A/N: Apologies for the delay. I might have seriously underestimated this story. However, my military-beta is still being very patient, so a round of applause to Ghostdragon31, who worked with me to quasi-realistically staff the Normandy.

Absolute Magnitude

-Chapter Nine-

Sentinel Against Disaster (Part II)

Shepard started awake at the insistent chirp of her omnitool-an incoming call, not her alarm. She had a soldier's keen awareness of just how little sleep she'd gotten; her internal clock insisted that it was something just a little better than o-dark-thirty. Her brief glimpse of the display as she keyed up the holoface confirmed it.

"Good morning, sir," she said as the audio link connected, her tone far crisper than she actually felt. Scrubbing her hand through her hair, she waited for the inevitable-and Ambassador Udina was not long in delivering.

"Commander Shepard. Perhaps you'd like to explain why I'm currently looking at pictures of you eating dinner with a pair of turians."

Shepard silently counted to three and reminded herself that she'd expected this, that the programs designed to sweep through the extranet and make her a ghost wouldn't be active for almost a week, then had to count to three again as some part of her sharply reminded her that she'd also expected Udina to wait until a reasonable hour to confront her about it. She wondered who'd called the ambassador about the photos, because there was no other reasonable explanation for him to even be awake at this hour. Unless he was using stims, which might explain why he sounded even more acerbic than usual. "I was off-duty, sir."

"Don't pretend to be obtuse, Shepard. You're entirely too politically canny to have overlooked the fact that the eyes of this station are going to be watching you like a flock of half-starved vultures. The Butcher of Torfan isn't an anonymous soldier. Neither is the first human Spectre. The minute you sat down at that table, speculation ran rampant on the extranet."

"Sir, scuttlebutt was unavoidable," Shepard said as she swung her legs off the bed, glad that she'd taken over the captain's quarters. Dr. Chakwas was a very light sleeper and she'd regret inflicting Udina on anyone this early. "I see no reason to discourage the idea that human-turian relations have improved to the point where we can collaborate on critical mission." Of course, to some, it would be sitting down to dinner with the enemy that concerned them and collaboration on a more personal level, but she intended to ignore that avenue of possibility. Which would hopefully induce Udina to do the same.

"A mission critical to the safety of human-inhabited space," Udina corrected irritably. "Which is why it should remain in human hands. This is not the time to allow your xenosympathies to get the better of you."

Shepard, safely unseen, rubbed her temples as she paced the limited floorspace of her cabin. "Sir, while I respect our isolationist policies-I don't want the Hierarchy patrolling our space or stricter Council oversight any more than you do-I think that it because this is a critical mission that we cannot undervalue the opportunity it presents."

"And what opportunity would that be?" Udina asked sardonically.

"A highly publicized collaboration, regardless of whether they decide that it was turian skill that triumphed over human incompetence, will sway opinion irrespective of actual policy changes. The volus are a client-state of the turians and they've limited trade with us because of the hostility between our races-the same is true for the asari. They're both cooperative, consensus-governed cultures who place a premium on the ability to compromise. And the turians themselves will be aware that this mission-high-risk, high-profile-was assigned to me. We can't avoid bringing Spectre Kryik aboard, but if we accept his presence gracefully rather than attempting to fight it, it will reflect more favorably on us. And if command chooses to allow Vakarian aboard, well, I think we will find future collaborations easier if we indicate a willingness to trust."

We can purchase a great deal of goodwill from our alien allies with minimal risk. I am a respecter of xenocultures, not a sympathizer. I won't let them control the mission, but I won't endanger what mutual respect we've managed to accrue with my own prejudices." Shepard paused just long enough to judge the quality of the silence and quit while it was still thoughtful.

She felt the first prospect of victory when Udina sighed, a sound edged in the irritation of the out-maneuvered. "Very well, Shepard. I will support you in your decision, but I cannot guarantee that even with my interference you'll find yourself leaving port with two turians aboard. With a time-sensitive mission like this, they don't have to say no, just stall long enough to make the decision irrelevant. Do you still stand by the decision to bring the quarian in?"

No was the easy answer, but her plan to prevent any attempt to undermine her command of the mission depended on Nihlus feeling as if he had some measure of control. So she said instead, "Yes."

