New Challenges
Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with the Mass Effect series. All credit for this story goes to Bioware.
Song Credit: The majority of this chapter was written while listening to the song Lost by the Eden Project. God Bless the Eden Project.
-29 March 2183-
Arcturus Stream/Arcturus System/Arcturus Station.
Kim Chalmers wasn't one to waste time. Then again, Kim Chalmers wasn't a real person.
After the Ambassador and the Captain had left, she was alone in the Lounge, and solitude provided opportunity. Nevertheless, she made sure that all necessary safeguards were in place, the security scrambler was running and locked the doors before she acted. Couldn't be too careful, after all.
Chalmers hastily made her way to the woman's restroom and locked herself in on of the stalls. She sat on the lid of the toilet and brought up her omni-tool. The bartender established a secure link and had just enough time to brush a few strands hair out of her face before the connection went through.
"Operative Chambers," a male voice said smoothly. There was a hiss on the other end of the line, the sound of a breath being expelled.
Kelly Chambers frowned. "Sir, with all due respect, we've talked about your smoking."
She could almost see the bemused smile form on his face. "Yes, I do recall a few conversations concerning my... habits. I'm pleased that you remember them."
Kelly almost rolled her eyes. Almost. She doubted he was watching, but safe was better than sorry. "I have an update for you, sir."
"I certainly hope so, Miss Chambers."
"Sir, the Ambassador and Captain Anderson just left the Arcturus Lounge. It's Commander Shepard, sir. Nihlus chose Shepard for the candidacy."
There was silence for a long moment before he replied. "That does complicate things. The Lieutenant Commander doesn't come across as one who would be as sympathetic to our cause. Mikhailovich should have pushed harder. Riley would have been perfect."
"Sir," Kelly said, unsure how to respond.
Another hiss of breath filtered in over the connection. "Very well. Despite what's happened, this is only a minor setback. Shepard's had some fairly negative experiences with aliens in the past. He may prove malleable in the long run. Continue monitoring the Brass on Arcturus, Operative Chambers, though I suspect I'll have new orders for you soon. You've done well, and Cerberus looks after its own."
"Understood. Thank you, sir." The link disconnected from the other end.
Kelly released the breath she'd been holding. She believed in what Cerberus stood for and worked hard to see its goals accomplished, but there was one thing, one nagging issue that she'd never bring to anyone's attention.
The fact was that the Illusive Man, Kelly's boss, gave her the creeps more than the spy cared to admit.
-25 April 2177-
Nubian Expanse/Kalabsha System/Planet Akuze.
"Creepy as all hell. Not a soul. Valuables just sitting around. What happened here?"
"Somebody was in a hurry to get out. Footprints everywhere. No sign of gunfire though. Weird."
"Place is all torn up, but no explosives. Think they used construction equipment?"
"Hey Death, you got a light? Need a smoke to calm these nerves."
"The fuck is Shepard even doing here?"
Screams. Gunfire. Fear.
Run. Run.
Burning. Arm numb. Face bleeding.
All dead. All dead.
-29 March 2138-
Argos Rho/Phoenix System/En Route to Mass Relay.
"Sir? You okay?"
Ramesh Shepard opened his eyes and saw 2nd Lieutenant Helen M. Lowe through the black tint of his visor. Even without his enhanced vision or the tactical HUD integrated into his visor, the look on Lowe's face was clear as day in her soft hazel eyes and round, expressive features.
Dim shuttle lights light highlighted on the pale pallor of her skin, the platinum blonde of her short-cropped hair and the gunmetal gray of her Alliance issue armor. Lowe's helmet rested quietly on the seat to her right. Her sidearm, a Kessler variant M-3 Predator, sat polished and ready at her right side and Shepard could see the butt of a stowed Lancer variant M-8 Avenger over Lowe's right shoulder. The Lieutenant's weathered M-97 Volkov Viper rested across her lap, collapsed into its frame.
Helen was headstrong and sometimes stubborn to a fault, but she was Shepard's trainee. That alone spoke volumes about his confidence in both her skill as a soldier and standing as a person.
He kept to a professional distance, of course. As her training officer he couldn't afford to get too attached to his subordinate, but she was eager, obeyed orders and was an excellent sniper. Shepard respected her, and that was more than most could say. Lowe was a good partner and a great marine.
Even if she was a bit nosy.
"You drifted off there, sir," Lowe said, shifting slightly in her seat. The marines were the only two passengers in the slim UT-45B Kodiak shuttle. Their pilot was a faceless and voiceless man in a blue flight suit and matching helmet who hadn't even acknowledged his cargo. He was more or less part of the proverbial furniture.
Shepard brushed the memory of Akuze aside. "Just resting, Lieutenant," he said quietly, voice rumbling through his helmet. It was becoming unnervingly easy to slip into solipsism as of recently, and it often caused the Commander to relive memories that were less than appealing.
He rested a hand on his right knee and leaned forward slightly. "You did good work back on Pinnacle Station, Lowe. Much better than Ahern and a lot of those turians thought you would."
She offered him a weak grin. "Feels more like I got my ass kicked, sir. But thanks."
"Lowe, that last course we went through was designed for a five man team. You made a few mistakes, sure, but we won. I can't overstate how well you performed down there. And you're only going to get better." He allowed a tinge of approval to enter his voice, if only for a moment. "That doesn't mean you're ready for N5, of course. We've still got a lot of work to do."
Lowe rolled her eyes, but Shepard saw the fierce pride that settled into her smile. "Thank you, sir. Hell, I should've recorded that. A compliment from the Black Death? No one back home is gonna believe me."
"I've got it recorded, you know," he said and tapped the side of his helmet near where the implant was. "Along with everything else back on Pinnacle Station. You'll be getting a copy of your performance once I disseminate the rest of the data. As for the compliment," he added, a bit of humor in his voice, "rest assured that you'll never hear another one."
She snorted and rolled her eyes. "Glad to hear it. Was afraid you'd gone soft on me for a minute there. Sir."
It's good that I can joke like this, he thought. Not used to bantering so much. Lowe's a good one. She'll make N7 one day, no question. I just wish she wouldn't... I know how she looks at me when she thinks I don't see.
Shepard's thoughts melted back into his mind as Lowe spoke again."Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Isn't that what you were already doing?" he asked, stifling a chuckle.
Lowe reddened a bit, but didn't waver. "Sir, it's about the reassignment."
He nodded. "Say what's on your mind, Lieutenant."
"This isn't standard procedure, sir. We got our follow-up posting before we left for the station. This sudden change doesn't sit right with me."
"These orders came down from the top," Shepard said quietly. "Admiral Hackett doesn't beat around the bush. Whatever this is, we'll be in good hands."
Lowe sighed heavily. "Sir, the Admiral's involvement is exactly why I'm concerned. I mean, how often has the Admiral of the Fifth Fleet ever sent anything to us directly?"
"He's intervened to give me direct field orders six times," Shepard replied, recalling past missions. "This was before you became my trainee, you understand. Hackett and I have worked together for years. He won't give us the runaround, trust me. Whatever this is, I'll see you through it."
"Understood, sir. Still don't like it."
"You don't have to like it, Lieutenant. You just have to follow my lead."
Their voiceless pilot suddenly spoke over the shuttle's speakers. "We hit the relay in five minutes. From there we'll link up with the escort and reach to the Kilimanjaro within forty. Suggest you get comfortable."
Lowe snorted aloud after the speakers went quiet. "He sounds like you, sir, but without the charm. You'd get along great, I'm sure. Want to see if I can get you his number?"
Shepard sighed and closed his eyes. "Don't roll that way, Lieutenant. We've been over this."
"You're no fun, sir."
"Never claimed otherwise, Lieutenant. Take the pilot's advice and grab a few minutes of sleep. We might be heading into live-fire before you know it."
That sobered the Lieutenant almost instantly. "Understood, sir."
Silence occupied the space, even during the familiar pull and punch that came with traveling through a mass relay. Shepard didn't like mass relay travel. Space travel was at least undertaken by people, in ships under their full control. Mass relays? They took control away and shot starships halfway across the galaxy on a whim. Most of Shepard's life was centered around mass relay travel, and even after all that time they still made him uncomfortable. Damn Protheans, he thought.
