Chapter 2: Those Old Blue, Blue Stomping Grounds
I was in C-Sec for many years. While there were a lot of things I hated about it, I have to admit it wasn't all bad. At least with C-Sec, I would have had resources. Access to surveillance footage. The ability to tap and monitor credit accounts. Colleagues, if not friends, who could spread out, establish search grids and cover more ground. Networks of informants to tap for whatever intel their eyes and ears could gather. Even when fighting against the hidebound bureaucracy that dogged my very existence, I could have gotten something.
Without C-Sec and its resources behind me, the only way I could find Zephi was to scrape up a lead, follow it to the end and hope that I could pick up another lead. To be honest, the odds of finding Zephi on my own wasn't that great. With the timeframe Bevos had given me… well, I'd have better luck throwing myself out the airlock and breathing in the cold vacuum of space.
It would be easier if I could just get on the comm and contact one of my old colleagues. But none of them liked me that much. Okay, okay—half of them didn't like me that much. The other half hated the very sight of me. As soon as they saw the ID tag attached to my comm signal, they could cut the connection, ignore it until I gave up or block the call.
That was why I had to go there in person. Much harder to ignore me or block me out.
Having made that decision, the next move was to make a list. I liked lists. Gives me that sense of completion when things are checked off or crossed out.
Step One: gather supplies for my trip to C-Sec. Depending on how things went, it could be a long, long, long haul. So I had to be prepared. That involved digging a certain mattress out from underneath my desk. And rummaging through the mini-fridge. Spirits willing, I was mistaken in my earlier alcohol-soaked recollections and I hadn't cleaned it out yet. Maybe there were still a few provisions. Nothing fancy, but as long as it was pre-made and wouldn't spoil at room temperature, I'd be satisfied.
Step Two: calibrate my weapons. If I managed to get what I needed from C-Sec, my next stop could be slightly more hazardous. And potentially fatal. Shouldn't take long, I figured, since I'd already done a full calibration before going club-hopping for my last job. Unless there were some targeting software patches that had been posted in the last ten hours.
Step Three: get some sleep. The clock was already ticking and I had to be as sharp as possible. I wouldn't do Zephi any good if I collapsed out of fatigue after all...
Then something occurred to me. I made a slight change to my list. Step Two: gather supplies. Step Three: calibrate my weapons. Step Four: get some sleep.
And what was Step One, you ask? Go to my medicine cabinet and get some painkillers. My head was killing me.
Public transit on the Citadel, like anything else, has its ups and downs.
A lot of people—especially newcomers or tourists—focus on the problems, most of which are predictable. It never seems to be on time, they say. There are never enough trains, how could the centre of galactic society have such a crappy infrastructure, it never used to be this bad and the perennial favourite: someone should really do something about this.
But if there weren't so many problems, the Citadel Ministry of Transportation would have nothing to do. Really. As bad as public transit is now, it was a lot worse when I first joined C-Sec. It's a lot more reliable and user-friendly than it used to be. Still has its issues, mind you, but you have to look at it the right way. Knowing the ins and outs of public transit? That's what separates the locals from the rest.
Though complaining about all the transit problems gets you pretty damn close.
The first trick is finding the fastest way to get to the public transit station. That means knowing when not to follow the official routes. You know, the ones that Avina's always recommending? The ones that are carefully mapped and highlighted in all the tourist apps and neon signs and recorded public service announcements? They're always packed, except at the end of the day when the criminal scum, the desperate and the ignorant come out to play. And no, I'm not going to tell you which category I fall into.
Anyway, I could go to the PTS—that's Public Transit Station for those of you who don't speak Citadel, not a misspelled acronym for the condition that females go through every monthly cycle—that's closest to my apartment. But there's always gang activity down there. The players change from month to month—at the moment, it was a three-way tussle between the West End Wolves, the Tenth Street Reds and the Blue Suns. Wolves had the advantage of being a local group, unlike the other two upstarts. But the Blue Suns were far more organized and had more resources to draw upon. Tenth Street Reds... yeah, no one had much hope for a two-bit gang from Earth. It was a miracle they scraped up the credits to get here in the first place.
