Chapter 39
"In reality, when you have once devoted your life to your enterprises, you are no longer the equal of other men, or, rather, other men are no longer your equals, and whosoever has taken this resolution, feels his strength and resources doubled."
— Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo
August 2220
Day One
Severe whiplash, multiple broken bones, acute blood-loss, and three quarters of his QIS 612 colonies had been bled out of him, meaning that his immune system was comparable to that of a human infant's. Had he been human, just two hundred years ago, he would have either died or been crippled for the rest of his life. Had it been even thirty years ago, on the Migrant Fleet, Jorell'Sahn vas Balboa II would have been declared completely unsaveable and euthanized not only for his own good, but for the good of the fleet. In August of 2220, in the common era, however, the Quarian was merely laid up in a hospital bed, sealed inside a lowly humming, sterilized, self-contained environment, hooked up to numerous medical machines and wrapped up like a human mummy, as the machines did their work on the problem areas.
The Quarian lolled his head down, staring at the casts covering his arms, his chest, and one of his legs. Underneath these casts were machines, the likes of which he simply didn't even know how to describe. All he knew was that these machines were not only keeping him alive, but working to reverse the damage done to him. Instead of being hospitalized for months and awaiting dozens of surgeries, all that had to have been done to him was to remove any shrapnel from his body, surgically remove any infected tissue, and set his bones, the machines did the rest of the work, the doctors were there to make sure nothing went wrong, and even then, there was an AI that could watch him when they weren't there.
Staring at the machines, Jorell silently wished that he'd learned more to medical practices than basic first aid. He'd heard talk about the machines being able to accelerate the body's natural cellular division, and mentionings of nano-surgery, but it was all gibberish to him. In Khelish, he was being healed, and should be back in fighting shape in as little as four days, with a month of shore-leave guaranteed, save for an outbreak of another war, though that was as likely as it wasn't.
The Quarian sighed, it was at least one more day of bed rest until he could get up and walk on his own again. He looked up to the holographic television, hovering just a few feet outside of his SCE, its faint, lowered audio broadcasting into his sterile environment. He had control over it, he could change it to whatever he wanted, but he was on and off sleeping, meaning he couldn't get too into anything he was watching, because he'd fall asleep and there went his movie. Right now it seemed to be playing something from a genre unique to humans, they called it 'Superheroes'. Jorell had the luxury of seeing it from both sides: an alien perspective, having been raised by a mother who hadn't experienced any of these things, and a human one, having been born and raised in human society, in which everything felt intrinsic to him.
As he watched one hero in a form-fitting suit and a red cape do battle with some creature that seemed to be made of stone, he recalled that humans, due to a complete lack of any element zero on Earth, were never experienced to biotics until well after they had made First Contact. This meant that humans, in a move completely unique to them, envisioned in their realms of fiction beings able to operate outside the laws of scientific understanding, and called people with these abilities 'superhumans'. Anything from the understandable ability to fly unassisted, to the downright bizarre concept of being able to cast heat from their eyes, or other various body parts, really. From what his mother had told him, the first time she had heard of 'Superman', she had been stupefied. One being, capable of levelling cities and defacing planets, by himself? With no weapons? It had been nearly impossible for her to imagine something so powerful, so alien, especially when the most 'supernatural' thing she could compare it to were biotics, and then, they didn't work by disobeying the most fundamental laws of physics, much the opposite, they worked by strictly obeying those laws. Biotics manipulated mass, plain and simple, but human superheroes were merely stated to be able to do what they could do, the how and why were never explained, merely speculated and expanded upon as their sciences advanced.
Jorell could remember once, being mystified by superheroes, back when he was younger. He also, very, very vividly, remembered thinking that the stories in which the very mortal, very human heroes defeated the veritable gods were completely ridiculous. After all, a human in a cape and a cowl, being able to take on and defeat an invulnerable being that could break apart a planet with his fists? He had thought the idea preposterous, and a part of him still did, but after seeing those two SIGMAs fight, he wondered if those stories weren't as far-fetched as he had once thought. Those were two mortals, two regular human beings, brought beyond the bleeding edge through sheer creativity and ingenuity, and had, if only for a few minutes, made the universe obey them, and not the other way around.
Faintly, he remembered hearing of a story that mixed the modern understanding of the universe, namely element zero, and applied it to the heroic stories that the humans loved to tell. The result had been a fight, between two heroes that were older than the human space program. One of them was a physical god, largely unable to be killed save by a few specific weaknesses, the other was a mortal man, with no special characteristics save an insatiable lust for justice. From what Jorell had been told by some of his more knowledgeable friends in highschool, these two heroes fought semi-frequently in the past, and there was a very thin dividing line between the fans of the two heroes over who would actually win.
The biggest problem, however, was that in previous fights, the mortal needed time - if even just a few moments - to prepare, to don a suit of power armor to bring himself to the god's level, and that always meant he had to rely on the then-current understanding of science and technology. With the advent of element zero, however, suddenly his ability to stack up against gods was much greater, for all he had to do was create a way for his suit to utilize element zero, similar to how a starship did so. Biotic power armor was his solution - boiling down to the most basic equation for force, mass multiplied by acceleration. The human himself wasn't biotic, but he had a suit of armor that could replicate its effects, and with enough sheer power, he could theoretically blow apart mountains with his mass-affected armored fists.
The result, Jorell saw as he dully watched the film in front of him play out, was a human that could fight gods, and potentially even win. He had once thought that the concept of gods fighting in a world of mortals, and even such flippant disregard for the natural order of things, was simply impossible - a work of human fiction. On the holo-screen, the power-armored human pulsed with dark violet fire and threw his fist upward, as the light bent around it, and pounded the stone-skinned creature in the face with a thunderous uppercut. The creature flew upwards into the air, only to be caught by the red-caped individual who clenched both fists together and smashed them into the creature's back, sending it careening through the air.