There was another reason for the Commander's distasteful mood; reassignment. The word itself left a bad taste in his mouth; every transfer was another reminder of his unstable lifestyle.
It would have happened anyway, regardless. The Black Death was always being pushed where they needed him. Ramesh Shepard was simply too useful to keep posted in the same location for more than a few months. And, being the only Sentinel-class N7 in the entire Navy, Ramesh was more than familiar with being sent to one hot-zone only to be transferred to another within a few weeks. Most of his career was spent leaving engagements before they'd been fully dealt with or being the one sent in when an operation gone bad needed fixing. He was the best of the best and had dozens of high-risk missions under his belt. It was a shame he couldn't forget any of them.
Shepard was fully aware of his usefulness to the Navy. That's why he was a Lieutenant Commander instead of just another dishonorable discharge. Hopefully I won't be posted under Mikhailovich, he thought. Lousy bastard.
The last-minute transfer from his current duty rotation was a genuine surprise, rare for a man with perfect eidetic recall. Prior to the reassignment, Ramesh had enjoyed service under some of the Alliance's top brass, including lengthy work with Fleet Admiral Steven Hackett, one of the few Navy higher-ups the N7 actually had an amicable relationship with. It didn't hurt that Ramesh looked up to the Admiral, one of the most celebrated and legendary figures in the history of the Alliance Navy; a hero right up there with Jon Grissom. Shepard's service under Hackett had been long enough enough for the Commander to gain large amounts of trust from the Admiral, and being part of Hackett's inner circle was very much its own reward. The Admiral was a tactical genius and played to the strengths of those under him while minimizing their weaknesses, even in harried situations. Under that kind of leadership, Ramesh was allowed the tactical flexibility he needed and Hackett got his results. It was a win-win situation, and a lengthy tour under Hackett's leadership proved beneficial to the careers of both men.
Then some self-absorbed prick like Rear Admiral Mikhailovich or General Beck would ask for the skills of the great Commander Shepard and Hackett would be forced to transfer Ramesh somewhere where he wasn't allowed the same autonomy. As in, 'follow your orders or face the wrath of simple-minded men'. Shepard didn't hate easily, but it was difficult to bury his disgust for a lot of the Joint Military Chiefs.
Not to mention the fact that they'd tried to get him discharged over his graybox. That was a level of disgust even Shepard hadn't fully dealt with yet. And, to his infinite disappointment, the correct way to deal with incompetent higher-ups wasn't a gout of fire from his omni-tool.
All good things come to an end, Shepard thought. A soft sigh whispered past his lips. New orders, new assignments. He was supposed to be sent back into Hackett's command, but the recent change in assigned orders was enough to enforce skepticism in the Commander's thoughts. Speculating is useless, he decided. Better to relax while I can. Won't know a thing until we talk to the Admiral.
Shepard accessed his memory-banks, set his combat visor to full opacity and put himself in a light NREM 2 sleep.
He remembered.
Rio de Janeiro. Steady surf agains the coast. Soft morning sunlight over the the tops of the buildings.
His first spacewalk. The hiss of every breath. The cold, steady walk across the Baghdad's hull.
The way Lee would wind her arms around his bare shoulders and press her cooling body against him.
Travis Kedar, grinning like a bastard as they ran from station security. An epic prank gone perfectly.
How at eight he hit a bullseye with a pistol and believed himself invincible.
A team of three. The Unholy Trinity. Delta's best.
Screaming at Leng, krogan blood still dripping off of the man's service knife.
The assassination of Liam Koro, how he'd underestimated the power of the shot and killed both the target and his teenage daughter.
A tribunal of old men, condemning a soldier for becoming more than himself.
Sabul Shepard, eyes cold and without compassion, dismissing his son yet again.
Clenching a fist after a line of Sand, and marveling at the blue glow of power that-
His eyes snapped open. Not again, Shepard chided himself. Bad memories are coming up too easily. Need to run a neural diagnostic later.
"Commander, we've just linked up with the escort," the pilot said, voice dry as ever. "En route to the Kilimanjaro now. We'll be there within thirty minutes."
"Roger that," Shepard replied. Across from him, Lowe was dozing quietly. I'll wake her once we get there. She deserves a little rest.
Shepard leaned back in his seat, drifted once more into NREM 2, and hoped that the ugliness of his past would stay buried in the back of his mind.
-29 March 2183-
The Shrike Abyssal/Xe Cha System/Tosal Nym Orbit/ITV Incorrigible.
I hope this doesn't get... ugly.
Tali tried to prepare herself for the moment she'd meet Captain Kala Rorani. The stories she'd heard from others who had started their Pilgrimages on the Incorrigible, well, nervous wasn't really the best word to describe Tali's sense of foreboding. In the end, there was no way to really prepare for the abuses of a foul-mouthed, authoritarian turian female.
However, five minutes into the Captain's ordination made Tali realize that the experience wasn't as awful as she had imagined. In fact, Rorani's candor was a rather nice change of pace when stacked up against all the quarian formality that Tali had dealt with during her seme'desh.
Rorani's vocal flange was like the horrible shudder of damaged deck plating. "And I will reiterate; this is not a pleasure-cruise. You don't pull your spirits-damned weight around here and I will throw you out the airlock. Is that understood, quarian girl?"
The cargo hold of the Incorrigible was dimly lit, stuffy and cramped. It almost felt like home, but with addition of several turians and a single, shadowy salarian.
Tali did her best to stand as straight as possible, though any posture she could claim was easily overshadowed by Rorani's overbearing manner. "Yes, Captain. I'll do my best," she promised.
"Screw your best," Rorani snapped. She was tall, even for a turian, and her face was as sharp as it was aggressive. Her facial-markings were black as the void and curved like daggers across her mandibles and facial-plating. Her eyes were almost blood-red in color and she towered over everything and everyone in the hold. The heavy hardsuit she was wearing, muted gold with black trimming, didn't hurt the turian's intimidation factor.
Still, Tali knew it was just part of the process. She could see it in the eyes of some of Rorani's crew; they'd all had the same speech thrown at them to some degree. Ancestors, it was probably the same speech Rorani shouted at every quarian the Incorrigible picked up during Pilgrimage. So Tali kept herself still, her eyes hard and her back straight. She was an Admiral's daughter. She'd been yelled at by the best of them, after all.
"I don't need your best," the Captain continued, playing up her disdain. For a moment, Tali thought she saw a glimmer of amusement in the Captain's eyes, but it was gone before she could be certain. "I need my best. Fail to meet the standards that I have set for this crew and there will be repercussions, is that understood?"
"Yes, Captain Rorani!" Tali shouted. "Understood! I will not let you down, ma'am!"
"Damn straight!" Rorani snapped, her mandibles spread in a wide grin. "Now get to work, quarian girl, that engine needs an overhaul. Rael said you were smart, but I'm withholding any sort of judgment until I see that ass of yours in gear!"
Tali saluted in the turian style, elbow at arm level, arm pointed up, fist closed and held with the third finger facing out. "Yes Captain," she declared.
"Good. Report to Chief-Engineer Halbek, quarian girl. Dismissed." The Captain returned the salute, nodded, turned with one of the most precise about-faces Tali had ever seen and walked out of the hold. Several of her crew followed, except for the salarian and one turian in blue engineering fatigues who sported orange facial-markings.
The orange-faced turian approached and held out his claw to Tali. "Triar Halbek," he said, mandibles splayed into a grin. "Good to meet you. Looks like we'll be working together for a bit." He was awfully young to be in charge of a ship's engine systems, Tali noticed. Couldn't have been more than a few years older than Tali, so long as she was gauging his age appropriately.
She took the proffered claw and gave it a brisk, professional shake. "Tali'Zorah nar Rayya. Good to meet you, Chief-Engineer. I'm looking forward to helping out while I'm aboard."
The turian gave Tali a respectful nod. "It's just Halbek, thanks. And I'm very glad to hear that, miss Zorah. Because now that you're here, Nalan and I have to quit slacking off and actually do work. So, thanks for that." He splayed his claws and grinned to show that he was joking.
"Just don't get in the way," the salarian muttered. He hadn't moved from his perch atop a cargo container, and Tali couldn't see his face clearly. The tone was very much hostile, even to Tali's relative lack of experience with alien mannerisms.
"Watch your tone," Halbek snapped. "You treat her with the same respect you show anyone else on this ship, we clear?"