Danger aside, that particular PTS was run-down. As in 'probably slated for demolition once it passes through all the Citadel Ministry of Transportation meetings and gets all the paperwork signed off in triplicate.' Assuming someone doesn't burn it down first. Or the air conditioners don't go on the fritz and send a strong gust towards it. And considering how fast bureaucracy works and the fact that Shepard isn't around to wreak his usual amount of property damage...
...
Spirits, I miss him.
Anyway, that PTS was out. Normally the keepers would be all over it, but I guess they had their claws full cleaning up the Presidium—or rather, they had their claws full redoing and improving our attempts at cleaning up the Presidium. There was another PTS I had in mind, however. Much more reliable. But it was two levels up. Now I could just get out, walk to the closest elevator system and wait an eternity. But I had a better idea. All I had to do was get out on the usual time, go to the balcony and wait. Skycar, no. Luxury skycar, tempting for the joy of pissing off the driver for touching his baby if nothing else, but no. Skycar—
"Oh my god! That turian's going to jump!"
"Somebody do something!"
"Wait! Isn't that... oh hell, it's Garrus!"
"Garrus Vakarian?"
"Yeah!"
"Oh God! Everybody, RUN!"
I was used to that by now. You'd think the local civvies would be grateful that I found a way to dispose of that bomb before it went off. I could've left it at the bottom of the apartment complex and let it take out the whole building. Or I could have tossed it out the window and let it explode in the children's park. Instead, I threw it in the elevator, sent it to the top floor and let it blow there.
And were the local civvies grateful? No! They kept blaming me for putting their elevator out of service! And they'd been doing that for over a year now!
Now where was I? Right. Skycar, no. Another skycar, no. Ah! Skytruck with a Saronis Applications logo on it. Perfect! I waited, let it get closer...
...and...
...jumped.
Didn't quite get the timing right. I stumbled a bit as I landed on the roof of the skytruck. Maybe I was a bit rusty from all those months spent running around on the Normandy, chasing the bad guys and shooting them. But I didn't bounce off it and crash face first on the pavement, so I guess I still had the touch.
Now, there was a method to my madness. I picked that skytruck because I knew where Saronis Applications was and the routes that its delivery skytrucks usually took. Assuming the routes hadn't changed, of course. It had been a year since I walked the beat, after all. If they had, I could be way off course. Boy, would that be embarrassing or what?
Thankfully they hadn't. The skytruck took me five blocks south and two blocks up—right where the PTS was located. Even stopped at the intersection so I could hop off.
Yeah. I still got it. It's not easy being me but... I manage.
As I entered the PTS, paying the fees at the ticket booth and uttering the obligatory curse at the latest price hike, I double-checked the schedule. The next arrival was still listed to arrive... well... now. Which meant it would actually arrive anywhere from one to three minutes.
While waiting, I looked around the station. Hadn't really changed all that much. Still the same bland, pastel walls. Still the odd stain that Citadel Maintenance hadn't quite managed to remove—the one C-Sec insisted wasn't blood. Which was true, by the way. It wasn't blood. It was blood, krogan bile, caustic chemicals, keeper guts and prune juice. And yes, writing up that report was as painful and disgusting as it sounds.
Still the usual amount of graffiti, I noted. Some of it was really good, mind you. Beautiful vistas of alien landscapes. Brilliant pieces of social commentary that was as thought-provoking as it was breathtaking. But there were also the more low-brow tags and scrawls. Someone had misspelled 'Palaven' again. Seriously—there are two 'a's' in Palaven. Is it really that hard to write? Kids these days.
Uh oh. Is this what Father meant when he said he felt old?
There was the usual mix of characters, patiently waiting for the next train to arrive. A pair of buskers were singing. Or competing, judging by all the glaring that was going on between them. Not to mention the proximity—there were half a dozen rules about that. Everyone who got their license had to follow the rules. Unless they were illegal ones. Probably illegal—no way a legal, licensed busker would butcher the asari national anthem like that, striking as close to home as it did. Even if his version did sound better.
A krogan was shuffling on his feet, clearly uncomfortable in his business suit. His hand kept unconsciously flexing, no doubt missing the heavy weight and cold steel of a shotgun. Or assault rifle. Or something big and loud. His other hand... okay. I'm sure that suit wasn't custom-tailored. I could tell it didn't quite fit. But I really, really didn't need to see him reach down into his pants just to give his quad some breathing room!
