very likely the memories that are being sought were suppressed or possibly even destroyed by said adjustments."
Barnes glanced at Clengory. "While some parties may imply the memories could still be retrieved, I strongly believe that any 'recovery' would result in only a mangled and disorganized mess of no real value, and would at the very least destabilize the patient. Certainly, the fact that once the patient's rage petered out he experienced more lost memory and has demonstrated no further aberrant psychological effects would seem to support this."
Admiral Dill folded his arms. "Leaving aside the memory issues, assuming we decide to let him go, is the Commodore fit for duty? Is this kind of... mayhem going to recur if he's exposed to whatever set him off in the first place? For that matter, do we have any idea what did set him off? I can't put him in command of ships and men if he's a lunatic."
Barnes shrugged. "From what we can tell, at least for the moment, the Commodore is perfectly stable and sane, and is fit for service – and command. However, we don't know what 'set him off' as you put it – or if that had anything to do with the omni-tool at all. It may have been seeing the wreckage, or where the Major-Commander had been cut out from her death site and hauled away. Or, as Commissar D'Alte has suggested, it may have been something on the omni-tool that was of no real importance to the Alliance, but was traumatic for him personally."
Han shook her head. "And the chances of being able to figure that out?"
Barnes sighed. "Determining the exact factor or factors that caused this would be almost impossible to determine at this late juncture, and more than a little difficult to even investigate. Even the sort of adjustments Doctor Clengory advocates would only give us stream of consciousness at best, not nuanced explanation."
The doctor adjusted his glasses before finishing. "I would say that based on over six months of observations since the NCA, Anderson shows no signs of any psychosis or psychological trauma aside from normal grief responses due to the loss of a loved one."
Dill sighed. "I see. And from a medical standpoint, Doctor Arravay?"
The slender woman next to Barnes stood even as he sat down, her Indian features set off by her cybernetic eye. "Physically he is in excellent shape for a man of his age. We have conducted a full examination and found no evidence of neurochemical drugs or other potential alterations to his mental state, from a period of immediately after the incident to today, aside from the chemical balances and the NCA, of course." She paused. "There is minor liver damage from heavy drinking, however, which is something that should be medically addressed."
Dill glanced at Han, who spoke next. "AIS Agent Simons?"
A nondescript black man stood, his head shaved bald and his face bare save for a small pointed beard on his chin. He wore the split-coat of the AIS, his shoulder boards marking him as a major. "We've examined everything we could, both from the crash and at various other locales, such as Shepard's estate. While we believe the Major-Commander was investigating a number of troubling issues, it is our continued belief that whatever was on that omni-tool may have had major importance to the Systems Alliance and that she was lured out and destroyed by forces unknown due to said information."
Simons paused, then smiled faintly. "That being said, we have no proof, and since the request for full psycholinguistic reprogramming was denied at the time it was made, we may never know the answers. If we had performed the technique when we requested it, it could have been performed with minimal risk to the Commodore's sanity... or life. I'm much less willing to accept it could be done safely at this late juncture. However, we are of the opinion – and agree with Doctor Clengory – that it could still be performed with a high chance of retrieving this critical data."
Admiral Wychair frowned. "I'm not sure I follow. If you suspect the reason Shepard was killed was due to the information on the omni-tool – and we know that the damned pirates or whatever P.'s goons are got to her body first – why didn't they just take the omni-tool instead of her body?"
The AIS agent's expression flickered. "I'm afraid I can't go into details of that due to classification restrictions."
Wychair raised both eyebrows, the faintest hint of amusement on his features. "Is that so? Not exactly what I expected, but very well." He traded glances with Dill, who merely sighed.
"Commissar-Colonel Jaseth?"
The last figure at the table stood slowly, his uniform more elaborate than Susan's. "We completed our investigation some time ago, Admiral. While Commissar D'Alte has delivered the formal decision of the Commandant Corps, our investigation was concluded prior to that point." He met the eyes of the Admiral squarely. "Based on our findings, I would not recommend attempting further neural examinations, as it is likely to lead to a dead-end."