"Clear as mud, sir."
Halbek shook his head and sighed. "Spirits preserve me." He looked back at Tali and shrugged. "Don't let Nalan get to you. He doesn't trust anyone."
"I don't trust drifters," Nalan growled as he hopped down from his perch. The salarian stepped into the light and Tali was able to get a better look at her antagonist. Thin profile, even for a salarian. Large black eyes set into a face marred with old plasma burns. Dull green skin that contrasted mutely with the black salarian-grade hardsuit he was wearing.
Nalan shot Tali a glare and folded his arms. "Captain might let you quarians aboard, seeing as how your... people got some connection to her, but this is our home. Won't have any damn suit-rats mucking up the place."
Tali went rigid and her fingers curled into fists. She'd heard the term before, of course, it was practically part of Pilgrimage storytelling. But no-one had ever called her a suit-rat, not once in her life. The slur was enough to get her blood to an instant boil, however, and she took an angry step toward the salarian.
"Say that again, you frog bosh'tet," Tali's voice was heavy with anger and threat. "Call me suit-rat again and I'll shove your bad manners right up your-"
"Easy now," Halbek said, interposing his turian bulk in between the two. "Tali, calm it down. Nalan, take a walk. Tali and I can get started on the overhaul. I'll call you back in a few hours so you two can switch shifts."
The salarian made a gurgling noise in his throat, a sound Tali knew was associated with vocal salarian distaste. "Fine," Nalan spat, "I'll be back to fix what she screws up. You change your mind, I'll be in the armory. Might be handy to keep a gun close by." His last statement was directed thinly at Tali.
"You don't scare me, you la'kina bosh'tet."
Nalan didn't rise to her bait. He walked away, footsteps clanging against the metal deck.
Tali growled and allowed her shoulders to relax. "Sorry," she said to Halbek, sincerity wrapped up in loosening anger. "Didn't mean to get like that. Should've handled it better. Father said to be prepared for that kind of garbage."
Halbek shook his head. "Don't worry about it. Nalan's a cloaca to everyone, especially to new or temporary crew. Take it as personal as you like, but it won't do you much good. Stubborn salarian ass." The turian smiled a little and Tali's mood grew a little lighter.
At least there's one decent person on this crew, she thought. "Thanks. We should probably get started though. Which way to engineering?"
"Follow me," Halbek said. He led Tali past a large cargo container and into the Incorrigible's engineering deck. The space was small, like the rest of the ship, and only had two workstations with active consoles. The room's center housed an aging D-34 Kassa Fabrications drive core, one that wouldn't have looked out of place on a salvaged quarian ship. Boxy and rickety, Tali could almost hear the core sputter as it tried to keep the ship moving. It almost felt like home.
"We're not doing the full overhaul until we hit Illium," Halbek explained as he took position at the nearest work console. "Can't shut the whole ship down just to rework the core, after all. Gonna take us at least three days to do the whole thing. In the meantime, you, Nalan and I will start the preliminary diagnostics and take care of prep work."
"Yes, Chief- I mean Halbek."
"Take that console over there," the turian said, pointing. "Start with the heat distribution system and let me know if anything comes up."
Tali walked over to the console across from Halbek and began working. Her first task was syncing her aging Nexus omni-tool to the core's internal systems, something she did with practiced ease despite the hassle of having to translate the mostly turian-geared interface. Once all the preparations had been made, an omni-interface panel, that same glowing orange, materialized under her fingers. Tali flexed her hands, cracked her wrists and got started.
The first thing she realized while analyzing the initial diagnostic was that Halbek was a semi-competent and semi-organized engineer. The second thing she realized was that any level of competent or organized would never be enough to even begin the overhaul on this awful drive core. Her peers back on the Flotilla would've been chastised all the way back to the Homeworld for doing a job like the one she was seeing.
Keelah, this is going to be a lot more difficult than I thought.
She turned her head to glance at Halbek for a moment. The turian was obviously struggling with one system or another and his mandibles were splayed in furious concentration. Avian eyesight proved well-evolved, however, and he caught Tali's look.
"Doing okay, Tali?" he said, trying to hide his frustrations.
Better than you are. "Just getting started. We... we've got a lot of work to do," she said, trying her best not to sound pitying.
"... That bad? Damn. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn." The turian perked up a little and offered Tali a weak smile. "Don't suppose you can have a look at these numbers while your diagnostic runs, Tali?"
She suppressed the urge to sigh and nodded. "I'll take a look," she said as she walked over. Halbek moved aside and allowed Tali to take his place at his work station. A quick translation program later and Tali saw just what had the turian so frustrated.
"Looks like we need to re-route power from the sub-system in order to suppress this fluctuation. I can see why you were hesitant though, since the sub-system grin is locked..." She drifted off into engine speak, Halbek listening to every word.
At least three more days of this. Oh well, I said I'd help, after all. And while I might not be able to do much more than give this turian a few tips on engineering, it'll certainly do this ship a lot of good.
That thought gave Tali the drive she needed to cope with her unfortunate situation. She brought up a secondary screen for Halbek, made sure the turian was paying attention, and gave her first real lecture on the nature of aging drive core subsystems.
-29 March 2183-
Arcturus Stream/Arcturus System/En Route to SSV Kilimanjaro.
"Damn, that is a big ship."
Lowe's face was all but pressed against the Kodiak's starboard view-port, staring out as she was at the SSV Kilimajaro, the namesake of the new class of Alliance dreadnoughts. A full kilometer of heavy plating that cradled an 800-meter mass accelerator, the Kilimanjaro was a testament to the sheer prowess of the Alliance military and its engineering AEC in particular had truly outdone themselves in the design of the dreadnought.
Sleek, slim and instantly imposing, the almost arrow-fletch shape of the ship was both aesthetically pleasing to the human eye and structurally superior to its previous iteration, the Everest-class dreadnought. As if to stand out even more, the Kilimanjaro didn't sport the classic Alliance blue on its rectangular war-markings, some of which were longer than some ships by themselves. No, the first of its kind new-era dreadnoughts had deep crimson in the place of the blue, signaling the departure from the Everest-class, often considered a well-built but technologically lacking capital ship. Here is a new dawn for the Alliance Navy, the Kilimanjaro seemed to say just by its presence. Advanced, bold and very, very dangerous.
Shepard, through his ability to sort through the mountains of stored data in his brain, was able to compare ship statistics and designs with just about every dreadnought-class vessel ever constructed. And while the Kilimanjaro wasn't as advanced as an asari dreadnought or as battle-tested as a turian one, the Alliance's new capital ship class was a stern rival to both ship designs, and clearly superior to all batarian equivalents.
"Back in your seat, Lieutenant," Shepard said, even though he was looking as well. "You've seen her before."
Lowe grinned but returned to her chair. "Never gets old. A fine looking girl like that? She's gonna turn heads, sir. Even when she's pummeling the bad guys back to the stone age."
"Especially when she's pummeling, Lieutenant."
"Amen to that. Sir."
The Kodiak's pilot steered the shuttle closer to the dreadnought's port bow, a space that fighters and shuttles were occupying with their silent buzzing. Their unseen pilot skillfully navigated his way through the din of ships and slid into the topmost of the available hanger spaces. "Ride's over," the pilot said dryly over the speakers. "For the record, you're awfully quiet for a couple of N's. And I've shuttled a lot of N's in my time."
Lowe rolled her eyes. "Comes with the territory."
The Black Death, his usual self, said nothing.
The doors hissed open and the pair stepped off of the shuttle and into the bowels of the Kilimanjaro's port-side quaternary hanger bay, the one reserved for non-vital fighter maintenance and shuttles. Even the relatively allocated space that the hanger provided was a bustle of activity. Technicians filled the hanger with the many sputters, grinds and clangs that comprised the sounds of maintenance work. Servicemen patrolled the docks and NCO's moved equipment around in clusters of activity. The low gravity in the hanger gave every movement a slightly bouncy feel, and Lowe was quick to capitalize on the lack of standard gravs. The N4 gave a slight push with her boots and drifted into the air, while Shepard's lifelong low-grav upbringing allowed him to keep a steady pace with every footfall.
Lowe shot the Commander a look like he'd spoiled her birthday party. "Don't know how you can just walk like that after being cooped up in the shuttle, sir. This is liberating."