The call dragged on for another fifteen minutes as Udina felt the need to reiterate things she already knew and things she'd have known if she'd been given time to check her email. Such as the meeting with her new XO, which was scheduled to occur at 0900. She took the time to read through the forwarded profile when she'd decided regretfully against going back to bed. His name was Amadeus Redcloud, which was odd enough that she followed the link to the brief profiles on his parents. His mother was a name she recognized-classical pianist, which answered the question of his given name, while his father was extremely highly placed on the Colonial Authority.

Flicking back through the screens to Redcloud's personal data, she followed the promising course of his career as a Marine Raider until it came to an abrupt halt after an IED encounter which would have killed a less resilient man. He'd survived and been rehabilitated on the Citadel. Two hundred years ago, that would have been the end of it, but with a combination of human and salarian medical ingenuity, he'd regained full functionality. They'd inserted wafer-thin regulator disks between his vertebrae and replaced the spinal fluid with ninates suspended in a medium that was capable of mimicking the electrical signal coming from the brain and passing it through the dead gap to the still-functional system beyond and rebuilt his right arm from the shoulder down with state-of-the art robotics. In terms of day-to-day living, there was nothing he couldn't do now that he'd done before.

But there was a danger to all this technology-it was just as vulnerable to omnitool interference as shield and weapons systems. If the tiny nanocomputers that regulated the system failed, it wasn't something that could be corrected in the field. The Corps had offered him a medical discharge with full retirement, but he'd briefly taken a teaching position instead. It hadn't lasted long, less than six months, before he'd decided to try for his commission. And a branch change, while he was at it. He'd earned it in short order and spent the next several years in command positions on Navy ships. Unlike Shepard, he actually had experience in managing the crews of starships, which was a different beast from her usual sort of command. Normally, a rank like Commander would imply just that, but not so for the graduates of N-school.

Reassured that the more 'domestic' side of the mission would be in good hands, she went through her morning grooming routine and broke her fast in the wardroom, then left the ship in civvies. She gauged that she had enough time to run a personal errand before she had to greet Lt. Commander Redcloud, especially if she took a transit taxi to her destination. She'd only been to the shop in-person once, but she did enough business over the extranet that the salarian manning the counter brightened in recognition as the door hissed shut behind her.

"Shepard," Antola greeted her. "Very glad to see you on the Citadel again. What can I help you find today?"

"Something on the social customs of turians, please."

"Oh? That's a bit different," the salarian commented as his long, agile fingers manipulated the holoface of the station in front of him. "Going to be spending time among turians? Or simply bored of your usual topics?"

"I'm surprised you haven't heard."

The flat, lipless mouth tugged upward at the corners. "I have. I was just being polite. I'm certain that everyone else is doing quite enough of being in your business without me doing it as well. Ah, there they are."

Anyone could sell books-and did, especially the digital form-but only Antola was just as good at recommending books as he was at selling them. If he sold it, he'd read it, and he sold a great many books. Of course, if she only slept for an hour a day and had a salarian's ability to process visual information-at least half again as fast as a human, due to metabolism differences and different cellular construction of the eye leading to a different CFF sensitivity-she'd find getting through books much quicker as well.

"I have two recommendations for you, both quite long. Though the first is actually an abridgement meant for the lay public of a fifteen volume series, so it might be quite short, if you look at it that way. An asari adapted it from Eton Gorrus's A Study of the Kinship and Social Systems of Spaceflight Capable Races, removing most of the hard data and the academic language. Her version is titled A Place to Belong: Social and Kinship Ties, which might give you some idea of the tone shift. It doesn't focus on turians exclusively, but the second one does. Beneath the Banner, by Gael Principium. Digital copies, yes?"

"Please," Shepard replied. Business concluded, she chatted with the salarian until another customer claimed his attention. She checked her omnitool as she slipped out the door and was surprised to find a brief note from Udina. Vakarian had been cleared, but they were still debating on whether the quarian would be allowed aboard. She contacted her requisitions officer, cutting his leave short in order to convert a stateroom set up for a single human occupant into one suitable for housing two turians. She explained the modifications the executor had recommended, then sent an e-mail instructing that the terminal in the stateroom be modified so that the holoface conformed to turian ergonomics. Another call saw suitable foodstuffs being prepared for delivery; she alerted the head of her Mess Specialist team once she'd gotten an approximate time, and then she had no more time for errands.