Yet… Thought Jorell, who had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hadn't even truly been paying attention to the movie. I saw it with my own eyes. The days on Manheim seemed so distant, and yet had barely been in motion more than thirty hours ago. His mind drifted back to the things he had seen, the ancient monsters in a pristine alien bunker, the men and women dying around him, the feel of his gun jumping in his arms, the terror he felt in his heart. The Quarian sighed, pressing his hand into his head, I… Wonder what they'll do with those alien guns. He thought, trying to push the more gory thoughts from his head. They… Well, 'seemed' is the first word to come to mind, but they damn well only reacted to human touch. Bots, Quarians, nothing else tripped them up, and yet if a human even looked at one, they opened up and got killing. Wonder what that means… Could've just been a cosmic coincidence, the planet was pretty similar to Earth, maybe something evolved sentience, and was similar to the Humans. Their general shape does seem to be a mainstay - you've got them, us Quarians, the Asari. Granted, the Asari came first, so I guess they're the mainstay… Agh. He sighed again and blinked hard, focusing on the movie for a few minutes to try and drown out his thoughts. The sounds of men grunting, bones breaking, stone shattering, and things exploding flooded his mind, and he briefly wondered how intelligent of an idea it was to show an action movie to a bunch of combat veterans.
I wonder if there's something to that, though. Really, aside from the Hanar, the Elcoor, and the Volus, all known species have the same general shape… Ah, I'm thinking too much into it. Bipedal, upright, all of that's conducive towards survival and the development of heavier brains. It's a little weird that humans found billion year old guns that only work for them, but there's a reason in there. Hell, could've just been an amino acids thing - levo is fine, but dextro? Not so much. He watched the power-armored human clench his fist, his synthetic biotic energy channeling around him in a deep blue firestorm, next to him, the blue-caped man held up his fist, which began shaking and vibrating with ever increasing intensity, to the point where it got so fast it looked like it was barely moving at all. Yeah… That's probably it. Yeah. He nodded to himself, that's -
"Knock knock." He heard, accompanying the rapping of knuckles on his SCE.
Jorell started, and his head whipped up and to the right, his entire body briefly flaring into pain as it reminded him that sudden movements while he was still recovering was a very bad idea. He saw, outside of the transparent bubble, Paul Dosdon. The man had an exoskeleton wrapped around his waist and supporting his legs, both of which were wrapped up tight in thick casts. The Sniper raised an eyebrow, waiting for the Quarian to respond to him.
Jorell, his heart thumping in his chest, wiped away the holographic television and unfiltered the audio from the outside, so he could hear his new guest. "Dosdon, I wasn't expecting to see you." He said, his light voice broadcast from the speakers outside of his SCE.
"Wasn't really planning on it." Dosdon responded dully, "but I got news: being retired."
"What?" Jorell blinked, sitting upwards and tilting his head. "They're benching a SIGMA? Can they do that?"
"Washout, SIGMA." Dosdon corrected, his gravelly voice lowering dangerously, as if he weren't happy about it either. "And they can when said SIGMA has ARS, and can't get proper modern medical treatment. My injuries, therefor, are largely limited to the best they can do without surgery that'd trip my ARS - anything from before the twenty third century, basically. I am now, officially, crippled, and I can no longer serve in combat." He indicated his legs.
Jorell blinked, "you're still walking." He said.
"Only because of this exo unit. Same kind they use for combat ops on high-gravity worlds, just adapted for... Civilian use." Dosdon countered, the pause before the usage of the word 'civilian' clearly indicating his distaste for the word, and how it labeled him. "But that's neither here nor there. Get up, I've got a present for you." The shaved former sniper ordered, waving at Jorell as he turned to walk out of the room. The sniper made it three steps before he realized Jorell hadn't budged an inch, he turned back around and saw the engineer, still seated upon his bed. "Oh."
"Yeah." Jorell indicated his multitude of bandages and casts, "I'm not moving anywhere."
"And you think you're Force Recon." Dosdon shook his head, his bright eyes lowering as he thought to himself for a moment. "What do you need, a suit? An exo unit?"
"The medics will kick my ass if they find me out of bunk. I'll be AWOL."
"I haven't been retired yet, and washed out or not, I got an ID tag when I went to be augged, so I've still got a little SIGMAuthority left in me. I'll say it was for your health." Dosdon said, "I'll be back in a minute." He turned back to the door and continued walking, the servos on his legs silently moving him across the floor with no trouble.
What the fuck is SIGMAuthority? Jorell asked, as he watched the sniper exit the brightly lit, sterile white room. Why is he trying to bust me out of here? He wondered, leaning back into his pile of pillows. He and Dosdon hadn't had much interaction beyond what had been necessitated on Manheim, and they hadn't seen eachother once since they had been brought back to Arcturus for medical treatment. Jorell had just assumed he'd likely go a very long time without even hearing about the washed-out SIGMA, let alone actually seeing and speaking to him. Unless he was mistaken, beyond a few good moments on the battlefield, he hadn't done anything to really 'bond', so the fact that Dosdon was actively trying to break him out of the hospital - which he wasn't entirely certain was a good idea in the first place - just felt like it came from left field.
It can't have anything to do with the SIGMA fight, can it? What did I do beyond chuck a few grenades and get my ass kicked? Jorell wondered, leaning back into his pollows and staring blankly at the ceiling.
A few minutes passed by in silence, before he heard footsteps entering the room again, and Dosdon came clanking into the room, a collapsed exo-unit slung over his shoulder, and an enviro-suit clutched in his free hand. The suit wasn't Jorell's preferred forest green, but it also wasn't the sterile white he would have come to expect from a hospital. Its dark blue synthetic skin stretched and groaned under the strength of the human sniper's grip. Dosdon's feet hit the ground with dull metallic thuds, and he came to a halt in front of Jorel's SCE. He opened up the pod's airlock and shoved the suit in.
"Put it on, I'll help you into the walkers." Said Dosdon, as the airlock cycled and decontaminated the suit.