"Spent my entire childhood bouncing around ships, Lieutenant. Not much thrill in it for me anymore."
"Whatever you say. Sir."
The duo made their way past the throngs of servicemen and workers, most of whom didn't spare more than a passing glance at the two marines. Lowe drew a few appraising glances and a couple of catcalls from some of the less-reserved crew, but she didn't pay them any mind. A female marine was used to worse, after all.
Those who took stock of Shepard's presence had their conversations muted to whispers and nervous glances. Workers went silent when they noticed the heavily-armed N7; hastily stopping their tasks to offer salutes, some of them in mid-air.
"At ease," the Commander declared as he walked. The Alliance personnel quickly returned to their work, moving a little more determined than they had before Shepard's arrival.
"Think they're scared of you, sir," Lowe said as she floated back down, matching her pace to the Commander's.
"They should be," Shepard said quietly. "Cut the chatter until-" The Commander stopped short when his eyes caught activity over by the elevator security station. "Hell."
"Sir?"
"Looks we're going to be delayed, Lieutenant."
Lowe looked ahead and noticed a blue-armored NCO elevator guard arguing with what appeared to be a well-dressed civilian. As they approached, the heated exchange between the two men grew in both volume and irritation.
"Sir, like I've told you five times now, civilians aren't allowed in the Hanger decks without military escorts and proper clearance. You'll need to get confirmation from-"
The civilian huffed and his eyes narrowed. "Travis Kedar, military contractor, you imbecile. I'm with Hahne-Kedar and I have full clearance while aboard the Kilimanjaro. Call up Hackett, let him know that I'm-"
"The Admiral is in a meeting, sir, and cannot be disturbed at this time. You need to-"
"Did this ship's security personnel not get the memo that I was aboard? You delay me any more than you already have and I'll make damn sure that-"
"Is there a problem here?" Shepard asked, a ghost of a smile curling at the corners of his lips.
The NCO turned on a dime, spotted the N7 on Shepard's armor and gulped audibly before saluting. "C-Commander! Sir! Apologies, this civilian was just-"
"What part of Travis Kedar did you not hear? That's a Carnifex at your hip, yeah? I own the patents on your goddamn sidearm, soldier." Travis looked over at Shepard and shook his head with flustered bewilderment. "Can you believe this crap, Ramesh? These kids today, I swear. They don't know me from Adam."
Shepard glanced at the NCO, then briefly at Lowe, who kept remarkably straight-faced. "He's clear, Private. Mr. Kedar here is an old friend." The serviceman nodded and stepped aside, still at attention.
"Mr. Kedar my ass," Travis said with indignation. "You make me sound like a fossil. Some friend you are. And speaking of which..."
The heir to the Kedar family fortune always looked his professional best, even if his mannerisms suggested otherwise. Travis Kedar floated over to the marines and smoothed the front of his black power suit. The hanger lights caught the expensive silk weave and the silver details that accented the ensemble. A pair of well-worn black space-wear wingtips covered his feet, out of place among all the regulation hardsuits and dress down boots. Travis' dark brown hair was slicked back out of his face for a ruthless and professional look. The wide smile on the businessman's face was a sharp contrast to his professional attire and was well-framed by a hawkish, face and olive skin. His eyes gleamed silver with mischief as he came to a stop just before the marines, his gaze fixed on Shepard's visor.
"You're a lousy traitor," he stated, pointing up into Shepard's visor. Travis stood quite a bit shorter than the Commander, but he still managed an air of sarcastic condescending. "Lousy damn traitor. Never should've let you in. Never." The smile never left Travis' face.
Ramesh Shepard only got lectured by a few select people. Steven Hackett was one. His mother was another. Anderson and Riley were on that list as well. There were a slew of Rear Admirals and Navy intelligence sorts that could claim to have reprimanded the Black Devil, but they couldn't claim to have made much of an impression on the man himself.
Still, if there was one non-military individual who could lecture Ramesh Shepard, it was Travis Kedar.
"I don't have time for this, Travis."
"The hell you don't, you unbelievable-" Travis glanced over at Lowe and grinned. "But I might just forgive your sorry ass if you introduce me to your subordinate here."
Lowe frowned and crossed her arms. "Permission to throw him, Commander? I don't mind filling out the paperwork."
Travis laughed and his eyes sparkled with delight. "Oh, she's a feisty one. You certainly know how to pick 'em, eh Ramesh?"
Shepard made a sound somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "Lieutenant, go on ahead. Wait for me at Central Transit. I'll be along momentarily, as soon as I settle some business with my friend here."
Lowe glanced at the businessman and back to her Commander before shrugging. "Yes, Commander." She moved to leave, but Travis' hand stopped her halfway, holding a sleek black business card with shimmering silver lettering.
"Travis Michael Kedar, founder of the Hahne-Kedar Shadow Works."
"Co-founder," Shepard corrected.
"Semantics. Regardless, I'll be on Arcturus all week, if you manage to get some time away from boring old Ramesh here. What do you say? You think you're up for the Kedar experience?"
Lowe rolled her eyes and stomped past, leaving the card in Travis' hand. "I love a woman in uniform!" he called after her, his grin never fading even when she flipped him the bird.
"Are you here for a reason, or is harassing my trainee all you came down here to do?"
Travis rolled his eyes and slid the business card into the recesses of his suit coat. "I would've been here sooner if I'd known you were keeping such a looker around. And I'll be damned; she looks amazing in that Onyx hardsuit." Travis looked into Shepard's visor and winced slightly, a learned response to one of the Commander's masked glares. "What? Sue me for window shopping. You know how I feel about blondes."
"I also know how you feel about redheads, brunettes and asari, Travis. Not helping your case."
"Fine, you're right. I got distracted. Not important." His expression settled into something between anger and contempt as he gave the Commander's armor a once-over. "You mind explaining to me what the hell that is you're wearing?"
"It's a custom hardsuit and combat suite," Shepard explained, rotating his right arm to showcase its sleek black surface.
"I know what it is, you cyborg bastard. What I'd like to know is why you decided to co-opt that design with Armax fuckin' Arsenal. Turians? Seriously? What, are Alliance hardsuits just not good enough for you, Ramesh? God damned, you even look like a turian in that thing."
For Travis' sake, Shepard set his visor to mid-translucence in order to facilitate conversation. "The turians at Armax make some of the best hardsuit designs in the galaxy, Travis. You know that as well as I do."
Travis snorted and made a face between disgust and anger. "That doesn't mean I'll go all race-traitor and share company secrets with our competitors. For Chrissake, you didn't even give me a call in advance to talk this stuff over. I mean, how do you think our PR team is going to spin this? Ramesh Shepard, the Black Death and co-founder of the Hahne-Kedar Shadow Works-"
"So I'm just a co-founder while you're a founder? Unfair, Travis."
"-goes to the turians for his combat hardsuit needs. It's like you're trying to give me an ulcer, I swear. Did you even contact a lawyer before-"
Shepard held up a hand. Travis, a civilian and not obliged to follow military decorum, cut his rant short. He knew where to draw the line with an N7, even if that N7 was his friend and business partner.
"First off, no, I didn't divulge any company patents or secrets. Have you ever known me to be that stupid?"
"Well, there was that one time in Boot, when you-"
"Second, the development process was just for the hardsuit components, using designs that Armax already had patents for. The only co-opt work I did for this suit was of my own doing on a closed server. Any alterations I made are strictly my business, Travis. This design doesn't belong to Armax or Hahne-Kedar. It belongs to me."
"Well that's just great," Travis moaned, throwing his hands into the air. "Can't be bothered with the quality hardsuits manufactured by the Shadow Works. Unbelievable. You do have an obligation to the brand, Ramesh."
"Travis..." Shepard growled.
"Fine. Just... fine. You're still on my shit-list though. Not going to get over this one easily, no sir. There's no way I'd-"
The Commander sighed audibly and crossed his arms. "What will it take to make you drop this?"
Travis grinned and, with an unashamed amount of predictability, jumped on the offered opportunity. "I want the FRM on the Indra transferred over to the Shadow Works catalog. Oh, and that automatic handgun of yours."
"Never."
"Damn. Fine, I want the design on your new hardsuit. Full-access, even the Armax stuff."
"Absolutely not."