It was back to the Normandy and into a uniform in time to receive her new XO, who was already waiting for her in the wardroom by the time she'd gotten all her creases in order. Shepard had a few moments to study him before their hands met in a briskly professional handshake. "Commander Shepard," he said. "Glad to be aboard, ma'am."

"And we're glad to have your expertise, Lt. Commander," she responded.

His files had included a shoulders-up photograph, but now she catalogued details that hadn't been noticeable in it. Warm, copper-colored skin was paired with dark eyes, which she'd expected, but she hadn't realized he wore his black hair long. Less than ten years ago the grooming regulations had been modified to reflect a more gender-irrelevant Alliance, which allowed women to wear the classic high-and-tight when before they'd been subject to minimum length requirements and also allowed men to wear their hair long, though it still had to kept away from the collar.

If she was slightly surprised to see him with his hair twisted up into a neat bun, it wasn't that he wore it badly-quite the opposite-it was that for all the forward-thinking regulations the Alliance military itself was conservative in spirit. Very few women optioned to have their heads shaved when they went into basic and very few men decided to go against long-standing traditions. Shepard silently approved his choice-the genetic lottery had gone in his favor and years of military discipline had only honed the edges of what was already tall, dark, and handsome.

She might not be interested in violating regs-either religious or military-but she couldn't say she didn't appreciate the view.

Shepard gave him a very similar tour to the one she'd given Nihlus only days ago, though the conversation varied considerably. Besides the unexpected bonus of being just as decorative as Kaidan, Redcloud came just as advertised: organized, highly intelligent, and intuitive. That he also had a sense of humor was even more appreciated than his looks-living in barracks with irritable people was difficult enough. The confines of a ship amplified everything. "You might as well call me Maddie," he said as he ably took command of what had recently been her office. "A DI in basic thought it was funny and I never managed to escape it."

"Shepard," she offered. "I don't use my first name, even in private. I take it that naval officers are more relaxed about this as a rule, then. I was a little confused, the first time Lt. Commander Alenko insisted."

Redcloud chuckled. "Speaking as someone who's served in both branches, the short answer to that is yes. We still put on a good show in the wardroom and in uniform when we're in public, but as your social pool is a lot more limited on a ship than it is planetside, hobnobbing with other ranking officers is the best we can do. So as long as good order is maintained and chain of command is respected, no one makes a fuss. Of course, if you're uncomfortable with it..."

"No. It's fine," Shepard replied and that was the end of it as he immersed himself in personnel files and schedules.

Shepard left him to it, checking in on the mess to discover a faintly ill-looking mess specialist being shown how to quality-check freeze-dried insects by the head of the team. Some twenty pounds in total of several different species would be taking up space in the dry goods section that the team had cleared and sanitized for the dextro supplies.

It wasn't as if humans didn't eat insects-they were a ready source of protein and could be farmed in just the same way as any other animal intended for human consumption, without nearly the resources required for creatures like cattle or sheep-but unlike with turians, it wasn't a universal practice. On crowded, ultra-urban planets, it was often the only kind of commercially viable farming that took place.

Shepard hadn't come from that sort of environment, and from the look on his face, neither had the slightly green-looking young man. The slow process of domesticating native species-after the first garden planet fiasco the Colonial Authority had been established so that they didn't inadvertently destroy one of the rare, valuable biospheres-had gone well on Mindoir, which had been in the megafauna stage of development. So she still categorized eating things with too many legs as a survival measure, not a normal part of one's diet.

With everything being delivered on time and no last minute crises to solve, at least none deserving of her direct attention, Shepard returned to her cabin and slipped back into the civvies she'd laid aside earlier. She greeted the first trickle of returning personnel as they checked in from their leave, including Williams, who had loss some of the stress lines around her eyes. It was hours yet before her Marines were due to arrive, which gave her plenty of time for a less personal but still profitable errand. Favors bought and sold-there was a reason information brokers were some of the wealthiest citizens space had to offer.

Her omnitool chirped again and Shepard didn't bother to stifle the ragged sigh that escaped her lips. Her mood improved slightly when she saw that it wasn't Udina or a representative of the Alliance. Her patience had worn rather thin with the last three e-mails regarding security protocols, even if she hadn't read them yet. Even if they were practicing selective amnesia about the Hierarchy having co-designed the Normandy, this was getting tedious. They'd had one very brief war decades ago-at some point they were going to have to get to the point of détente in more than official policy.