"And… Why, am I doing this?" Jorell asked, as he reached forward and pulled the suit through the airlock, deftly running his hands over the seals and disassembling it from a Quarian shape into a mass of disconnected parts.
"I told you: I'm being benched. I've got a couple things I want to give out before I go, and you're on the giving end." Dosdon said, as he swung the second pair of mechanical legs off of his shoulders and pulled them apart, assembling the unit as Jorell slipped his legs into the suit.
"And… What would you possibly have to give to me? We've known each other… What, a week? Less?"
"You made the connection in the Painter vault that their tech reacted to humans, and humans alone. You broke through the firewalls on our drones - some of the most advanced firewalls in the galaxy. You were instrumental in orchestrating the death of two SIGMAs. I have reasons." He said, "but I had a friend stow those reasons away in the Arcturus Human/Quarian History Museum, so if you want your gift, we've got to go there."
"Well, I'm always up for getting cool new things from humans…" Jorell trailed off as he removed some medical equipment from his arms and slipped the torso of the suit on over his head. "But not knowing what, and not understanding why, especially after seeing the stuff we saw on Manheim…" He shrugged his shoulders, and slipped his arms into the arms of his suit, quickly latching the various pieces together and sealing them. "You know?"
Dosdon nodded briefly, "I do, actually. Thirty five years ago, at the conclusion of my SIGMA Seven, I was told that we had definitive proof that there were living species beyond my own, and I found myself unable to trust my own government as I coped with the information. Eventually I saw the wisdom in their decision, and it taught me -"
"Wait, how old are you?" Jorell asked, jaw slack and one eyebrow raised, as he affixed the seals on his neck and assembled the helmet around his head.
"Sixty seven."
"And you're still serving combat duty?" Jorell blinked, his helmet clicking onto his face, and cool air flowing through the tubes above his neck.
"Humans aren't like Quarians, as we figured out how to fight disease, so too did we figure out how to live longer and healthier. As time goes on, we age slower. The age limit for active combat is seventy five, though I do not know if you've been following it, but they've been debating raising that age to eighty. Regardless, I saw the wisdom in the decision, and it taught me that information, or, more specifically, the lack thereof, can be just as deadly as a weapon in a soldier's hands." He crouched down low, the servos and motors in his suit groaning as it supported his whole weight, felt around for a button on the base of the Quarian's exo unit, hitting it and powering up the mechanical legs as Jorell finished assembling his suit, which bulged out visibly around the various casts that covered his body.
"So… You're giving me information?" The engineer asked, sliding his feet over the side of his bed and entering the combination to vent the SCE and allow him exit.
"Yes and no. I'm giving you something no one will ever expect you to have, but it'll be up to you to make it worth something." He picked up the exo unit by the pelvis and carried it over to Jorell, who had one hand braced against the rigid surface of the SCE, his legs wobbling and his chest clenched tight as he bit back the waves of pain flowing over his bruised and partially broken body.
"Hm." Jorell grunted, taking Dosdon's hand and ambling into the exo unit. He fit his waist into the suit and slipped his stiff legs into the braces and locks, which quickly clamped down and tightened. He felt a light static shock run up the back of his spine, and a moment later, a green light flashed on the control panel next to his right hip, followed by a cool tone, signifying the suit was ready. Jorell flexed his legs, the suit whining almost inaudibly with each movement. "So, why the history museum?"
"Who in their right mind would store deadly weapons in a history museum?" The sniper asked, glancing up to Jorell as he patted down the sides of the exo unit's legs, making sure nothing was loose and the suit hadn't mistakenly given the green light. He nodded and leaned upwards, patting Jorell on the back and nodding towards the door that led out of the dimly lit paper-white room.
"You stored deadly weapons in a history museum?" Jorell couldn't help but fight back a grin, only a SIGMA could talk about such things so non-chalantly.
"I did no such thing. A friend did." The sniper said, as the two dully thudded out of the hospital room. "And besides, in case of enemy invasion, SIGMAs have a small arsenal, with enough arms to fully outfit a three-man squad, stored in at least two buildings every three square kilometers."
Jorell blinked, turning to stare at Dosdon from behind his dark blue visor. "You're joking."
"In every single one of those buildings on the station, there is one locked room that even the superintendent doesn't have a key to. I am not joking." Dosdon said, his scarred face completely straight.
"And how has no one figured this out yet?"
"We started a rumor on the internet, so no one believes it." Dosdon shrugged.
The sniper and the engineer spent a quarter of an hour walking the man-made streets of Arcturus station. The air in Arcturus, much like the air in any vehicle that was meant to stay in space for more than a few hours at a time, had the distinct difference from air on a planet, in that it had a subtly synthetic, chemical smell to it. There were dozens of rows of hundreds of machines parked deep in the bowels of the station, constantly working to scrub the carbion dioxide and turn it back into breathable oxygen, constantly mixing it with various cleaning chemicals so it came out perfectly breathable, and it too was coated with a light smelling agent so it didn't smell stale or recycled. The result was what many people called 'canned air', or air that clearly had only ever been alive, or from a planet, once.
Jorell found himself in a small state of awe as he strode through the station. The only comparable thing to it in the known galaxy was the Citadel, and the stories had said that the Protheans had taken centuries to build it, whereas the humans had built Arcturus in less than fifty years. It was a veritable city in space, with roads, lights, buildings, and the ever-present white noise to boot.
At its center were the offices of the Board of Directors and the various members of the Alliance Parliament, and spreading outward in a very strict grid-like pattern were the various, less formal buildings, shopping malls, apartment complexes, restaurants. In a space station, everything was built with space conservation being the first, second, and last consideration, comfort came only when everything else was finished and set in stone, which meant that only the obscenely rich and the members of the Board of Directors could live in lavish, spacious conditions. It took years just to make a one kilometer addition to the station's superstructure, though the humans had worked around such a limitation by adopting a very modular design. This afforded engineers space and breathing room with which to make extensions or additions to the station, all they had to do was build the parts, ship them to the Arcturus Stream, put them together, and latch them onto one of the station. The result was a station that never truly stopped growing, and a man-made city that truly represented all that was humanity: impossible only existed if one wanted it to.