The Commissar took a breath, glancing at Susan before continuing. "However, based on several factors – including his psychotic break – we cannot agree to full reinstatement. A non-command position, with the heavy monitoring suggested by Commissar D'Alte, is the most I could recommend at this time. He is unfit to command based on several regulations, including B720C."
Dill scowled blackly. Regulation B720C was found in the Alliance Unified Code of Justice, and was a subsection to the acts covering fraternization between command staff and junior officers who were in the same family unit. "You are implying that the death of Major-Commander Shepard has left him unfit for command?"
The Commissar-Colonel hesitated for almost a full second before replying slowly. "We feel Commodore Anderson would disobey a direct order and incapacitate or kill any personnel trying to stop him if he came into possession of information on who was responsible for Shepard's death, sir. Regardless of the veracity of said information. In light of that, restoration to command status might put us in a position where a political officer would have to disable the Commodore."
Dill nodded. "Thank you." He glanced down at the padd, then back up at Anderson, before speaking.
"Commodore David Anderson, please stand."
Anderson did so, wincing a bit at the stiffness in his back, and squared his shoulders.
Dill tapped something into his padd, then waited several seconds. The other two Admirals exchanged glances and then nodded, and Dill gave a thin, sad smile. "It is the decision of this panel to adopt the following."
"First, the medical possibility of restoring your memory exists. It is an unproven, dangerous method that is either likely to be fatal or to reduce you to a vegetative state. Testimony from the specialists assigned to you seems to indicate that doing so may or may not result in anything, and will almost certainly not be, shall we say, legally sound on all counts."
He glanced up. "Given that the information such an experimental treatment may retrieve is highly speculative and possibly nonexistent, authorizing such an operation would be the equivalent of a death sentence."
Dill paused. "Given the state of war declared by President Windsor against the Geth, Commodore, your assault of a Commissar and disobeying direct orders is a capital charge. We are well within our rights to have you remanded to Doctor Clengory's Institute and process you forthwith."
Anderson kept his gaze straight on Dill's, although he heard Kahlee gasp softly.
The Admiral's beaten features tightened. "However, given the Commissariat recommendation, the lack of any firm details on the part of the AIS, and the report of the medical and mental personnel, the offenses committed appear to be due to your loss. As such, you are to be placed on non-command duty permanently, and in a state of military probation for no less than ten years."
Dill's voice hardened. "I won't suggest, Commodore, that I totally approve of letting this transpire in this fashion. We do not simply allow officers to behave as disgracefully as you have, and men have been broken from the service for far lesser misdeeds."
He exhaled. "Additionally, I agree with the Commissar and your psychologist that you do not have the full faith of the Alliance in your abilities and that, in the fullness of time, when we discover who murdered the Major-Commander that we can trust you to follow your orders in the manner befitting a command officer."
Anderson gave a tense nod, and Dill sighed. "In spite of that, the alternative is a punishment more severe than the crime deserves, and it would be a waste of your talents to simply dishonorably discharge you. I will not suggest this is a mercy, Commodore – there is almost zero chance of you even being given a command of any kind, much less promoted. Don't waste this chance."
Dill glanced aside at Wychair, who nodded and spoke. "You will be remanded back to the custody of the Commissariat – specifically, Commissar D'Alte – and if you display even the slightest psychological instability in the future, you will be returned to the Institute and the procedure discussed earlier will be executed forthwith and without appeal. Until Command comes up with a better place to station you, you will be placed at the disposal of Councilor Udina as a military adviser. You will retain your rank, but your command TAB has been struck."
Dill's expression softened. "If you cannot or will not accept that duty, you will be medically discharged from the Service. Keep in mind that if you choose that route, you will still be remanded to the custody of the Commissars."