"Shepard?" Vakarian's voice reverberated in her ear.

"What can I do for you, Officer Vakarian?" Shepard asked. "Was there something wrong with your NDA?"

"Oh, no, just-I just wanted to thank you." There were heavy subharmonics again and Shepard was again cuttingly aware that their translators were only a crutch, not a perfect solution. At least most of the conversation with a turian was vocal-humans were woefully underequipped to deal with any species who actually made use of their equivalent to the vomeronasal organ.

"No thanks necessary," Shepard replied. "I believe that you'll make a valuable member of the team. That's worth a little headache." She just hoped it was worth the rather large headache that it had actually brought, but whining to your subordinates wasn't just unprofessional, it was annoying.

"I'll be certain to live up to your expectations, then," Vakarian said. Then came a strange little vocalization, before he said, "They didn't tell me when they wanted me to report."

"Ah," Shepard said, suddenly understanding why he hadn't waited to give his thanks in person. "You have about six Earth standard hours before we're ready to leave port, but you can report to the Normandy whenever you're ready. My XO is expecting you-he'll brief you as to your duties aboard ship and show you to your stateroom."

"Stateroom? But..."

"We're boarding you with Spectre Kryik," Shepard explained as she reached the transit taxi hub and keyed in her destination. She didn't think she'd have to explain beyond that and the rumble of understanding from Vakarian confirmed it. "I'll be giving a welcome speech in the mess once everyone's aboard and fed-you can tell me how badly my Mess Specialists fared against turian recipes."

Vakarian was still chuckling when she cut the connection.

She hadn't been certain what she'd find at her destination, but she was unsurprised to discover that Fist's establishment was carrying on without him. Chora's Den still pulsed with synth-music that Shepard would never understand the appeal of, fresh barkeepers replacing the ones who'd died in their assault on Fist. Women this time, in clinging asari-style dresses.

But neither the dancers nor the drinks were the object of coming back to this place-she was actually shocked to find her target as easily as she did. She'd asked the Consort about his colony of origin and a quick extranet search had turned up his appearance and plate color, but it was his otherwise empty table and complete disinterest in the dancers that drew her attention first.

She drifted past the bar, baffling a bartender with a request for fruit juice, and then she seated herself at General Septimus Oraka's table, taking one of the chairs that left her back to the wall.

Shepard wasn't stupid: for all that business continued as usual, they had been killing people here very recently. She wouldn't count on the gratitude of whichever of Fist's lieutenants had succeeded him. She could, however, count on the unsavory elements to keep people from taking photos. Or at least most people-the ones who didn't realize taking snips and stills made them looking like informants might still risk it.

The decorated general was drunk enough that he only peered blearily at her for a long moment before indignation sparked in predator golden eyes. "Something you need, human?" he rumbled. His plates were a dull steel-grey, his colonial markings almost like white petals sweeping back along the ridges of his brow and along his crest and mandibles, leaving his cheeks and nasal ridge bare. Two swift strokes, almost like fangs, marked his lower jaw. Not so pretty as Nihlus's or the executor's, but far more elaborate than Vakarian's-Palavan's markings were a study in brutal simplicity, while their colonies wore far more elaborate marks.

Shepard eyed him a long moment, then, "I'm here on behalf of the Consort."

"Sha'ira sent you? And here I didn't think she cared," he sneered, mandibles flaring aggressively.

"The spread of the secrets of top-ranking diplomats might be concerning to someone in her position, you understand," Shepard replied evenly.

Which made Oraka scoff and slump back into his seat. "It would figure that would be the only reason she'd care."

Shepard frowned at him. "She gave me the understanding that you desired more from her than her professional services," she prodded gently. "I find it...unusual that a turian general would be reduced to this," she couldn't help the disapproving tone that pervaded her words, "by a single asari."

"Why do you find it so unusual?" the general challenged. "Because we're heartless monsters?"

"Because you're a pragmatic species who don't seem inclined to confuse professional courtesy with deep sentiment," she replied, tone slightly caustic. "You'll have to explain it to me."