The two made idle talk along the way. Jorell learned that, like him, Dosdon had joined the Alliance almost right out of highschool, and his exemplary service and top marks got him the eye of the SIGMAs. Before they had been made public knowledge, they had been created almost specifically because of the Prothean Ruins the humans had found on Mars, and they had told him that aliens existed, and had been watching the humans for a long time. His choice, he had been told, was to either join the SIGMAs and be first, best line of defense for humanity in the likely event of interstellar extraterrestrial war, or refuse, and instead go career in the military, eventually retiring like a good little civilian. Dosdon had said that the choice had made itself, and he'd suffered through seven years of SIGMA training, before they'd put him under the needle. Back then, he'd explained, ARS was still very new, and there was no way yet to detect it early, so they had only figured out he'd had it after they had already irreparably augmented his eyes. After that, he'd been given a choice - continue serving in the military, or retire with a pension plan, neither option requiring him to ever worry about paying for the ARS treatments.
"And I don't think I have to explain which option I ended up going with."
"You obviously became a civilian."
"Yup." Dosdon said, as they crossed a busy street, the crowds flowing past them, busying themselves with work, or trying to get home, or merely moving with a purpose. "There it is."
Jorell's head snapped up, they were approaching a large, angular building which stood at the end of a small intersection. Given the early time of day, the one Public Transit vehicle entering was almost completely empty, and there were fewer people rushing in or out on foot. There was a large, thick sign posted in front of the building, proudly declaring it to be the first human/quarian history museum.
"Inside…" Read Jorell, as they approached the sign from the side, and slowed down for him to read it. "You can find the histories of the founding members of the interstellar Human Systems Alliance." He nodded, an eyebrow raising from behind his dark blue mask. "I like how we're still the Human Alliance, even after first contact." He mentioned, casting a glance towards Dosdon. "We going to find one of those 'locked rooms' in here?"
"Indeed, on both accounts." Said the sniper, his face set in stone as he cast a brief look around at their surroundings. "As to the first, that's got more to do with Earth and the United Nations than it does with semantics."
"Oh?"
"Yes." The two began walking again, strolling across a small parking lot, filled with patches of imported dirt and grass. "Earth and the UN created the Alliance. It was always meant to be a human government. They did try to get the name changed, but there were too many nay-sayers, and even back then, Earth pulled too big and too many a strings to be ignored like it is these days. It'd probably take a third species entering our little coalition to get a name-change pushed through, but it's unlikely." He explained, as they drew closer to the looming building, its massive circular pillars casting an intimidating shadow on the ground.
"Why's that?"
"New standard: If possible, do. Not. Initiate first contact." He explained, waving a hand in front of the handicapped holo-plate and waiting as the wooden doors swung open. "We learned our lesson with you and the Turians."
"Hm." Now what did Dosdon expect him to say to that? Sorry?
"Regardless. The thing may be here, but I can't bring you into the room. So go ahead and wander, it'll take me… Fifteen minutes, to get in, find it, and get out." Said Dosdon, as he turned his head to the Quarian. "Alright?"
Jorell bit back a smart remark, "yeah. Alright." He nodded, and the two parted ways.
Jorell soon found himself aimlessly wandering the halls of the museum. The place was stark empty, both due to the early time of day and the volatile nature of the news being broadcast these days, most people were at home or at public places where they could watch the news; what with the Rebellion on its way to dissolution and with the 'Terran Ghost' confirmed on Manheim and unable to escape, people were all but waiting for the war to be over and for peace to reign in the Alliance for the first time in twenty years.
Jorell blinked the sleep out of his eyes and, with a yawn, rubbed his bandaged neck, marveling at the fact that twenty years of war would have been multiple eternities during the days of the Migrant Fleet. The one and only actual armed conflict, according to his mother, that had ever occurred during those days was a two day military engagement with a mercenary force that had shown up in a solar system the flotilla was occupying. Taking offense that the Quarians had gotten there first, the Mercenaries started shooting, and sent soldiers down to the planet to push them off. The flotilla, in response, pointed each and every one of its fifty thousand ships' guns at the comparatively small mercenary squadron, blasted them into oblivion, and then harassed their forces on the planet until they finally surrendered. After then, no one ever attacked the fleet directly, though large and dangerous battle fleets tended to 'coincidentally' arrive a few days before the Migrant Fleet ever showed up at the larger colonies.
Jorell wandered through the more modern sections of the museum, he knew that history well enough. What interested him were the sections deeper in the museum, the ones that told about the earlier histories. The way the museum was laid out, each room had two halves, one half - all adorning one wall - was the human side of things, and on the other wall was the Quarian side. The designers and architects had tried their greatest to synch up Human history and Quarian history, but outside of scraps from the Migrant Fleet and paintings or images of the ships, there wasn't much physical history from the flotilla, and the artifacts from Rannoch and from before the Geth War were all priceless and were kept on the more-Quarian-populous planets Eden and Keelahnan. The only pre-flotilla artifact kept here was a sword and shield from an ancient warrior from Rannoch, some three million years ago. Quarians kept damn good records of their history, but necessity from the era of the Migrant Fleet meant that they couldn't keep too many artifacts, though rumor had it that the Director for Quarian Affairs spent half of her annual budget buying artifacts from collectors in Citadel Space. It wasn't much, but it was something.