Anderson nodded. "Understood, Admiral. If permitted, I would be glad to continue my service and work with Councilor Udina... and I'm grateful for your decision."
Dill leaned back, and nodded. "Very well. This panel is adjourned. Secretary, codify the notes and copy Admiral Branson and the Fleet Master, if you would." He glanced at Susan. "He's all yours, ma'am."
Susan nodded, coming to her feet somewhat stiffly, then gestured. "Thank you all for your consideration." She took Anderson by the elbow and guided him out, with Ahern, Sanders, and Chu following.
In the wide hallway outside, Anderson exhaled a long, gusty breath, and then smiled at Ahern and Chu as they came alongside. "Thanks for showing up to that. And for saying your piece, Tradius."
The sallow features of Yonis Chu were not softened by the black and silver AIS uniform he wore, but his voice was calm. "You're welcome, David. You did the same for me after the mess with Preston, after all."
Ahern snorted. "Bastards got pretty close to authorizing that creepy-ass doctor to give your brains a good stir." He grimaced. "Then again, David... they're not wrong about what was on that omni."
Yonis glanced uncertainly at his old friend. "What do you mean?"
Ahern exhaled. "Shepard was onto something. Someone. She never gave me details, but based on the reports I've gotten since I took over 5th Fleet and some stupid shouting with Dragunov, my guess is she found some pretty bad shit out." He glanced at Anderson. "I'm guessing whatever it was must have been enough to drive you over the edge."
Anderson nodded slowly. "I... I remember the last conversation I had with her. She was upset and wondering about the Alliance. But..." He shook his head. "I can't remember anything else, and the more I try to focus on the memories the hazier they get. It's a little upsetting."
Kahlee slid her arm through his, smiling softly. "It's okay. I talked to Donnel already, whenever the Commissars let you go, he's got a light set of duties for you. Mostly dealing with BuShips."
Ahern's eyes narrowed. "It may be a few weeks before that happens, Kahlee." He glanced at Susan. "I'm going to need to have him on a project I'm working on, with the Commissariat."
Anderson frowned. "A project?"
Ahern's eyes were dark with regrets. "Yes. Possible high treason, and maybe even worse." He faced Susan squarely. "I assume you'll get him briefed and on his way? I have to get back to the Citadel ASAP."
She nodded, smiling and patting Anderson's other arm. "I was going to let him spend a few nights in a nice Arcturus hotel and... get used to being out again. How quick do we need to move on this, assuming your conjecture is correct, Admiral?"
Ahern looked to Yonis, who shrugged. "I'm going Earthside to present to Prince Aloxius as soon as I leave. I figure he'll be... displeased and demanding action within a day."
Ahern nodded. "I'll need a day or so to get shit together fleet-side, and to get feedback on whoever else we can find. Have him at the Citadel by Friday, please." He turned to Anderson, clapping him on the shoulder. "Try not to fuck up and go crazy anymore, David."
He turned away, and Yonis also said his farewells, leaving Kahlee and David standing next to the shorter figure of Susan, who smiled widely as she handed them a pair of keycards. "So. I have a hotel ready, and you can relax and catch up on events. It's the Omni-Ashland, in the Sphere, on level two. Suite P2A. There's a Lancer guard there to ensure your privacy, although I figure the media will show up sooner or later."
The smile faded. "I'll need to talk to you in the morning, though. I'll come by after breakfast."
Anderson nodded, frowning a bit. "I'm not sure what kind of project I'd be needed for, given I've been locked up for years and I feel like I just woke up from a long sleep."
Susan took a deep breath. "And I'll explain everything in the morning – to both of you. But it's very big, and... probably very bad." She adjusted the tilt of her cap and forced another smile, but it seemed strained. "So, let me go get an aircar. I have to pretty much stay close by you at all times since you're in my custody… but I can give you a little privacy at the hotel."