That seemed to take him aback for a moment, but his recovery was quick. "Explain it. You want a lecture on turian romance?"

"Well, we are in a bar," Shepard demurred. "I don't know about turians, but I suspect a significant percentage of the humans are here to talk about romance. Or at least sex."

That earned her a rough laugh as Oraka threw back the rest of his drink. "Oh, yes. I've noticed. In the time I've been here, I've seen humans proposition everything that walks in, regardless of species or even gender. I've even had a human man ask if I wanted company."

"And that's strange?" Shepard asked curiously. Her own views on human sexuality were pervaded with religious bias, but she'd never stopped to think what other species might think of it. Asari would doubtless embrace it's flexibility, salarians would care only as it effected work efficiency, but turians? That was harder to judge.

"Yes." He shifted in what looked like discomfort, calling for another drink. "Spirits," he grumbled. "It's almost like you humans never outgrow relationships based on physical attraction. And you can manage to find anything attractive. Shipboard antics, for all your life. It's no wonder you can't stay mated."

Shepard waited silently as he drained half his glass in one go.

"There is a reason that I'm like this," he hissed at her. "If it was just sex, I could walk away. I've seen pretty asari before and will again. Beautiful turian females. But those are casual things. For a deep, lifelong matebond, it requires trust. And that is very hard to find for a general. I could tell Sha'ira anything. Anything," he emphasized.

"That's the way human relationships work as well," Shepard pointed out.

Oraka eyed her, those yellow eyes gleaming in the muted light. "I feel you need a turian biology lesson," he said. "Unlike you, we can consciously interpret pheromones."

Shepard nodded. "I knew that much. I'm afraid that my knowledge of turian sexuality is limited to its opinion on consent. The body is a beast, it knows only want; the mind is the master, it must be obeyed."

"Primarch Altus," Oraka confirmed approvingly. "Well, that is probably more than most humans manage. Although your race could work at putting it into practice. I've seen behavior here..." he shook his head. "Turian males don't pursue," he said, visually resigning himself to this conversation. "Males display, like your females. It's females who pursue. And it's their arousal-the pheromones their glands produce-that makes the...mechanical aspect of male arousal possible."

Another long drink from his glass was required, though it didn't wipe the look of distaste from his face. "So we don't have sexual 'preferences' the same way you do," he explained. His tone carried no judgment, just a plain statement of fact. "And rape requires enough drug intervention to make it incredibly rare. Synthetic pheromones for the male, muscle relaxants for the female." That one was loaded with enough judgment that Shepard winced.

"I've seen several turian-asari couples on the Citadel," she observed, redirecting the conversation away from humanity's faults. "The asari can produce the same pheromones as a turian female?"

Oraka chuckled. "The asari have the most complex system of pheromone glands of any sapient species," he said. "You'd have to ask a salarian or an asari herself if you want more specific details than that." His mandibles shifted. "Humans, too. Though I don't know if you'd be capable of matebonding, you're recognizably female enough for a male turian."

"That's...actually very odd."

"It is," Oraka acknowledged. "Considering we're basically poisonous to one another. But there it is. Sex for a turian. Matebonding, however, is different. It is the deep, mutual trust between a female and up to two males. When that occurs, our glands-male and female-begin to secrete a very specific compound. It changes the chemical make-up of our body. You can smell when someone is matebound, just as a male will only be aroused by the scent of his mate from that point forward."

"But a female takes up to two males?" Shepard pressed curiously.

"Our numbers have always been skewed toward males. 1.78 male births to every female. In antiquity, only households headed by very aggressive males didn't include a second male. Today, we have the asari, but it is still common in Hierarchy space to see such households."

Shepard's silence was thoughtful as she tried to integrate this fresh knowledge with the records of turian history that she knew. It fit neatly enough, because they'd hardly ever mentioned family, personal merit being more important than any fact of birth despite some families making their name in certain professions. Then she shook herself. "I think I've led you far off-topic," she apologized. "So, you thought that you could trust Sha'ira deeply enough to form a matebond? And that's why you're trying to drink yourself into a stupor?"

"Now you understand," Oraka replied. "So leave me be."