After a few minutes just gazing over things from the last twenty years - and giving a little more attention to the most shared picture from the Second Contact War, the one where a Human SIGMA, rifle leaned against his hip, held out his hand to a wounded Migrant Fleet Marine, as from one direction Humans and Quarians stormed the Turians on the other side of the painting. No one knew who it was that had gotten the original picture, but many said that it would stand the test of time as one of the most famous images ever produced by Human society. Jorell eventually reached the earlier sections of Human and Quarian history, the twenty second century mostly focused on how Humans settled Eden and figured out how and where they fit in, in the Galaxy, and all of the scientific advances they'd made during that time. The Migrant Fleet section was comparatively bland, but still packed with the names of ships bought, constructed or refurbished, the most memorable gifts from pilgrimages, the works.
Jorell ended up slowing to a halt when he read the entry on a Quarian from a century ago, who shared his name, had made the museum with his pilgrimage gift. He'd ended up spending three years separated from the fleet, but had returned with an epic story of how he ended up almost literally falling into service with a little-known mercenary group, defended a colony from a horde of angry vorcha and Batarian slavers, and had been rewarded with a decommissioned Asari colony ship - by Quarian standards, he'd struck gold. Asari colony ships were massive vessels, capable of holding a few thousand Quarians if they were lucky, and just under ten thousand if they really rationed out space. The Quarian had been guaranteed a spot as Captain on the new ship, but he'd needed a few years of training and experience before he could have taken over as Captain of the Qwib-Qwib.
Entering the era of the twenty-first century, merely two hundred years ago, brought more of the same for the Migrant Fleet. The largest section on the Quarian half was on how the food processors on the Rayya and the Alarai started failing at the same time, and Quarian population stopped growing for seventy five years as they rationed everything and spent almost every waking moment of free time fixing their food processors. The Humans, however, had their third - and last - world war, space tourism, the first ever Human settlement on Luna, experiments - and repeated failures - of conventional faster than light technology, advancing communications, the Humans were, as they liked to say, 'hitting their stride'. Jorell's favorite part of the twenty-first century exhibit was an entry on the 'near-death' of the motion picture industry that had lasted from the latter half of the first decade of the century, well into the late 2000's. Even Humans weren't perfect, it seemed.
Entering the nineteenth century exhibit, however, showed Jorell something out of the ordinary. A Drell was standing, innocently and silently gazing at the Human half of the room, reading exhibits on Zeppelins, and occasionally glancing back to paintings hung up on the Quarian half of the room, as if comparing the two. Jorell slowly examined the exhibits, occasionally glancing toward the Drell, trying to find the subject of comparison, but unable to draw any connection.
Fortunately for him, the deep-blue eyed Drell spoke up before he could even mention anything. "Good morning." He said, his voice deep and rumbly.
Jorell reciprocated the greeting. "Finding anything interesting?" His first instinct was to comment on how uncommon it was to find a Drell on a Human space-station, but he doubted he even had to say it - the Drell probably already knew.
The green-skinned alien nodded once. "Many times I have looked up to the stars and wondered what is happening to others beyond me." He said, his deep voice temporarily mesmerizing the Marine. "The universe is a vast place. Many things happen at the same time. While we stand here, gazing at history, brave men and women are ending a war halfway across the galaxy. While they fight that war, an engineer works on the next technological innovation. While he works on the next technological breakthrough, a husband kisses his wife, assuring her of his love. An assassin kills his mark." He slowly rocked on his feet, but clenched his mouth shut tight as his eyes glazed over.
Jorell had heard about this, Drell had perfect, eidetic memories, but had little to no control over it. Sometimes they would just drift off into memory at random. That he was able to keep his mouth shut during one of these 'episodes' spoke wonders about his self control
The Drell blinked, he was back. "I apologize." He nodded, Jorell shrugged, he continued. "My highers are here on a diplomatic mission, I was granted leave from my duties to explore as I wished. As Arcturus, being a government-created station, lacks any churches, mosques, temples or synagogues, I was unable to look at artifacts of Human religion… So I felt history of the two member-species of the Alliance would suffice." He looked to Jorell, "have you ever considered the scale of the universe? I have found that while I perform my duties, others may be performing the same ones. Or someone else might be creating life where it might be ended elsewhere… Or perhaps the man who will link ours to another galaxy has been born right now." He turned and nodded to the wall. "Consider the first ever usage of the Human war-tactic, the Blitzkrieg. When the Human, Hitler, first executed this tactic in the Europe on one end of the galaxy…" He turned to look at the Quarian half of the room. "Your people were bringing together the smartest Quarian men and women to have ever lived, to form a think-tank with but a single goal: Fuel conservation, from the largest of liveships to the smallest shuttles; and when the Humans ended their defining war by dropping their first nuclear weapons, the Quarians created the Rayya's Fusion Pulse Drives. Now the Migrant Fleet's liveships could run for close to a decade before they would need to refuel. Peace for one species, peace of mind for another." He hummed, "it is interesting to see how things play out. Everything is, quite literally, happening at once. I admire the Asari for their ability to take it all in stride, and instead of searching for the past or clawing their way towards the future, they simply live in the moment."
Jorell blinked, very glad he had his mask to hide his expression. Well… I guess he certainly found something interesting. Though he hadn't expected such an answer, he took it in stride, well enough. "I guess I never really thought about it like that… Hm" Everything was happening at the same time. If he thought about it, it was actually difficult to truly comprehend, given the sheer scale of the universe they lived in.
The Drell looked understanding, but that look didn't reach his dead eyes, which themselves seemed to be impossibly alert, but perpetually glazed over, as if he knew everything that was going on around him, but was separated from it all, distant, reflective even. "Not many people do. I haven't met many who have lived the life that gives such a mindset. Only four, out of many millions I have met during my service, and three of them were Drell."
Jorell perked up an eyebrow and looked sideways at the Drell, "who was the fourth?"