Kahlee watched her walk away, arching an eyebrow. "She's got a limp. Usually all the Black Hats I see are the picture of health." She turned to and faced David squarely. "Jesus, hon, I thought they were going to kill you."
She buried her face in his chest as he held her, his own features a mix of relief and worry. "So did I, Kae. So did I."
O-TWCD-O
Tela Vasir entered the lowest floor of the tower her apartment was in, feeling fatigue wash over her as she waited for the elevator to come down to the ground floor. She'd spent the past two days overseeing repairs and refit of her strike cruiser, dealing with Spectre paperwork, and dodging reporters curious about her activities – as usual.
She never had enough help to get things accomplished, it seemed. Her ship had needed severe repairs after various actions alongside Delacor, and her hesitance in doing any further work for the Broker had crimped her accounts more than a little. She'd managed to pull together funding from a mix of sources as well as call in some favors from other Spectres, but the process was exhausting.
At last most of the work was done, at least the parts she needed to oversee. Figuring she didn't have a lot of value to add to the zero-g welding crews, she'd taken the opportunity to head back to her apartment and hopefully get some sleep.
She entered the elevator, tapping the top floor button, and leaned back against the wall of the elevator cab as it ascended. She was mentally too wiped out to bother trying to put together a message for the Butcher – or Sara Shepard, if Ahern's crazy AI was actually right. She'd deal with it tomorrow, after a full night's rest, some time with the Consort, and a few good meals.
The doors slid open, revealing the dark-paneled walkway leading to her apartment suite. As her eyes flicked over the door, however, she hesitated.
The security telltale tape she'd done across the corner was broken, and the two security mechs standing to either side of the door had been deactivated. She drew her shotgun from her hip and walked forward softly, using her biotics to lighten her footsteps.
Ever so gently, she eased the door aside with the barrel of her shotgun, revealing her front foyer and the far wall studded with weapons she'd collected over the years. The center place, which should have held Aunt Aethyta's prized warp sword, was bare.
Outrage and fury erupted into her heart as she flicked forward into the kanquess, coming out in a roll with her weapon leveled. A figure in brownish robes, plain and rough, stood looking out the floor-to-ceiling curved windows on the north side of her suite, staring out at the Presidium.
Even as her finger tightened to fire, the figure half turned and a sudden, unexpected pull wrenched her weapon free, flinging it harmlessly to the side. She answered with a heavy flare of warpfire, which the figure simply blocked with the warp sword before speaking.
"Your reflexes have gone to shit, girl."
Tela froze at that voice, staring hard at the slightly taller figure. "...Take off your hood."
With her free hand, the figure did so, revealing the tired, worn features of Aethyta Vasir. "Hiya, kiddo. Sorry for breaking in, but I'm sorta on a schedule, and I needed my sword back." She sheathed the weapon, stepping forward slightly, her robes gaping open to reveal flat black combat armor.
Tela's mouth worked quietly for a second before she shook her head to clear it, and she pushed more warpfire into her hands. "I don't think so. My aunt died on Omega. Whoever the fuck you are—"
Aethyta rolled her eyes. "—just disarmed a Spectre then blocked her warpfire with a Wave-Passes-Beach invocation. How many people do you think could do that besides me, Tela?" She sighed. "It's a long story why I'm here and how. And ugly. And I really don't have time to tell it, as unfair and shitty as that is to you."
Tela folded her arms. "I need a skin sample. Or I'm going to kill you."
Aethyta shrugged, holding out her hand. "Sure, babe. Still five hundred years too young to drop me, though. Just saying."
Fingers shaking, Tela ran her omni-tool over the other asari's skin and let the onboard computer – with its links to the Citadel Registry – run. The answer popped back a moment later. "Diagnostic Error : Target [Aethyta Vasir] deceased. No flash-clone fragments detected. Please recalibrate and retest."
Tela's eyes narrowed. "...How did you get onboard the Citadel? Not through C-Sec, the scanners would have thrown the same fit my tool did."