"I understand that you're suffering from severe disappointment," Shepard said carefully. "But you're a general. A turian general. If you couldn't cope with set-backs, that's not a promotion you would have one. Yes, you invested considerable resources in this campaign. But the heart isn't a finite resource. You've had your retreat. Regroup, rethink, and stop shaming yourself and your command by committing petty acts of revenge."

"Just like that?" Oraka scowled.

"Well, no, I doubt it will be 'just like that', but you're better than this place," Shepard said earnestly, her eyes flitting over the interior of the bar with unconcealed disdain. "Better than drinking yourself to the point of drunken ramblings in front of a stranger."

"Better than to make trouble with elcor diplomats?"

"That too."

A rumbling sigh heralded capitulation. "I'm still finishing this drink," he told her, tapping one finger on the rim of his glass. "And since I assume I'll eventually be grateful for this, I'll buy you one as well. What are you drinking?" When she told him, she earned herself an incredulous look. She ended up with something called a Starfall and it was her turn to look dubious-not only was it almost a midnight blue, there were luminescent particles suspended in the liquid. Bioluminescent, she discovered to her unease a moment later, when she'd taken a cautious sip and discovered why the waitress was lingering. Easily digested, excellent source of vitamins, completely compatible with amino-based life forms.

"You never bothered to introduce yourself," Oraka pointed out as Shepard took another cautious sip.

She glanced up at him, inspecting him for signs of sarcasm. But no, she'd finally discovered someone on this station who didn't recognize her on sight. "Commander Shepard. Pleasure to meet you, General."

And that should have been the end of it until the flight carrying her squad arrived, but she hadn't even finished her drink before trouble reared its head again. This time it came in the form of a red-headed woman who had low, ferocious argument with one of the bartenders and then left. Unremarkable in itself, but a turian who'd been making himself very amiable with one of the dancers followed her out. Shepard sighed and excused herself from the table, though she was surprised by Oraka's promise to sort things out with both the elcor ambassador and the Consort.

What came next was a very odd interlude. The girl, whose name was Rita, had been attempting to convince her sister that acting as a C-Sec informant was a dangerous profession. The turian who'd followed her out turned out to be the sister's handler, one Detective Chellick, who was anxious not to have his investigation ruined at the eleventh hour. For the last several months, Jenna, Rita's sister, had been watching, listening, and ingratiating herself into the network that was based out of the nightclub. And now, at last, Chellick was about to get exactly what he needed-when Jenna came off-shift this evening, she would be making her way to the Lower Markets, posing as a buyer for illegal gun mods.

Rita wanted Jenna out and Shepard's help in achieving that. What she got instead was Shepard pointing out that the success of many complicated C-Sec investigations hinged on civilian informants. But she did, eventually, agree to accompany Jenna. Who seemed subtly relieved when Shepard arrived in borrowed armor and makeup, though her weapons were her own. It certainly made more sense that a mercenary would use Jenna as an intermediary rather than Jenna herself being interested in the mods; as Shepard asked knowledgeable questions about a really nasty box of incendiary rounds she could see that the krogan peddling them thought so as well. The mods were handed over to Chellick, Jenna was at significantly less risk for the moment, and Shepard was beginning to begrudge the number of times she'd had to change clothes in the course of an Earth standard day.

Luckily, nothing unfortunate occurred on the way back to the Normandy and she was back in uniform in time to greet her new arrivals. Udina had said that the ship was originally intended to house a recon squad and that it was off the table, but he'd apparently only meant SOCOM and somewhere along the line her one squad had multiplied to a squad with support personnel. Not that she minded, as the policy switch from deniable ops to use of aggressive force worked better when you had enough bodies for the task at hand, but though the Normandy was technically a frigate, they were going to be berthed to capacity. And judging by the vehicles coming aboard, they'd have just enough room in the hangar.

As a second Mako rolled into her hangar to join the one that had occupied it since she'd come aboard the Normandy, she shook hands with the staff sergeant. A handsome woman in her early thirties, she had skin the rich, lustrous color of coffee beans, her hair neatly braided and the ends of the braids twisted into an equally neat bun. "Good evening, commander. Staff Sergeant Joan Goddard, 66th LAR reporting, ma'am." Though the Alliance military was vast, Shepard instantly recognized the battalion. They might not have sent her Raiders, but they'd given her the Devil's Own.

Shepard returned the greeting. "So, what have you brought me, staff sergeant? I wasn't expecting quite this many."