"A Turian, by the name of Sar-" His omni-tool went off, interrupting him. He held his left arm aloft and cupped his hand, the gelatinous wrist-mounted computer formed into existence, glowing a dull orange. He gave the message he'd received a brief look over, and nodded once before he deleted it without any other consideration. "I apologize, but I must cut our conversation short. I have been summoned to perform my duties, and I mustn't delay, as they are time-sensitive." He turned to Jorell and bowed slightly, "until we meet again." He said, "I know it will sound strange coming from a non-Alliance race, but I recognize the uniform from the hospital at which you are staying, a military one. I do thank you for your service. Despite what some may think, the Galaxy has become a quieter, safer place, with the Alliance controlling and pacifying the Traverse. Many will not admit it, but as much as the Citadel may despise the appearance of a new challenger, they need the Alliance as much as the Alliance needs them. I believe the Quarian phrase is that lonely ships make short trips." He bowed again, "farewell." And he left, leaving a thoroughly confused Quarian with a lot to think of, in his wake.
Jorell stood there for a few minutes, blankly staring at a picture of a massive zeppelin floating above a besieged Human city, thinking about what the alien had told him. Eventually, he snorted, Everything happens at the same time. Thought the Marine, with a deep sigh through his nose, as he continued walking through the exhibit. Interesting way to see things, I guess. While I'm here, people are dying over there. While they're dying over there, people are being born elsewhere. While people are being born elsewhere… Well, let's not get into that. He grinned, entering another room and finding it to be the one with the Quarian sword and shield.
Interested in his people's history, Jorell stepped forward and observed the ancient, rusted weapons, covered in light brown, encrusted dirt, and some ancient blood of some unfortunate, but now immortalized ancestor. The artifact's description was written in Khelish on one side, and English on the other. The weapon and protector themselves were much different than their Human counterparts, though no Quarian alive honestly knew that if these were the norm from their era, or if they were specially made. The sword had a straight, rectangular blade, its cutting edge had long since dulled, at the tip of the blade it flayed out into two points, making a shape that Jorell recognized as a 'T' in the Human lingua franca. Its hilt had indentations for its wielder's fingers, but no cross-guard. It was covered in beige dirt and red rust, with little grey steel clearly visible, but if Jorell squinted his eyes, he thought he could see it in a few places.
The shield was of an ovular shape, meant to cover the whole of its wielder's forearm as opposed to his body. The most common conclusion was that the shield was designed less to protect the warrior himself by shielding him from blows, and more to deflect the enemy's sword or catch its flailed, T-shaped tip, so its wielder could parry and respond in kind. It was covered in less rust and dirt than its lethal counterpart, but it had a great deal of scrapes, dents, and divots where swords had taken small bits of it away as it deflected their swings.
The description read simply.
Ancient Quarian weaponry, dated thirty eight thousand years old.
.
Migrant Fleet records show that it was a family heirloom of an ancestor, the only one she brought with her as she fled her home on Rannoch, the Quarian homeworld. Records indicate the set was traded away when its original owner died of the first great outbreak of the Migrant Fleet, and it traded hands sixty one times before finally landing in the office of a former Admiral, who gladly donated it to the Arcturus Museum, on the condition that they be not restored, cleaned, or altered in any way.
.
It is unknown who created the pair, who wielded them in battle, or whose blood it is adorning the blade.
.
Given its age, it is believed that it was wielded during the ancient Progression War waged by the third Kreggon kingdom, the last multi-continental war fought before the advent of gunpowder and the associated technologies, making it a doubly priceless artifact of ancient Quarian history.
Jorell nodded, and straightened his posture. Thirty eight thousand years… Human history doesn't really stretch that far, does it? He thought, turning around and seeing an exhibit on the Wright Brothers and the first ever successful flight. All things happen at the same time… I wonder what Humans were doing, thirty eight thousand years ago? They seemed to have moved as fast as everyone else does, up until the end of their nineteenth century.
Jorell stretched his sore body and yawned deeply, not caring for politeness as he was sure he was alone. He continued walking through the brightly lit, warmly-colored museum, admiring the copies of priceless artworks and artifacts from Human and Quarian history as he went through. He silently mused to himself as he blankly gazed over the events of history long passed.
I wonder what's happening right now… As I look over our history, shared and unshared. He wondered, I wonder what's going on on Elysium, back home. I bet someone, somewhere, is signing on the dotted line. I bet, somewhere in Citadel space, a Turian and a Human are getting into a fight, and a Krogan is killing, for sport or for coin, one of the two. The gray-skinned Quarian chuckled lightly, Hell… I bet, right now, somewhere, there's an as-of-yet undiscovered alien race, doing whatever it is they do, on the journey to join everyone else out among the stars.
"There you are." Came the rumbly voice of the former Marine sniper. Jorell turned to face him, he was carrying a small tin box, tucked into his hand. "That was a Drell back there, right?" He peered over his shoulder, eyes narrowed.
"Yeah." Jorell turned to face Dosdon, his mechanical legs whirring and groaning with each step. "Why?"
"Had the look of a killer in his eyes. I've heard the rumors about Drell, but I've never been able to confirm them, myself. Their kind tend to prefer urban battlefields over warzones." He shrugged, "ah well. If he's the stereotype, he'll be in for a treat. Just like you." He turned back to Jorell and held out the tin box. "Open it."
Jorell did so, and his eyes immediately widened upon seeing the fist-sized silver egg seated in the center of the box. "Is that -"
"Yes. A painter pistol." He reached into the box and picked up the egg, which sprang to life a second later, proving that it was what he claimed it to be. He flipped the weapon around and held it by the round barrel, motioning for Jorell to take it.
The Quarian carefully took the gun, which immediately collapsed back into its seamless egg shape. He held it reverently, cradling it in both of his hands as if it had much more weight than it did, and would shatter if he handled it wrong. "I never thought I'd see one of these again… But, if you're a SIGMA, I guess it's not too far-fetched to think you'd smuggled one out." He said, carefully grabbing at it with his fingers and lifting it up to inspect its seamless surface. "Why give it to me, though?" He looked past the egg to the sniper.