"I want you to make a public announcement declaring that the M-560 will the most useful heavy-weapons platform on the market."
"The Hydra? No. I haven't even seen in action, Travis. I'm not an advertisement."
The Kedar heir made a face. "Ramesh, you and I designed half of the high-end firearms that we sell. How's you using your Hurricane not advertising?"
"Because I'd be using it regardless if it made me any money. The Hurricane is an excellent firearm."
"And it's a Hahne-Kedar weapon. We design them, fabricate them, sell them. Key word: sell. That makes a difference, whether you choose to see it or not."
Shepard wanted very much to rub the space between his eyes in frustration, but the visor stayed his hand. "Travis, I have briefing with Admiral Hackett. Can we speed this up, please?"
Travis' glare softened a little. Ramesh Shepard only ever asked 'please' of two people and Travis was a little humbled by the familial tone. Shepard's mother was the only other person in the galaxy (that Travis knew of) who could coax the 'P' word out of the Black Death.
"Fine," Travis said, feigning exasperation. "But as soon as you get some free time, I want you for an interview with RealArms Magazine. And a cover-shot in a suit of Janissary armor. Valkyrie in your hands, staring off-camera and slapping in a fresh thermal clip-"
Shepard folded his arms and stared down at his friend. "Slapping in a fresh a thermal clip? You mean popping a heat-sink, right?"
Travis waved him off. "Same difference. Anyway-"
Ramesh Shepard dropped a heavy hand on Travis' shoulder and left it there. The heir to the Kedar fortune gulped audibly.
"Wrong," Shepard emphasized. "You're going to read that article again, Travis. You are an arms manufacturer, after all. You shouldn't be getting the two mixed up."
"C'mon, Ramesh. Again? I hate reading Mattius' crap. Besides, it was just a little mixup. Won't happen again."
"It's been happening since Boot, Travis. You're going to read the article, again. Maybe after that I'll do the photo-shoot, we'll see."
"Fuckin'... fine. Fine. Whatever. As long as you give me something, for Chrissake."
"Give and take, Travis. That's all we are." The Commander paused for a moment, his expression lost under the dark veil of his helmet visor. "Anything else you needed to discuss?"
The other man sighed and shook his head. "I've kept you long enough, Ramesh. There's something else we need to go over, but it can wait until you're done. Message or call me after you're done with the Admiral and we'll meet up."
Shepard nodded once, walked past his friend without another word and headed toward the elevator.
"Damn robot," Travis said as he skimmed the article, saved ages ago and flagged, ironically, as a favorite. "Wait, what am I doing?"
He closed the article with a vindictive snarl and floated back toward the elevator, muttering under breath. "You ain't my daddy, Ramesh. I do what I want."
Travis opened the comm to his personal secretary, an asari of generous intelligence who sported an even more generous chest. "Jensa, it's Travis. Get me on the line with Levitus Mattius of RealArms Magazine." He grinned openly, exposing perfect white teeth.
"Time to score us a cover-page."
"I apologize for my friend, Lieutenant. He's... well..."
Shepard and Lowe walked down the hall to the Kilimanjaro's conference room. The higher-end sections of the massive dreadnaught were restricted to authorized personnel, and the lack of crowds showed in the sterile gray hallway that led to their destination. The pair walked side-by-side, their footsteps loud in the empty corridor.
Lowe pulled a face. "Didn't think you'd keep friends like that one, sir." Lowe's helmet was back on her head, visor at half-drop, obscuring her eyes.
Shepard's expression was lost under the tint of his visor. "Travis and I go way back. We went through Boot on Arcturus together, started Hahne-Kedar's Shadow Works division." A light smile touched the Commander's tone. "He's gotten me into more trouble than I care to recall, but he's also gotten me out of a lot of legal messes."
"Like with the graybox, sir?"
"Like with the graybox," Shepard said with a nod. "Had mine installed only a few months before the Alliance made them illegal. Got a lot of heat for it, the Brass pulled me from active duty. Travis and his lawyers spent months going over the litigation that was trying to kick me out of the service. Cost the two of us quite a bit of money, even after the lawyers got paid."
Lowe was silent for a moment before nodding. "He watched your back, even when the shit was flying."
"Yes he did," Shepard said, recalling his memories from 2175. He'd spent the majority of that year grounded in Rio, his rank on the line, living in a old pensao on the city limits. It hadn't been all bad though. A visit from Lee during her three weeks of shore-leave had... well, helped the stress of it all. At least in the physical sense.
"Doesn't mean he's not a womanizing weasel sometimes," Shepard stated, "But it's not his only quality. Travis wasn't the best soldier, not by a long shot, but he's got a good head on his shoulders and his loyalty is rather fierce. I couldn't ask for a better friend." The N7 chuckled aloud, a rarity in itself. "I could ask, I suppose, but I doubt Travis would want to change himself. People in general aren't keen on it."
"You don't think people can change, sir?" Lowe asked, looking straight ahead.
Shepard shook his head. "Didn't say that. Said that people aren't keen on changing. Doesn't mean they won't do it, but given the choice, they usually don't. And when they're forced to change, it's usually not for the better."
Lowe went quiet, likely dissecting the Commander's words. He knew she thought well of him, probably too well, but there was a degree of cognitive separation between the two marines. Shepard knew that the dissonance was his doing. He was something different, something more. Made separate by the way he had voluntarily altered himself on a fundamental level.
More to diffuse the silence than anything else, Shepard snapped Lowe out of her pondering. "Nearly there, Lowe. Back straight, eyes ahead. If I'm reading this right, Hackett's not the only Brass we're about to meet."
Lowe followed his orders to the letter. Shepard suppressed a smile. She's too good for the soldier's life. And she's too good a soldier not to be one.
Ramesh Shepard, Lowe at his side, stood just outside the door to the Kilimanjaro's conference room. After a moment of preparation, he pressed the activation console and opened the door.
-29 March 2183-
The Shrike Abyssal/Xe Cha System/Tosal Nym Orbit/ITV Incorrigible.
Tali, exhausted from her work (triage) on the Incorrigible's drive core, took a moment to slump against the door to the ship's mess. Four hours of straight lecture and diagnostic had left her impatient, tired and hungry. She considered ingesting one of her ration-tubes, but thought against it. The turian ship would have filterable rations and she needed to keep her personal supplies for emergencies.
Her three-fingered hands traveled up the side of her veil and pressed against the spot roughly where her temples were, just above and to the rear of her ears. Well, ear analogues. The small, near-flat conical protrusions the quarians sported could barely be called ears by human standards.
Why am I thinking about human ears? Tali thought as she envisioned the oddly-shaped flaps of rigid skin that were unique to humans. Stupid Halbek and his stupid drive core. Keelah, not another day of this. I can't teach engine repair while I'm on my Pilgrimage! There are more important things to do.
Yeah, the rational part of her mind chimed, there's always something more important. But you're here, now, and you're stuck on this ship for the next two days. If you give up now, what hope does your Pilgrimage have?
"Stupid brain always making sense," she moaned. "Keelah, I miss my bed already."
"Well, that's your problem, isn't it?"
Tali turned quickly, he headache forgotten. Nalan was standing there, all scowl and crossed arms.
"You here to growl at me some more?" Tali asked, her tone cool and contemptuous.
"Captain wants to talk to you. C'mon, suit-rat. I haven't got all day."
Nalan walked off down a dark corridor and Tali briefly debated if she should follow. But there was something about the salarian's tone, something different. He didn't sound angry, not like he had down in the cargo bay. No, Nalan's voice and posture betrayed an air of... well, someone trying to come off as standoffish but too tired to really bother with it. And was the key. Nalan was trying. Salarian body language was instinctive and natural, a social parallel to quarian expression. And the salarian in question had just revealed the stone under his cups, so to speak.
A quarian knows body-language, she thought as she followed Nalan's footsteps. And that's not the body language of someone who's got a grudge. He pulled it off down in the hold, but now? What're you hiding, salarian?
Her mouth closed and her mind spinning, Tali followed the mysterious alien through the groaning ship.
-29 March 2183-
Arcturus Stream/Arcturus System/SSV Kilimanjaro.
"Commander. Lieutenant."
Admiral Steven Hackett stood just inside the doorway to the Kilimanjaro's conference room, a stern expression on his face but a soft hint of warmth in his eyes.