"We got a last minute green light for personnel and supplies-we brought on extra provisions as well," the staff sergeant reassured her. "You've got ten scouts, six crewmen for the Mako-three for the one we brought and three for the one you had, four mechanics, three comm specialists, two supply, two MARS all-terrain vehicles, and one M35 Mako to supplement the one you already have. I'm assigned as a VC-I assumed you'd have a SNCO aboard already, since we didn't have one accompany us."

Ashley Williams was a Gunnery Chief, which was a specialist position roughly equivalent to a sergeant. If it had been Anderson who'd been leaning on the Board, he might have assumed she'd want someone with at least a passing familiarity with the geth in a command position. She'd have to alert Williams to her changed duties once they'd brought all these vehicles aboard.

While she was speaking, a young man with hair so pale as to be almost translucent walked up, waiting to join the conversation. "Lieutenant Bram, ma'am. We'll be bringing aboard two S-14 Lammergeier dropships capable of putting your scouts and vehicles planetside. I have five crewmen accompanying me; I'll be your flight lead."

Somehow they managed to tuck it all neatly into her hanger, although space was at a premium by the time they were finished.

She returned to the command deck, positioning herself at Joker's shoulder rather than at the CIC platform. The pilot chatted happily with her-proving that rule about naval officers-until Williams messaged and informed Shepard that all supplies were aboard and the hatches sealed. That was it then-Redcloud had reported the arrival of their turian, krogan, and, surprisingly enough, quarian shipmates while she'd been out aiding a C-Sec investigation.

She had an immediate objective, even if tracing the money exchanged on the Fist debacle was proving slower going than she'd hoped-the audio files Tali'Zaroh nar Rayya had provided as evidence against the turian Spectre had featured him discussing something referred to as the Conduit with an asari matriarch named Benezia. Given that the information about it had come from a Prothean beacon, it was assumed to be a Prothean artifact. And intel had confirmed the suggestion that it was Matriarch Benezia's own daughter who was one of the leading authorities in the field. Last seen on an archeological dig on the planet Therum, Knossos system, Artemis Tau cluster. Given both her academic knowledge and the value of her insight into her mother's actions, their first objective was to secure the scientist.

"So," Joker drawled, "we're about to set out to bring down the most ruthless Spectre in charted space. My pre-flight checklist's done and everything's good to go here, so right about now would be the time for a rousing speech. You know, if you do that sort of thing," he said as Shepard eyed him.

Shepard sighed and overrode the comms. "This is Commander Shepard speaking," she said. "To our crew just joining us this evening, welcome aboard the Normandy. She's the most advanced stealth frigate in the entire Alliance fleet. But you aren't here to admire her-you're here today because somewhere out in those distant stars is a turian who wants to bring a war to our doorstep. A war, ladies and gentlemen, fought not by creatures of flesh and blood, but by a tireless synthetic race. One which had already evicted an entire population from their planet."

The geth represent every nightmare of AI technology gone amuck. Self-replicating, they need neither food nor rest. I don't need to tell you the kind of catastrophe that would result if they were to emerge from behind the Veil in force. But Saren isn't satisfied with these allies, no matter how formidable. The geth are only tools, acting under the Spectre's orders in order to revive a machine race capable of destruction of a far greater magnitude. He calls them 'Reapers' and they are true to their name. They are an ancient race of machines who were responsible for the destruction of the Protheans. The same Protheans who built the Citadel on which we are now docked and who built the mass relay system-evidence that their technology was far superior to our own. But they lost their war," she said softly.

"The Protheans are a dead race now. But humanity is not. Saren still hasn't found the key to replicating the destruction of fifty thousand years ago. And he will not. Because one Spectre, no matter his reputation, is only one being. He is the fulcrum on which this whole plot rests-we topple him and the rest will come crashing down.

"So we will do this not just for humanity, but for every Council race. And for our place in that Council. Since we first ventured outside our solar system, humanity has stood apart, but now is the time to show ourselves capable and productive members of this galaxy, worthy of the trust that has been invested in us."

Even though no one could see her, a cold, tight smile crept across her lips. "Per ardua ad astra-through adversity to the stars and through any obstacle to our target. We will hunt him swiftly, efficiently, and without mercy. That is all."