"I'll have no use for it." The sniper said succinctly. "In the civilian world, most problems requiring lethal force barely need anything bigger than a nine milimeter." He dug in his pocket and pulled out a Special Forces Pistol. "I've got a magnum, and several decades worth of wages stored up, that I can burn on a bigger arsenal." He put the gun back in his pocket, "so an ancient alien pistol is just overkill." He nodded at Jorell, "you, however… I can tell, the military is going to be your bread and butter. Very first deployment, you go to Manheim. You open a million year old bunker, find advanced weaponry, and kill two SIGMAs. You're an engineer, when you're presented with a problem, you fix that problem." He nodded to the gun, "it's useless to you now, but I think that, given time, you'll figure it out."
Jorell slipped the pistol back into his hands and held it tightly, before handing it back to Dosdon. "This is alien technology from… Ancestors know how long ago. Do you really think I can crack it open, change its programming, and maintain it, with modern tools? The AATF -"
"You're not the AATF. You're a Marine." He lowered the tin box and held his free hand up, refusing the gun. "And if you're hearty enough to survive two back-to-back battles with SIGMAs, and god knows everything else that happened on that planet, then you're hearty enough to survive long enough to figure out how to crack open this pistol." He took a step back, brushing his hand over his hospital fatigues, smoothing out a few wrinkles.
"Why me?" Jorell asked, lowering the egg-shaped pistol and giving the tanned sniper a confused look. "I still don't get that. I didn't do any fantastic feats of engineering while we were on Manheim… Even the things in the vault happened by accident."
Dosdon shrugged, "say you crack it open. You'll therefore have intimate knowledge of an ancient alien weapon. Power sources, how it works, what parts it uses, how we could replicate those parts, the programming… If we ever had to replicate these weapons, you and your efforts could be key." He paused, and turned around, his mechanical legs thumping with each step. "Or you don't manage anything and just wait for the AATF to do it for you. But… Sometimes the safest hands aren't our own." He said as he retreated further into the museum, "until we meet again, Jorell'Sahn." He waved without looking, and rounded a corner, the only further indication of his presence being the retreating sound of mechanical legs thumping across the floor.
There were few reasons, ever, to run full-tilt on a space station. Sprinting increased heart-rates, which increased the need for oxygen due to a quickened bloodflow, the end result being one had to breathe faster, which wasted air that took a significant amount of money to recycle day in, and day out. Some more extreme space-stations actually made it illegal to run anywhere but in a gym, due to this reality alone. So when one was running as fast as Jonathan Serios found himself doing, they typically had a very good reason.
He crashed through the front doors to the Director for Affairs' office-building, not caring for its brightly lit air or its wooden walls or its carpeted floor, the only thing he had eyes for was the startled receptionist sitting at the desk next to the door that led to the DfA's private office. The brown-haired, middle-aged woman had her hand halfway to the silent alarm, when she realized that she recognized the man storming into the room as the Director for Defense, the second highest-ranked Officer in the Alliance Military, and largely considered the second most important man in all of Alliance space.
"Is he in?" He asked, out of breath, his voice deep and not carrying a hint of humor - he was as his nickname behind closed doors said he was, Deadly Serious.
The secretary blinked her dark eyes, stunned at the sight before her, as Serios held both doors open with both arms and was breathing heavily, as if he'd just ran a mile. Behind him, just arriving, were a dozen armed Secret Service agents in their dark suits, breathing calmly, as if they sprinted miles every day. "Yes, Director, but he -" She barely finished speaking the word 'yes' before Serios stormed inside and to the door she was in front of, the secretary tried standing up and stopping him before it was too late, but was unable to.
Serios entered in the middle of a negotiation with what looked like a Salarian Dalatrass, not their Councillor or their equivalent of the Director for Affairs, but still someone high up on the food chain. She bodily turned around, so her back was to Tyson and her face and chest faced Serios; Tyson, now that he wasn't watched, was giving Serios a glare that many during the man's rise to power had learned to fear. Unfortunately for Tyson, Serios had led his people through wars that paled in comparison to the leader in front of him, and though Tyson was a powerful man and a great leader, ever since Jason Whyte's retirement and the subsequent depowerment of the role of Director for Affairs, Tyson couldn't scare Serios even if he wanted to. The only thing the man in front of him truly had on him, was age - they were decades apart.
Serios nodded solemnly, "I apologize, Dalatrass." He said, kindly, but firmly. "But something has come up, and I need to steal the Director from you."
"Serios." Tyson interjected, "perhaps you do not recognize her, but this is Dalatrass Heyfiir. She directs trade for the entire Salarian Union, and is the first of the races with a seat on the Citadel Council to offer a trade agreement with the Systems Alliance, in the wake of the Alliance/Hegemony War." He said, his tone making it clear that no matter what it was that was interrupting this meeting, he was not pleased.
"Director Tyson, I'm going to take one small step outside… Neither you nor I have the time to wait any longer. What's happening right now is very important." Serios nodded and offered a brief apology to the Dalatrass, before he left. Not two minutes later, the Dalatrass left Tyson's office, and Serios was beckoned back in.
"Serios, you better have a very… Very good reason for pulling that card. If it's anything less than the UN vote against us, your ass is -"
"Our probes have reported in and the entire Batarian navy Warped out of Citadel space and we don't know where they are." Said Serios, without a single pause for breath.
The mid-forties Director for Affairs' shoulders slumped, though his face didn't slack, merely settling into a neutral, if still somewhat angered, expression. "Oh." He said. "Well that's just perfect."
Almost one thousand light years away, on a planet that precious few in the outside universe even knew existed, history was being made in more ways than its denizens thought possible. Standing tall at nine feet, the Praetorian of his race, Saltorian Jun Mun'Sid, could accurately predict the outcome of the conversation he had just initiated. He stood in the center of a room that was legendary amongst they who knew about it, the 'radio to the heavens' it was brightly lit and meticulously cleaned, its silver surfaces gleaming and dully reflecting everything that passed in front of them. In the center of the room stood the radio itself, which projected a to-scale hologram of the subject of the Praetorian's thoughts.