Looking away—and hoping the mental images would fade—I saw a salarian talking to a salarian in costume. Looked like... what did humans call it? Drag? Strangest thing I'd seen, well, in the last ten minutes. Maybe twenty.
And then there was the turian. Must be a teenager. Only turian teenagers strutted around in neon-yellow hardsuits with neon orange stripes and flashing red LEDs. Almost blinded me. Not that I could judge—let he who never highlighted his facial tattoos with fluorescent paint cast the first stone.
A three-toned chime interrupted my observations. "Your attention, please," Avina announced. "The next train for the Presidium will be arriving shortly. Please stand back from the platform edge and stay behind the red line."
Next stop: C-Sec.
Citadel Security Services, as C-Sec is formally called, is many things.
Enforcement's usually the side of C-Sec that most civvies see. Walking the beat on patrol, writing tickets for minor infractions. Cooling hot tempers and settling disputes before they get out of hand. Responding to emergencies and managing the situation before the paramedics arrive.
It's also a means of Investigation. To process crime scenes, ask hard questions and gather evidence. To solve the mystery in each and every crime. And bringing the dirtbags to justice. That last one was always my favourite part.
Then there's Customs. Yes, the wooden-faced men and women who make you stand in lines, pat you down, confiscate contraband and generally cause unreasonable delays that make you want to contact your local politician and whine are C-Sec officers. Because occasionally they do important things like arresting smugglers, terrorists and other scumbags.
Let's not forget the Network crew. Cybercrime technicians and officers who delve into the fascinating high-tech world of ID theft, copyright theft, hacking, viral attacks and illegal use of VI and AI software. Well, they say it's fascinating. I say it's a snoozefest.
I'd always wanted to join Special Response. They're the guys who handle hostage situations, bomb threats and dirt bags packing serious heat. If the Citadel was ever attacked, they'd be the front line of interior defence, loaded up with mil-spec weaponry. Of course, that only went so far when dealing with Saren and his geth buddies.
Last but not least is Patrol. The galactic equivalent of the coast guard, they conducted search and rescue operations, kept piracy to a reasonable level and intercepted illegal goods being moved to and from. Originally, they weren't responsible for defending the Citadel from naval attack. But since the Citadel Fleet had been so badly hammered from an onslaught of geth warships, Patrol had to take up some of the slack.
So C-Sec had a lot of jobs covered underneath its umbrella. It's all very complex and very much interconnected.
But at its very core, it's nothing more than a bureaucracy.
A bureaucracy run by rules and regulations, procedures and forms. A carefully constructed organization designed to deal with a constant and never-ending bombardment of requests and demands and orders. And the one nightmare that is consistent with each and every bureaucracy was the fear that someone, somewhere, would go blundering in and bring it to a screeching halt.
It was that very fear that I was banking on as I strolled into C-Sec—Step Five of my little list. I came in through the Presidium entrance at 0600 sharp. Start of the day shift, you see. That particular posting was usually reserved for the probies who were just starting out and could only handle situations like tourists or civvies looking for their children, as opposed to the Wards entrance, which was usually manned by grizzled veterans who were used to rampaging mobs hopped up on red sand and heavily armed pirates.
"Welcome to Citadel Security Services. How may I help y—oh hell, it's you."
Ah, Eddie. Officer Edward Lang, but everyone called him Eddie. Perfect. Not quite fresh-off-the-ship, but he'd only been with C-Sec for two years. Less, actually. Still changing his hair color—when we first met, it was black. When Shepard first encountered him, it was blond. Now it was red. "Hi there, Eddie!" I said brightly.
"What do you want, Garrus?" Eddie groaned. "I still have nightmares from the last time I saw you!"
"I was helping a client whose son was addicted to Hallex," I reminded him. You'd think people would remember important facts like that.
"You shot up a pet shop!"
Instead of nursing grudges over annoying, minor little details. "They were smuggling the ingredients in through the pet food."
"So you had to shoot every single aquarium?"
"Water's a very good conductor of electricity. Which came in handy when I was shorting out their shields." I was quite proud of myself for thinking of that. Note to self: having a portable means of doing that would be really useful in future fights.