Shepard and Lowe saluted almost in unison. "Admiral," the N7 replied, his posture rigid and his form perfect.
"Sir," Lowe added, unnecessarily.
A faint flicker of amusement glinted in Hackett's eyes. "At ease, you two." He gestured to the edge of the round table closest to the impressive view-port that spanned the opposite side of the room. "Get comfortable. We're likely to be here for a bit."
"Sir," Shepard said as he walked the perimeter of the room, Lowe close behind.
The Commander was quick to notice two things. One, that Hackett was the only human in the room. The second, and the more important, was that there was a turian almost completely hidden in the dark shadows and dim lighting. Almost being the key word. Shepard's augmented eyes picked out the alien's frame and his tech-honed reflexes kicked in before his brain even realized what was happening.
Shepard's right hand went for his SMG, fingers stopping short of the Hurricane's grip. "Nihlus Kryik, Special Tactics and Recon. Wasn't expecting you."
The turian didn't move from the shadows. "Commander Shepard. You're quick to spot me."
"Almost quick to down you, too," the N7 said, more than a little irritated. "Stand down, Lieutenant," Shepard said quietly. Lowe had only just realized there was a potential hostile in the room and was reaching for her sidearm. Need to work on those reflexes of hers, Shepard cataloged, the rest of his attention on the turian. Lowe scowled but followed orders.
"We haven't met," Nihlus was saying, still cloaked in shadow. "You know me by reputation, then?"
"I know what you are, Spectre. I logged your features three years ago, during that press conference the Council held concerning that incident on Maji. You're a level three threat."
The turian arced a brow. "Level three?"
"Of special note and a sufficient risk to my person to warrant keeping an eye on."
Nihlus actually chuckled, a low throb in the recycled air. "And what, Commander, could you have done to warrant the attentions of a Spectre?"
"As if you don't know," Shepard snapped, contempt clear in his tone.
Hackett intervened quickly, his hands raised in a diffusing gesture. "Commander, that's enough. Nihlus is here-"
"To evaluate my candidacy for the Spectres," Shepard finished, putting the pieces together with an almost insulting degree of casualness. Hackett's brow narrowed, Nihlus' flanges spread into a grin and Lowe made a sound somewhere between surprise and concern.
"That information is classified," Hackett said cooly.
Shepard shook his head. "Doesn't need to be, Admiral. Had it figured the moment I realized who Nihlus was. Wouldn't have a Spectre and one of the most controversial marines in Alliance history in the same room otherwise."
Genuine amusement flashed in the turian's eyes. "The possibility that this was merely a joint-operation didn't cross your mind, Commander?"
"Crossed, analyzed and dismissed, Kryik. Spectres don't do joint-ops with humans. And, even if they did, it'd have to be one hell of a mission to bring the Black Death along. Doesn't fit your usual operation standards, either. From what I understand, you prefer to work on your own."
"You seem to know quite a bit about me, Commander."
"I've found it pays to keep an eye on skilled, professional killers."
"That must be a rather long list."
"You have no idea."
"Hold up," Lowe demanded, her eyes wide as she removed her helmet and placed it on the table. "The Commander's going to be a Spectre?"
"That remains to be seen," Nihlus said softly, the smirk fading from his features. "Provided that the Commander impresses, I'm sure we could find a place for him among the Spectres."
"That's our hope," Hackett replied, shifting his gaze back to Shepard. "What do you say, Commander? You think you're up for the job?"
Shepard briefly glanced over to Hackett before locking eyes with Nihlus once more. "Admiral, sir, with all due respect, I wish you would've kept me off of whatever list of candidates you all put together."
"Commander?"
Shepard kept his gaze locked fixed on the turian. "I've never stated this in any official capacity, sir, but I'm not fond of the Council government, or its Spectres. Well, perhaps 'fond' is too soft of a word. I find the practices of both institutions to be, well, rather infantile and amoral."
Hackett's brow furrowed slightly in concern, but a wave from Nihlus' claw cut off whatever statement the Admiral would have made. "May I ask you to elaborate, Commander?"
"You may, but I'd prefer that we take our seats now that we're about to stir the dialog."
Hackett nodded, Nihlus followed suit and soon the conference table was in use; Lowe and Shepard on one side, Nihlus across from them and Hackett seated at their median. Nihlus' claws rested on the table, Hackett's hands were in his lap, while Lowe and Shepard sat straight-backed.
"The current administrative body the Citadel Council, including their constituents," Shepard began, his voice taking on a slight hint of passion, "Are self-serving, exclusionary fossils; too busy pushing their own agendas forward while mitigating the amount of effort that gets put into addressing the concerns of the so-called 'ambassadorial races'. They're also quick to brush off any atrocity outside their so-called 'territory' as not being their problem."
The turian's brow furrowed slightly in anger. "The problems of the galaxy are not the problems of the Council, Commander."
"I've been Spec Ops Delta for eleven years, Spectre. We specialize in Terminus System and Alliance-border recon. The 'problems' the Council ignores are the ones they need to address the most. And unless it benefits them to intervene, the Citadel is content to just leave it all in the dark. Out of sight, out of mind, as we say."
Shepard placed his elbows onto the table and leaned forward. "Your Spectres are little better. For the most part, the organization consists of black-ops sycophants who've been given free-reign to plot and act as they see fit, without the threat of any sort of judicial institution to keep them in check. Not to say that some Spectres aren't without their own moral codes, but there are far too many examples of those who abuse their power for personal purposes or racial ambitions. Tela Vasir, Kesh Piran, Saren Ar-"
Nihlus' claws curled into fists. Shepard noticed and cut his speech short. "Apologies, Spectre Kryik. I wasn't aware you and Saren were acquainted."
The turian's grip relaxed a little and he reclined slightly in his seat. "Apology accepted, Commander. Saren, well, I suppose you could call him my mentor. My service within the turian military had stagnated due to my... unorthodox methods, and Saren took me under his wing, made me a Spectre. It's because of him that I'm worth anything today, either to myself or others."
"Fair enough," Shepard conceded, "But one experience isn't enough to change facts, Nihlus. Your organization is capricious, dangerous and uncontrollable. I'll be the first to admire the things Spectres can accomplish, at least from a military standpoint, but a trained killer with unlimited resources is still a trained killer, no matter what badge he wears."
"I take it you'd rather not join our numbers?" Nihlus asked.
"Personally? No, if it were up to me, I'd reject the offer without hesitation." Shepard nodded in Hackett's direction. "I get the impression that it's not up to me. I don't have to want it, or even like it, but the Alliance wouldn't be losing anyone it doesn't mind losing."
"This is more than just another assignment and rank, Commander," Hackett snapped, sounding more than a little irritated by Shepard's implication. "You have the opportunity to-"
"Represent humanity on a galactic scale so that Udina and all the other ambassadorial bureaucrats can get a leg up in Citadel politic."
"It's not just about the lobbying," the Admiral growled, his features contorting into a scowl, the expression darker from the dim lighting. "Commander, Nihlus selected you from our preferred list."
"Due, in no small part, to a recommendation by one Captain David Anderson," Nihlus said quietly.
Shepard's brow furrowed and he remained silent for a good while. Anderson had vouched for him? That was an important bit of pertinent information, something the Black Death hadn't considered.
"Your preferred list," he mused aloud, "Who were the other candidates?" He directed his question at Hackett, though his eyes were still on Nihlus.
"We'd narrowed it down to you and Lieutenant Commander-"
"Lee Riley," Shepard finished, almost too soft for the table to hear. "Passed on one of the Alliance's most powerful biotics for a xenophobic transhuman. Stranger than fiction."
"Isn't it?" Nihlus said, a slight edge of humor flanging his voice. "Truth be told, I wasn't certain either you or Riley would be up to the task, regardless of your skills. Neither of you have good history with aliens, at least as far as the public eye is concerned. That being said, I won't take on any candidates that aren't willing to take up the mantle of Spectre. The Alliance Brass and I have made our selection, Commander. Now the choice falls to you."
Shepard met the turian Spectre's hard green gaze. "You sure it's not the illusion of choice?"
Nihlus splayed his claws in a gesture turians associated with pandering. "Pick everything apart if you must, Commander. Call it fate or punishment or whatever you need to in order to have this done. You already know how this is going to end, you said so yourself. Debating the point changes nothing, save a bit of ego-play. All I need you to do is say the words."