Aethyta gave a tired laugh. "Babe, I've been on the Citadel a thousand times. I taught more than a few people how to spoof security and bypass the guards. Getting past the scans is easy if you bribe the cargo people. How else do you think those quarian dancers at Edat's place get in?" She folded her arms.
Tela swallowed, and then shakily sat down hard on the couch to the right. Her emotions were too burned out, her mind too tired to grasp this. "You were dead. They said... you were dead. Enough blood was found that you'd never have survived, and your sword was left behind..."
Aethyta's features softened, and she knelt down in front of Tela, taking her hands in her own. "I pretty much was dead. The fight... it was Tetrimus. He butchered everyone with me, like it was a joke. I got him in the gut and he brought down the entire bay on top of me, broke my spine."
Something ugly and tired flared in Aethyta's eyes, and she glanced away, her voice rough. "Aria captured me and held me incommunicado for... abyss take me, the past two years. I thought for sure she was going to kill me at first, but instead she used me to keep someone else in line. That person is useless to her now... and so am I."
She paused. "But she still didn't kill me. The person that's useless to her is still dangerous enough that she let me go to end things on a good note rather than risk them coming after her for revenge. That's also saying she's written them off, and these people are in a lot of fucking danger."
Vasir grabbed her aunt's wrist. "And? Look, I'm sorry whoever these people are may be in danger, but …" She shook her head. "This is too tides-deep for me. Auntie, you were thought to be dead! They held a Remembrance, liquidated whatever assets you had..." She bit her lip. "And now... what? You come for your sword, to go after Aria... and die for real this time?"
Aethyta frowned. "No. Fuck Aria. Silly tramp. She's so lost in her own bullshit she doesn't realize she's neutralized herself. Aria's only scary if you forget she's still got a lot to lose and deep down inside she's still a scared weak girl. The only reason she didn't get taken out by the PMCs on Omega was due to the Butcher and Archangel killing most of them."
The older asari took a deep breath. "No, I have business to handle on Ilium. Important business."
Vasir looked up. "Ilium? The place is in blockade status after that crash, not to mention the fusion reactor explosion and all the killing. You can't get through."
Aethyta snorted. "Hah! I got here, didn't I? Trust me. I can get through." She paused, then gave a sad smile. "Don't worry about me. But listen. I know you do a lot of work with the Broker... trust me when I say you want to stay clear of this shit. Things are going to go bad."
Tela felt a chill run over her. "...Stay clear of what?"
Aethyta's face lost all softness, the eyes going cold and deadly. "The Broker is... directly responsible for a lot of bad things that happened." She glanced down. "You don't need details. I just wanted to see you one last time before I headed out, kiddo. Tell you a few things, maybe. Things I should have—"
Vasir shook her head again, more strongly. "No. No. Auntie you can't go dashing off into danger half-drunk and all beat up. If Aria had you imprisoned for two years, you're in no shape for a fight. And Ilium is not the shallows of the Traverse – you go there and they'll eat you alive!"
Aethyta stood and smirked. "Fishbits." She placed her hand on Tela's shoulder. "Sometimes we have to stop running from reality and face it. Stop pretending we're something we aren't. And sometimes there are things worth dying for."
Tela stood as well. "Then tell me why you're going to Ilium, at least. Don't leave me in the dark after falling out of my life for two entire years, Auntie. Please."
Aethyta's voice was hard. "I can't. You're tied in with the Broker..."
Tela shook her head. "I'm..." She exhaled shakily. "...the Broker had me produce false intelligence. Intel that ended up putting Shepard out in the middle of nowhere on the Normandy." She looked up, eyes full of misery. "That got her killed. Got Liara and the others killed. I... don't do work for him any longer."
Aethyta was still for long, grim seconds. Tela felt a tiny shiver crawl up her spine – even if Aethyta was drunk and tired, Tela wasn't sure if she could take Auntie in a straight fight.