"I'm still clearing water out of my ears!"
"And, again, I'm sorry." I wasn't. Not really. Eddie was just pissed because he'd just had his hair gelled or styled or whatever for his date that evening. Not to mention all that water had shorted out his omni-tool.
"Look, what do you want?"
There we go. "I just need access to some missing persons files."
Eddie looked at me like I was crazy. People do that for some reason. Usually that's followed by a whole lot of objections and occasional gun fighting. I was pretty sure Eddie wouldn't do the latter... but he was carrying his standard-issue sidearm. Time to make my pitch before his trigger-finger got itchy. "Look, Eddie, I'm not going anywhere until I get access."
"I can't get that from here," Eddie pointed out.
Yeah, that was true. No one could. We didn't want just anyone getting easy access to our secure database of C-Sec files, investigations, missing persons reports, forensic reports, case summaries and just about everything else. The only thing you could get from Eddie's terminal was civvie-cleared stuff like tourist maps or lists of dos-and-don'ts. I knew that already. But I had something else in mind: "No, I know you can't. But you can let me into C-Sec so I can find someone who can. Or a terminal with access, at least."
"You know I can't do that either!"
"Suit yourself," I sighed, reaching over my shoulder.
Eddie tensed up. His hand drifted down. No doubt he thought I was reaching for a gun. Good to see his instincts hadn't dulled, especially since that was where my sniper rifle was holstered. Not that I was going to shoot up C-Sec. I'm poor, not suicidal. No, I had a better plan in mind.
As Eddie watched, I pulled out the mattress I'd been storing under my desk and started the automatic inflater. "What are you doing?" he asked slowly.
"Making a seat of my own," I replied. "Seats are a bit hard—we know that better than anyone, don't we? Anyway, I'm gonna just camp out here until someone gets me what I need."
"Uh..."
"Oh, don't worry about me," I smiled, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a small bag. "I brought snacks," I explained, shaking the bag. "Probably fresher than the dextro-goods that C-Sec carries in the vending machines—you know how Management never renews the food supply contracts until they expire."
"So... you're just going to wait? And munch on snacks?"
"And regale anyone who walks by with horror stories of how many times C-Sec's screwed the canine," I said with a smile.
...
"Did I get it wrong? I always mangle human slang phrases."
...
"Hey, remember the time when C-Sec provided security on what we thought was an elcor diplomatic summit?" I grinned. "And it turned out to be their version of a bachelor party? How much taxpayer money did we spend again?"
Eddie practically lunged towards his console. A door hissed open. "Thank you," I said pleasantly, deflating my mattress.
I pretended to ignore the muttered curses he spat out as I folded up the mattress, put it away, made my way out of the office, down the hallway and into the elevator—right. The elevator. Activating my omni-tool, I quickly tapped in a few commands. The first stirring notes of the turian imperial anthem blared out. "Die for the Cause" might not be my first choice, but it sure beat the crap that usually counted for elevator music. Though I should really look into expanding my music files. You can only be patriotic for so long, after all.
That sentiment, by the way, is one of many reasons why I'll never be a proper turian.
The elevator ride took forever. As usual. I don't know who thought that making the elevators go as slowly as possible was a good idea. Funny thing: it never used to bother me. I used to like long elevator rides. Gave me a chance to exchange idle conversation with the other passengers. When I think of the times I used to spend chatting with Shep—with Tali or Liara. Even Wrex. Spirits, I missed them.
After a long, long, looooooooong minute, the elevator made it to C-Sec Academy. I stepped out of the elevator and looked around the foyer. It hadn't changed a bit. Still dark blue stairs. And dark blue floors. And dark blue walls. And dark blue ceiling. Kinda depressing, and not just because it suggested that C-Sec saved a ton of creds by buying dark blue paint in bulk.
No, it just always depressed me because it made me feel so small, the way the walls stretched all the way up to the ceiling. Just like the Presidium, but not as awe-inspiring. More like me and my tiny mortal sins against the huge, vast forces of Law and Order and Justice.