Shepard looked over at Lowe. The Lieutenant's eyes were just visible through the opacity of her helmet visor, but Shepard could see the look of encouragement she was offering. A bit of sadness too, loss. Her transfer to another N7 unit was all but assured if Ramesh accepted the candidacy. That eventuality weighed on the Black Death more than he cared to admit.
Hackett was much more stoic, but even the equally-stoic Commander Shepard could see the fierce pride that had settled behind the man's eyes and the corners of his mouth. Shepard couldn't let the Admiral of the 5th Fleet down now, could he? It would fly in the face of everything the N7 stood for.
But what about me? the Commander thought, eyes hard as he looked down at the polished surface of the conference table. His hands were locked together, tighter than they had any reason to be. He relaxed slightly, let his fingers unlace.
This goes right, I could be the first human Spectre.
Goes right? I don't even want this position!
It's not about me.
It's ALWAYS about me.
Am I that selfish?
It's not being selfish if it makes me unhappy.
I'm already unhappy.
It'll mean taking orders from a turian.
It'll likely mean losing Lowe as a trainee.
It'll mean living up to Hackett's expectations. Anderson's expectations.
It'll mean being more than I am right now.
Am I afraid?
No. Not afraid of this.
So be it, Shepard thought. He closed his eyes and a thousand thoughts raced through is mind, a prayer included. A sigh escaped his lips. The Black Death opened his eyes and looked up at Nihlus, decision made. Though the Commander's next words were only ever heard by four people, Shepard included, the words themselves would go down in history as the capstone to one of his most important choices.
"Challenge accepted, Spectre Kryik."
-29 March 2183-
The Shrike Abyssal/Xe Cha System/ITV Incorrigible/En Route to Mass Relay.
Standing up straight in Captain Rorani's cabin was, at best, a challenge. The turian female appeared to live in a hole in the wall, and that was saying something, coming from a quarian background like Tali did. Eschewing all but the barest of spartan accommodations, Rorani didn't have much more than a cot and a footlocker in her very dark, very compact living space. The Captain herself was reading something on her glowing omni-tool while sprawled across a long turian-style cot, its contours and design fitted to the form of more avian sentients.
Keelah, Tali thought as the top of her head very nearly brushed against the ceiling, if this is how the Captain lives, what do my quarters look like? The quarian Pilgrim dry washed her hands out of nervousness.
Captain Rorani, to her credit, didn't bother looking up from the data feed she was examining. "So how're the engines, quarian girl? Up to your father's standards?"
Tali didn't say anything at first, not wanting to get Halbek or Nalan in trouble. Well, not wanting to get Halbek in trouble, at least. She immediately regretted her decision, however, when the Captain's steely gaze locked itself directly on her veil.
Rorani's flange was the sound of corrugated deck-plating scraping against itself. "Quarian girl, while you're aboard this ship, you're one of my crew. And so long as you're a part of my crew, I damn well expect you to acknowledge me as your captain. No daddy to give you special treatment here, no big quarian family to help you out. You're my charge now, Tali'Zorah, and you answer to me. Now, would you kindly answer the question? How. Are. My. Engines?"
Tali snapped out of her awkwardness almost instantly. "Captain! Engines are space-worthy, ma'am! Just barely, ma'am!"
The turian woman rolled her eyes and snorted. The tension in the space dissipated almost instantly. "Figures. Just my luck. Shame Darnis couldn't pass on more experience to Halbek before he went to the Spirits. Oh well, serves me right for thinking the old bastard would be around forever." She looked up at Tali from her space on the cot and gestured over to the footlocker/bench sticking out of the opposite wall. Well, opposite was being generous. It was difficult for Tali to stand in the room without her hips brushing the walls.
Quala would have a joke about that, I'm sure. Tali though, groaning at the very idea of her friend's ribbing. A sudden wave of sadness crashed over the Pilgrim when she realized that it would be a very long time before she'd be able to see any of her friends again. Somber and tired, Tali slumped onto the footlocker, the weight of the galaxy on her shoulders.
"That bad, huh?" the Captain asked.
"Yes, Captain," Tali said quietly. "You'll... we'll need at least another 12 hours of overhaul time when we hit Illium. Also, the drive core's in need of some serious repairs to its eezo stabilizer, possibly a replacement. And a lot of your technical systems and interfaces could do with updates, seeing as how most of them are at least-"
"Wasn't talking about the engines, quarian girl. Although I'm impressed on just how many problems you've been able to pick out with Halbek getting the way."
Tali looked over at the Captain. She wasn't all business anymore. No, she had an almost... friendly disposition about her sharp features and her posture betrayed a casualness that Tali hadn't noticed before. "Captain?"
Rorani deactivated her omni-tool interface with a groan and slumped deeper into her cot. "Halbek's a good kid. All but useless when it comes to engines, but he's a good kid." She looked up at the ceiling. "He's my... well, he's pretty much my nephew, even though we're not related by blood. His father was an old friend, died in a pirate attack. Took the boy in out of obligation and not much else." She sighed and punched a section of the wall on her left, revealing a hidden compartment. A flask was produced, something that Tali's olfactory sensors couldn't quite identify from a distance, and the Captain took a quick, bitter swig.
"He's a quick study," Tali said, somewhat defensive. "He's- oh, no thank you, Captain. I don't drink. Halbek has a good head on his shoulders. He just needs a guiding hand, that's all."
"He needs a talon in the backside," Rorani grumbled. "Boy's got to get his act together before long, or someone way meaner than me is going to clip his wings." The turian grudgingly stowed her flask back in its compartment before leaning up against the wall to her back. "Still, didn't call you over here just to bitch. Wanted to see how you were settling in. You doing okay?"
Tali nodded, not sure what to say. "I'm fine. Just... well, it's too early to be homesick, I guess, but the reality of it all is really sinking in. I've never really been on my own, at least when it comes to quarians being around. All the training and lecture in the world can't prepare someone for the actual, you know?"
"Very true. And the turian military wonders why its re-enlistment numbers are so low."
"Captain, can I ask you something?"
"Permission granted, quarian girl."
Tali fidgeted in her seat a little. "Father never mentioned you, aside from the fact that your ship would be getting me to Illium. But you mentioned him by name, in the familiar sense. Do you know him?"
Rorani's eyes lit up and a grin splayed her mandibles. "Know Rael'Zorah? Quarian girl, your father and I raised hell all across the northern Terminus while he was on Pilgrimage. Spirits, this was years ago. I was just another gun aboard the Incorrigible, back when Captain Blask was in charge. Mean batarian bastard, he was, but he was a good captain. Rael tried to stowaway from Omega to the Citadel, but we caught him halfway there. I wanted to space the man, honestly, but Blask put him to work. I don't think the Incorrigable had ever flown half as well before your father got ahold of her systems. She's still running on some of your father's code in places, I'm sure."
Tali couldn't help but be fascinated. This was a side of her father she rarely heard about, and even then only in brief snippets from Han'Gerrel. Rael'Zorah didn't speak of his past at all, not even to his daughter. "He stayed on the crew?" Tali asked, hoping Rorani would divulge more.
"Blask wouldn't let him leave. Sacked the guy we had in engineering, don't remember his name, and put Rael in charge. Your father also made a show of how good of a shot he was during a pirate boarding action, so he and I got to work together quite a bit." Rorani looked up at the ceiling, eyes brimming with nostalgia. "Those were the days. Spirits, Rael knew his way around the old M-6 Avenger, let me tell you. I had him beat with the long-range guns though, so there's that."
Wow, this is getting awkward. "So... you're an old friend?"
Rorani sighed heavily and pulled a face. Well, her mandibles pulled one. "An old friend, and that's all. Spirits, would've liked to be more, even briefly, but he was dead set against it. My interests lie with my own people. Stubborn bastard. And now he's an Admiral, and I'm ferrying his kid across the galaxy like some glorified taxi-service."