Aethyta laughed, quietly. It was the most bitter, hateful and tired laughter Tela had ever heard, and the older asari sat down bonelessly on the couch behind her, lips twisted into a mocking smile. "So that's how the bastard did it. I'd always thought it had just been bad luck." She looked across at Tela, who met her gaze bleakly.
After a long second, Aethyta grunted. "If you want to come along with me, I need an Oath. You can't reveal the identities of the people we'll be meeting... and it's likely we're going to have to go after Tetrimus. You know how that's going to end."
The younger Vasir bit her lip and then nodded. "I know, Auntie." She gave a weak, tired smile of her own. "But I'm... tired. Goddess I'm tired. Of just about everything. Everyone. And I'm not letting you go after Tetrimus by yourself. I'll keep your secrets."
Aethyta nodded back slowly. "Tired. Yeah. I'm tired too, kiddo. Look... get some sleep first. I'll meet you at dock B-430 in Tayseri tomorrow at firstmeal. Make sure you come loaded for bear."
Tela nodded. "You're leaving now?"
Aethyta stood. "I gotta talk to one more person before I head out. Insurance, I guess. Or stupidity." The crooked smile became bitter. "Or both."
Impulsively, Tela lunged at her, hugging her tightly, trying to find some way to not just break down and cry. Aethyta tensed for a second before hugging her back, and after several seconds pushed her away and held her at arm's length. "Hey. I'm not dead. And I'm not gonna die. You get yourself together tonight, and tomorrow will be a better day, okay?"
Tela took a deep breath and nodded, and the older asari smiled sadly and let her go, pulling the hood of her robe up again and walking through the door. Tela watched her leave, before closing her eyes and trying to gather her shattered thoughts and emotions.
O-TWCD-O
Ilium was a place of many conflicting, often times paradoxical, extremes. Originally colonized by a group of lesser house daughters with little chance of inheritance, for centuries it languished as a mining and refining colony, employing tens of thousands of poor clanless with few other options.
During the First Krogan Rebellions, the capital city at the time, Arvahisi, was obliterated completely by a krogan-launched asteroid strike, and the krogan overran the planet briefly, seizing metal stocks and industrial equipment.
Compared to most of the brutal atrocities that happened during the Rebellions, the fighting on Illium had been almost subdued. There were of course horrors - rapes, forced labor camps, staged fights and the inevitable hunting of asari maidens in sick 'coming of age' ceremonies - but for the most part the krogan that sieged the planet were too busy stealing resources to truly settle in. Most moved on towards the richer worlds deeper in the Republic in short order.
The turians had crushed the krogan in the counter attack, and the fighting had been some of the worst. Tens of thousands of asari died in the crossfire, and the clans and Thirty abandoned the planet to flee back to Thessia at the first chance upon being liberated by the turians. The war wrecked much of the mining machinery and did horrible damage to the biosphere, and like many poorly established colonies of the asari, any kind of relief effort was an afterthought at best.
In the aftermath of the Rebellions, with the asari focused more on the turians and salarians as well as the political and economic fallout of said Rebellions, Ilium was effectively forgotten.
Although ostensibly a part of the Asari Republic, the Thirty saw the colony as an embarrassment and evidence of why lesser houses should not attempt to rise above their already fairly lofty station. With richer mineral sites available in Turian Space and the expanding markets of the volus opening up, the Thirty didn't even bother to try to dominate the planet's governance, although several murders in the months after the Rebellions killed off several popular clanless matriarchs.
Ilium eventually became successful over the long-term, as the clanless worked hard to retain their control. They expanded into trading minerals with the turian separatist movements, agreed to launder cash for criminal syndicates, and began utilizing the few skills they had to build up trade networks and business relationships.