Of course, there was a reason for that height: the elevator shafts. Every single one encased in see-through glass and transparisteel, at taxpayer's expense, so C-Sec officers could watch incoming and outgoing traffic for any break-ins or breakouts. A good idea, I guess, but it was a pain in the ass to clean.
Looking around, I noted other things. The overly bright lighting and lettering. The overly bright vid-screens showing everything from interstellar traffic to news feeds to wanted ads. It was almost as if they were trying to compensate for the depressing blue hues that covered everything. To cast a shining, relentless light into the murk and shadows. The only thing that wasn't dark blue was the neon white lighting. And the elevator cars and offices, all of which had grey walls and floors and... well, you get the idea.
All right. Enough sightseeing. Time to get to work.
Like I said, every bureaucracy fears the person who will blunder in and screw everything up. Well, I'd just blundered in. The other C-Sec officers hadn't realized that yet, judging by the lack of shouting and screaming and gun-pointing, but it was only a matter of time. When that happened, one of two things would happen. Either they'd gave me what I wanted before I screwed something up... or they'd toss me out on my ass before I screwed everything up. Personally, I preferred the former. History suggested the latter was more likely, but I like to stay optimistic. There's the slim chance that I'll be pleasantly surprised.
Now to find a sympathetic ear... well, no. That wouldn't happen. I didn't exactly leave C-Sec on the best of terms. Unless the definition of 'best of terms' changed to involve yelling, arm-waving, screaming, throwing the datapad at yours truly, more yelling, lots of whispering and being held up as the poster child of how not to be a good, dutiful C-Sec officer.
What I needed was someone who owed me a favour... um. No. That wouldn't happen either. No one still working with C-Sec owed me that big a favour.
"Hey, does that turian look familiar to you?"
Uh oh. I'd been made. Why didn't I put some more thought into Step Six? Think, Garrus, think...
Oh, spirits. I had an idea. It was a painful, horrible one, but I had no choice. Not with a kid on the line.
I quickly made my way through the crowds and up the stairs. Take a left, skip the first door on the left, keep going, go through the second door on the left and...
...there we go! Good ol' Chellick. Average height, average build, average eye colour. Average, average, average. The kind of boring, nondescript average that nobody paid attention to and everyone would forget. Perfect for undercover work.
His reputation for following procedure and slowly—too slowly if you ask me—building airtight cases made him popular with the higher-ups. There were rumours that he'd be the obvious choice for Executor if Pallin stepped down for any reason. Chellick always squashed those rumours, though. He had no time for that, he said. Too many cases to solve, too many people to help. On that, at least, we could agree.
Besides, if he became Executor, he'd inevitably play things safe. Just as C-Sec liked. Too many people played it safe as it was. That's why I left.
"Hi, Chellick!" I said brightly.
Chellick stiffened. He looked up. "That's—"
"Detective Chellick," I quickly added, raising my talons in surrender. "I know, I know. Just wanted to get your attention."
His faced twisted like he'd swallowed a lemon. Which shouldn't have been possible considering the high risk of going into anaphylactic shock. Of course, some dextros are more sensitive than others. "You got it when you strolled into C-Sec at 0610," he snapped. "A full fifty minutes before civilians and other people without clearance are permitted."
All part of my plan.
"I oughta haul your ass out myself. Or lock you in the brig for causing a disturbance."
That—not part of the plan. Maybe I should've taken a more conciliatory approach. I'm sure Shepard would have done that. But this was more fun. Watching Chellick's plates ripple? Totally. Worth it. I took a moment to savour it.
Then I got back to business. "Yes, I know I should've waited until public opening hours like any other civvie—"
"Exactly! Spirits, you were arrogant when you first joined C-Sec, but you've gotten even worse!"
"—but I need your help."
"You're a disgrace to everything... wait, what?"
Yeah. I said those horrible four words. Together. Like I said, a painful and horrible idea. But I was willing to sacrifice my image as a badass who didn't need anyone if it meant getting the job done. At least I was a proper turian in that respect. "I need your help," I repeated. "I have a client whose kid is missing. She wants her back by tomorrow evening."
Chellick and I always had our issues. He liked to 'play the long game.' Another reason why he was so good at stings and undercover ops. Me, I like taking the bad guys down. Hard. But I'll give him this much: when a kid was at stake, he always put his issues aside, closed his mandibles and listened. So I gave him the sitrep.