Tali was silent for a good while before speaking. "I... I'm sorry, Captain. I can't say I know my father well, but if you cared about him-"
"Just wanted to tumble him, quarian girl. Shouldn't go making a big deal out of it, was a long time ago. Just bitter as all hell, between the money I'm going to need to spend on the engines, the fact that I'm probably going to have to toss Halbek out on his ass when we get to Illium and all these memories rolling around in my head." Rorani shook her head angrily. "Spirits, all this crap dumped on my lap at once. Liked it when things were simpler. Liked it when Blask was in charge. Was a better person back then." She glanced over in Tali's direction, as if she'd forgotten that the quarian girl was there. "You're dismissed, Zorah. Get some rest, you'll likely need all you can get in the next couple of days. Lot of work ahead. Nalan!"
There was a brief scuffle of boots on metal and then the salarian poked his head into the room. "Orders, ma'am?"
"Show the quarian girl to her quarters. And make sure she's set up comfortable. None of your usual shit, is that understood?"
"Captain." Nalan nodded to Tali, his face impassive. "Follow me," he said, and walked out of sight, not bothering to wait up.
Tali rose and bowed to Rorani, who didn't seem to notice. She'd just stepped clear of the cabin's threshold, when she turned back and looked down at the reclining turian.
"If it means anything, Captain, I think you're a good person. And my father and I are both better for knowing you."
She didn't wait to see if Rorani would respond. Her start to Pilgrimage wasn't anything like she'd expected. A shadowy salarian, a bitter captain and an inexperienced supervisor. Tali prayed to all the ancestors that Illium would come sooner rather than later, and that she could put this awful start of things out of her mind until time came to relay the story to her friends, where it would be an unpleasant memory rather than a crushing reality.
Of course, within the next 24 hours, Tali would get her wish. By then, the Incorrigible would be a memory, and all of its crew would be dead.
Popular extranet editorial by noted turian arms columnist Levitus Mattius, chief editor of RealArms Magazine.
Title: The Misuse of Thermal Clips in Popular Media.
I can't believe I actually had to sit down and write this article, and I am ashamed. This should be common knowledge, undisputed and simple, but it's not. This is the first thing I've written in months that I feel is a waste of time, both yours and mine. I could be spending time with my family, working on something more fun, drowning myself in liquid platinum. All of those things should be more necessary than this article, but but the amount of misinformation and outright lies from the entertainment sector have made this editorial mandatory. I want to apologize to those of you who already know better; I'm sorry for wasting your time. The rest of you, buckle up. You're about to be schooled by Professor Mattius, and I'm not in a good mood today.
Hey morons! Yes, I'm looking at you, you spirits-damned hacks. Movie-makers, special effects people, game designers, authors, net-writers, you know who you damn well are, here's the way things actually work:
Thermal clips are NOT used up every time somebody pops a heat sink. I know, right? Who would have thought?
Not you simpletons, apparently.
When your protagonist reloads his pistol, when your game avatar slaps a fresh clip into his rifle, when your spirits-awful OC fanfic character manages to pop the heat sinks on two SMG's at once because he/she/it is just that good, (newsflash, your OC is bad and you should feel bad), guess what? YOU ARE DOING IT WRONG, YOU DUMB FUCKS.
A conventional firearm is designed to need to be reloaded after a certain amount of shots. One thermal clip can offer a weapon the potential to shoot off hundreds of rounds before needing to be discharged from its housing and replaced. When a marksman slaps his rifle, pulls back a slide on his pistol, pumps his shotgun, it is because he is discharging one of the thermal clip's many heat sinks. You hear that, everyone? Thermal clips and heat sinks are not the same blasted thing.
Okay, that's not entirely true; thermal clips and heat sinks are the same thing. Sort of. A thermal clip is actually designed around the idea that a weapon will use sections of that clip in order to cool itself down. If an entire clip was used up the minute a soldier or law officer had to reload, then modern troops and security personnel would need to be saddled with backpacks of ammunition. Yes, I said backpacks. We wouldn't have traded the old system, cooldown-based firearms, if it was necessary to carry that much ammo around. It's completely counterproductive, and more akin to the highly inefficient gunpowder firearms of pre-spaceflight societies.
The computers built into modern firearms are smart. Extremely smart. We're talking near-perfect aim auto-corrects in hostile weather that would otherwise ruin the ability to fire with any sort of combat effectiveness. We have small arms that can calculate the size of slug needed to hit a target based on distance, gravity and environment while a soldier is already pulling the trigger. Why then, would arms-manufactures across the galaxy create weapons, according to popular media, with such poorly-optimized ammunition systems?
Answer: they wouldn't. No, modern small arms are built around the aforementioned sectioned thermal clip usage. When a thermal clip is inserted into a weapon, be it a pistol or a sniper rifle, the weapon's internal computer automatically cordons off sections of that thermal clip needed to be discharged before the weapon can be safely fired. The computer does this itself, no effort from the thermal clip is required. That's why thermal clips are universal to almost every weapon. Anyway, every time these sections overheat, the computer shuts down the firing mechanism until the section is discharged. Hence what any trained marksman calls, 'popping the heat sink'. A soldier can pop a heat sink in less than a second, and replacing a thermal clip takes only a fraction longer. An easy trade off from weapon cooldowns, especially considering how dangerous an overheated weapon is to the soldier holding it.
Once again, for all you imbeciles out there: popping a heat sink does not equal new thermal clip. Soldiers and gun fanatics alike have been able modify weapons, (usually submachine guns, assault rifles), to fire 300+ rounds before needing to have a new thermal clip introduced into their housings. Heavy machine guns are the royalty of this incredible ammo usage, just search Vidnet for 'Blue Suns merc fires 200 rounds non stop: M-76 Revenant'. You'll see what I mean. That doesn't mean they aren't slapping out heat sinks when needed, but the process takes a fraction of the time that the old cooldown weapons needed once they reached overheat. Seriously, waiting more than four seconds for your weapon to get back into working order is a death sentence in any combat situation.
Of course, more powerful and specialized weapons like shotguns and sniper rifles fire less rounds before necessary clip/sink discharge because the rounds they fire require more extensive heat dissipation. The most powerful sniper rifles I've seen or used usually only allow for less than 10 shots before their thermal clips need replacing, and even 10 is being generous. Snipers and assault troops usually carry more thermal clips on their person for just this reason, but I've spoken with several specialists who claim that they simply take their thermal clips from dispatched enemy combatants, often during combat. Ammo remains an non-issue even after the switch to thermal clips, despite what cooldown apologists might believe. It's almost like these detractors have never fired a weapon in combat before. Imbeciles.
This is why thermal clips were adopted in lieu of cooldown arms; they're more powerful without sacrificing combat efficiency. Not to mention the fact that small-arms almost never overheat anymore, a major problem with the old cooldown based guns. Injuries related to weapon overheat have all but vanished, as nowadays it takes an extremely sophisticated sabotage program to overload a weapon to the point of severe overheat or explosion. Troops are better equipped and better trained than they've ever been, and soldiers and mercs across the galaxy have embraced these new, better firearms.
Every arms manufacturer in the galaxy figured this out within a year's time, so why can't the same be said for the morons who are cooking up our newest shooting games, action movies and war novels? This author has no clue whatsoever. This much can be said though: anybody using the term 'thermal clip' to describe heat sink discharge deserves a claw upside the head. Get it together, people. We're smarter than this.
By the spirits, I hope we're smarter than this.
The above is an editorial and does not reflect the collective opinion of RealArms Magazine or its affiliates. Though, to be fair, people get this crap wrong ALL THE TIME.
Levitus Mattius is Chief Editor for RealArms Magazine, and enjoys his job because, for the most part, interaction with stupid people tends to be limited. Also, his office on Palaven is very spacious, with a stunning view of the Atalos mountain range. When he's not putting up his talons on the work desk and napping, Levitus can be found working on his articles and editorials, throwing away the articles/editorials of his staff and playing Galaxy of Fantasy. He loves his wife and daughter very much, they are his reason for living, and Levitus thanks the spirits every day, for he is blessed beyond measure.
LM here,
Favorite parts of this chapter: Kelly Chambers/Illusive Man, Shepard & Lowe's shuttle ride, meeting Incorrigible crew, Travis Kedar and end article. Weakest parts: dialogue with Nihlus, Rorani's bitterness and maybe Shepard's introspection, dunno how I feel about that last one. Updates on my homepage if you wanna know about other stories, also, previous chapters have been updated with some minor infodumps, but no real changes. Thanks for reading, as always.
Levi Matthews