Given the Thirty's disdain for mercantile pursuits for the sake of profit and the remote location of the colony, by the time the Thirty realized the planet was beyond their direct ability to control, it was far too late to change the situation. The clanless, unable to find work or comfort elsewhere flocked to the world, as did all kinds of 'unacceptables' - alternative religious groups, outlawed pleasure cultists and disaffected clan members were just some of the outcasts that came.
Between the power of the various cults - some of which rivaled clans in their size - and the determination of a handful of clanless leaders to have a world dominated by their own kind, Ilium had become the most rare of things - a gateway to the rest of the Republic. It had evolved from its mining roots into a dozen different industries and directions, and despite its economic might was still seen as an uncultured backwater by the Thirty.
That suited the clanless just fine.
The planet was run, in practice, by the corporate entities that sat on the Corporate Court of Ilium. These corporations were run in typical asari fashion, with CEOs voted into office based on performance. The Justicar Order worked heavily on Ilium, as more and more clanless dabbled in forbidden asari-asari offspring – more purebloods were found on Ilium than anywhere else, save the wild regions of Thessia itself.
It was only in the past three centuries that Ilium had become of any true importance, but the influence of Aria T'Loak and the Exodus had strengthened the planet immensely. When the Shadow Broker started his war with Aria over Ilium, she had given ground only gradually, with the last of her forces being driven off-world only two years back.
Sitting aboard the Broker's command ship, in orbit around the tortured gas giant the ship currently hid at, Tetrimus wondered idly if the place was even worth all the trouble. As he fixed his gaze on the figure of the quarian on his screen, he decided it probably wasn't.
"Well, Captain Arga? I seem to be lacking the scouting reports I was promised."
The Captain of the Shadow Broker's covert insertion vessel was a quarian exile, who was tapping a haptic console in front of him in agitation. "...No trace of the scout ship can be found, Ginnister Tetrimus. I've talked to a few contacts in Orbital Control, and they say the ship never arrived."
Tetrimus flicked his damaged mandible. "Agent Vatius gave his report on conditions on Ilium with the planet visible on his viewscreen, Captain. Obviously he arrived." He bared his fangs. "The fact that he isn't responding to hails and that his ship is missing doesn't imply to me anything but the worst sort of possibilities."
The Captain turned to face him and spread his hands, his black-armored environment suit clashing slightly with his mirror-finish face plate. "I do understand that, sir. And I've been attempting to find out what could have happened. But sensors don't show any wreckage, and there's certainly no way a firefight could have broken out in orbit with this huge fleet of asari ships everywhere."
Tetrimus felt like screaming. The plan to take down the ever-irritating Sisters of Vengeance – and lure the Butcher into the kill zone in the process – depended on being able to locate said asari and not fall afoul of whatever plans they had. Tetrimus was not one to respect the power of most of his enemies, but the cunning and skill the Sisters had shown was more than enough to earn his caution... which was rare for him to even think about, let alone feel a need for.
Tetrimus leaned back in his chair. "And that means what, exactly?"
Leaning against the wall, Tazzik lit his cigar and chuckled. "It means we got predicted... or we still have a leak, possibly one more more serious than we thought. Obviously the Sisters either tricked Vatius into going down to the surface without telling us he was doing that, and then hacked the records so it looked as if he were never here... or they somehow got aboard, killed him and his entire crew and did away with the ship and then hacked the records."
Tetrimus took a steadying breath. "These two are very dangerous, Tazzik. Vatius was no novice at this game, and yet I doubt very strongly we'll find him alive."
Tazzik pushed off the wall. "Then what's the play? Hop on a ship with some kill teams and just head down there?" He snorted. "I like a fight. That wouldn't be a fight, though."
Tetrimus shook his head, and turned away from the viewport. "No, it wouldn't be. I fear nothing, but even I will admit the Sisters are no mean foe... and that they respond with overkill every time. They crashed a starship into the surface to kill your body double. Going down there without any form of leads strikes me as unwise. Like it or not, that's enemy territory. What data brokers are friendly to our forces?"