The four eyed creature of the 'Batarian' race his people had made contact with months ago was bristling with rage, as he digested what the Saltorian had just informed him. "Perhaps you do not understand what it is we are saying…" Said the man, an Admiral by the name of Treyfus. "Our people are dying. Our enemy is ruthless, and our allies do nothing. You are uniquely positioned to strike at them directly, and with the technology we've sent you, once you construct it you could strike at them without warning, and together we could cripple their empire and defeat them once and for all!" He roared, livid beyond reason that the Saltorian was rejecting his offer.
The Saltorian stood his ground, his scarred face set in determination. For all of their efforts to convert him to their ideology, the Praetorian had studied them, dissected and analysed their every word, their every movement, their tone and verbiage, and had deemed them a worse kind of violent than their own: The Batarians were in denial. They were arrogant and prideful, but those factors could also describe Saltorians, so the Praetorian didn't care much, but what struck him was that, from their conversations, from the way they spoke and the words they chose, the Batarians seemed to be a violent race, but they denied it - pretending they weren't. This was likely what made them fall from grace and, it seemed, even forget their god.
Jun cleared his throat spoke clearly, his deep, rumbly voice filling the air and travelling through the void between his planet and the Batarian's. "Admiral." He stated, his voice cutting through the silence of the room, and screaming its way across the cosmos. "I understand perfectly what you are saying. You are committing war and dedicating to genocide of another species. This is a race of thinking men, much like I, and much like you." Or, at least, must like he should be, the Praetorian mused. The creature didn't like to think much beyond its own base desires, it seemed, rather it deigned to force others to do its thinking for it. "Many eons ago, my people tried the same to our own, and the result was that we lost the favor of our god and entered a dark age that lasted for one hundred generations. We accept war is a part of our nature, but we wish to fight this nature, to embrace peace and abandon force. As such will not enter such a war without just cause or without provocation. I will not step down from this position, I will not invoke the wrath of He Above All upon us, or worse, prove to him that we truly are not worth his attention, his tireless effort. Prove to him that he can do nought but abandon us." He explained, "I do apologize for this… And I pray your people emerge victorious… Or at least as survivors." He bowed his scaled head solemnly.
The Praetorian noticed that the Batarian's fist clenched so tightly it shook. It seemed that some traits surpassed the species barrier, and he knew that the man was about to make a rash decision. The Praetorian's first instinct was to threaten the man, to try and curtail any potential violence, but any such threats could have any number of outcomes, so the best solution in this case would be merely to let the creature dig its own metaphorical grave. "Let me tell you this, you pitiful… Underdeveloped dreg." The Praetorian, the Studiers, everyone in the room went stone-still and silent, with the Praetorian slowly bringing his hands behind his back, so the Batarian would not see him clench them so hard that, were his claws extended, he would have pierced his scales. "You will help us… Either as free men, or as our slaves." He pointed at the Saltorian, "this is a war beyond your comprehension, and we are willing to anything to win it."
The Saltorian shook his dark-scaled head, "I beg of you… Do not do what I know you are about to. You will regret it. I will regret it. If you attack us, we will be in the right… We will be allowed to fight back in the favor of our god. We will be… Allowed… To war… And that is not something I want us to experience, a righteous war. Our people will regress to our base desires, we will kill… Because, in the eyes of our god, we will be in the right. They will be on our side as we fight you… In a Holy War." Everyone, from the lowliest studiers to even the veteran BattleVectors, all gasped; they knew what a Holy War meant, even if none alive had ever experienced one for themselves. "The first of its kind in over fifty thousand years." His deep voice shook, his tone almost taking a pleading edge to it, as he begged the alien creature to turn back now, before the point of no return. "If you engage us with the intent of forcing us to lay harm upon others searching for their gods… We will fight, for the first time in our history, for ourselves. You will show us..." He paused, taking a moment to gain his composure. "You will show us that there exists violence beyond our world. You will prove to us that it is not inherently self destructive, and therefor we could continue fighting as much as we please... We do not want that. Our desire lies in peace, such that our god will look upon us favorably again. Like an addict in recovery... If you pursue this war, all of this... All of our progress... It will be undone... And I fear we will not stop until we fight you alongside your enemies... Our scales are covered in the blood and entrails of every single Batarian alive, and all of your worlds are burned in liquid fire." Jun clasped his hands behind his back, clenching them so hard that his bones creaked and his scales warped. "Please... There is another way. We could... We can provide shelter, help you survive this war against your enemies, should you lose it. We could walk the path together, stand tall in the face of the universe, knowing that the Hoomanisire is on our side... But that is only... Only if you do not bring war to our homes. We do not want to fight you, but if there is no other solution... No other outcome... Us, or you... We will choose us, and beg for forgiveness at a later date."
The Batarian stared at him, all four eyes narrowed in hatred, before the hologram vanished, his answer clear to everyone present.
Jun sighed, and then took in a deep breath as he bowed his head and steeled his resolve. "Ready our Tyyrahn. Ready our BattleVectors. Ready our men and our women, ready our children. Arm our weapons and fuel our vehicles. Feed the war-mongrels and entice the Dregs. When the enemy comes to our door, we will not stop until we are all dead. We will kill them all, or we all will die. From the moment they enter our solar system and lay siege to our homes, we will hold nothing back. Surface, sea, sky, and space, we will fight on all fronts and we will kill all of them, no matter the cost, no matter the outcome, no matter the consequence.
"Because from this moment forward… I… Jun Mun'Sid… Call Holy War. The only victory will be in annihilation, or divine intervention." He clasped his clawed fist over his hearts, and looked upwards, towards a sky he could not see. "And should the Hoomanisire hear my words… Please forgive me for what I must do." He swallowed through a dry throat, his hearts fluttering. "Amen."
"Amen." Repeated all of the Saltorians who heard him.