Tazzik shrugged and glanced at the captain, who spoke. "Several independent brokers – Agaris Agency is the most well-known and connected. Most of the big players have distanced themselves from us and some have even broken their Link." He paused. "In theory we've still got a lot of people down there, at least thirty or forty data sources, brokers, and the like. But none of 'em have more than level one or two access, and none of them are killers. They're clerks."
Tetrimus nodded, thinking, and then turned to face the viewscreen. "Captain Arga, drop two kill teams on Ilium and let me know what happens to them – and how long it takes. If they're ambushed and killed within six hours of dropping, then we have a leak. If it takes longer than that, then they're just very good at figuring out who our people are."
Arga nodded slowly. "I can do that, but the asari in orbit are... likely to cause issues. It's not just the Sisters and the FTL crash that has them agitated. There is a justicar cruiser here with ten justicars onboard searching the planet for someone."
Tazzik puffed on the cigar. "Huh. You don't think the justicars are looking for the Sisters, too? That would neatly solve the problem, without us having to get involved."
Tetrimus mused on this, but then shook his head. "Doubtful. The justicars probably see the entire situation as clanless fighting clanless. And even if they are looking for the Sisters, it doesn't matter – the Broker wants a message sent, and we have to be ones to send it. Not to mention the justicars are more than likely to side with the Butcher, whose stated she's in league with the Sisters."
He glanced at the viewscreen again. "One more thing, Captain. Put together a list of trustworthy data brokers who have more ties than just being on the Network. Some big names."
Arga shrugged. "I'll try. A lot of big names left the planet already, but there's at least a few groups fronting for the AIS or STG. I'll get a few together and comm you."
"Good. Tetrimus out." He clicked off, then rubbed tiredly at his neck where the cybernetic interfaces pierced into his body. "Tazzik, you got your people ready?"
The big salarian cyborg nodded, puffing again on the cigar. "As ready as we can be. Once the kill teams localize the bitches, I'll put down teams to block retreat and others to cause enough mess elsewhere on the planet to keep the cops tied up." He scratched his chin. "Might want to add some teams to tie up those justicars, too."
Tetrimus shook his head. "I'll have our people figure out who they're looking for, and we'll drop them a hint just before we move in for the kill. What about the Butcher?"
Tazzik shrugged. "We're gonna have to play that by ear, I think. We'll need additional men to tie up her people – she's got some nasty support, not to mention that crazy fuck Massani. That bastard is going to take a lot of killing, and we can't afford to get cocky and assume we can take them out."
Tetrimus stood. "I'm not going to be 'cocky', Tazzik... but I have to admit, I'm looking forward to maybe fighting someone who can finally present me more than a few seconds of amusement in a fight. Are you not the same?"
Tazzik grinned. "The Boss doesn't like that kind of attitude."
Tetrimus flicked a mandible, his voice dry. "And I have learned that what the Broker does not need to know will never upset him if he is simply never informed. Prep your teams while I put my own strike team together. We'll give that fool Arga one more week or so, ten days at the outside, and then we leave for Ilium."
Tazzik ground out the cigar against the steel bulkhead and nodded, tucking the half-smoked cigar into a pocket on his belt. "Who's going to run Exodus while we're busy?"
Tetrimus shrugged. "The Broker himself, I suppose. Barla Von is handling some of the more esoteric financial aspects. At this stage it's mostly self-implementing, we only need to wait for the clone banks to finish their work." He moved toward the door of his office, Tazzik slowly following, and smiled to himself. "I think things are falling into place nicely, assuming Arga can find the Sisters."
Tazzik shrugged. "Maybe so. But Shift thought things were going his way too, and now the bastard is free-floating atoms. I'm going to keep my eyes open for shit going wrong in this operation. So should you."
Tazzik stalked past Tetrimus, and the turian found himself ironically amused. "It's a bad day when even one such as you feels fear."