"Jassara Bevos?" he asked. "You're sure?"
"Yeah."
"Spirits," Chellick groaned, dropping his head in his talons. "You didn't hear this from me, Garrus, but it would've been better if Zephi stayed missing. At least she'd be happier."
"What?"
"This isn't the first time Ms. Bevos issued a missing persons report. She's done it... thirty-eight times, that I can recall. They all play out the same way."
Uh oh. "Go on," I said warily.
"She always sneaks in just as we're about to close. Insists that we find her as soon as possible before 'her ungrateful brat' does something to ruin her good name. Demands that we do it quietly so her reputation stays intact.
"And when we find Zephi and return her? Bevos goes back to her usual schedule of business meetings, lunches, placing vid-calls to clients, work dinners. Everything except spending time with her daughter. Oh, she puts Zephi in all the best schools, makes sure she's enrolled in plenty of after-school programs and has lots of tutors to educate her and monitor her whereabouts. But spend time with her? Nah, too much work for the high-and-mighty Jassara Bevos!"
Chellick positively spat out that last part. He was taking this really hard. I know he had a soft spot for kids, but the level of detail was more thorough—and personal—than I'd expected. "I take it you've made sure you were up to speed on her file?" I asked carefully.
"Yes. And kept tabs on her activities through some of the C-Sec probies."
"Really?"
"It's just practising surveillance techniques in the field."
"Uh huh. Next you'll tell me you used your network of informants as well."
"Well..."
"Chellick!" I gasped in mock surprise. "You?"
"The Citadel is no place for a kid on her own!" Chellick protested. "You know that."
"Yeah, but... isn't this... C-Sec regulations don't permit this sort of thing."
Chellick shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. "Um... well..."
I couldn't keep from letting out a chuckle. "Chellick, Chellick, Chellick. If I knew this about you, we could've been friends."
"Spirits save me," he shuddered.
Just for fun, I let him squirm for a minute. Gotta enjoy the little things while they last. "Well, it's nice to know that Ms. Bevos really is a piece of work," I finally gave in. Do you have any ideas on where she might be?"
"Not really," Chellick sighed. "Usually we get her dad—"
"Wait!" I interrupted, leaning forward. "What did you say?"
"Her dad."
"Bevos said that Zephi's father was dead."
"She only wishes he was dead," Chellick corrected. "Mostly because he's a lowly dock worker."
"Class differences," I nodded knowingly. "Oh, the shame."
"Not to mention the scandal that comes from a one-night stand," Chellick added.
Ooh. The plot thickens...
"After the first few times, we developed an unofficial protocol. When Zephi goes missing, we contact Mr. Vietor. He has her comm codes, and vice versa. Unfortunately, Ms. Bevos blocks 'unauthorized comm channels' from penetrating her apartment, so they can never reach each other. Once Zephi's out of the apartment, though... well, that's another story. Anyway, we contact her dad. He contacts her. They meet, spend some time together and then we arrange for Zephi to be returned to her mother. It's the only time she gets to spend with her father."
"Why don't they visit more often?" I wanted to know. "Don't custody rights permit a certain amount of visitation?"
"Ms. Bevos won a very one-sided custody in the divorce proceedings. Zephi's father has no access privileges whatsoever."
"How did that happen?"
"Money. And lawyers."
I knew it. Damn scum. Almost as bad as criminals—no, worse than criminals. At least you can shoot criminals.
"So Zephi's dad is a dock worker, you said," I prompted, just to get the conversation back on track. "Mr... Vietor, you said?"
"Marc Vietor," Chellick nodded. "Though calling him a dock worker might be underselling it. He's basically the boss of his shift. First to clock in, last to clock out. Good work ethic. Little prickly, mind you. But once he gets that stick out of his ass, he's decent enough. For a human."
"Hey!" I protested.
"You're right, you're right," Chellick apologized. "That wasn't fair. Spirits know, they're not all like Harkin. Which reminds me: you recently spent time with Commander Shepard, didn't you? First human Spectre? I always wanted to know what he—Garrus?"
I looked up blankly. "Huh?"
"What happened?" Spirits, he actually looked serious.
"That look on your face. I only see it when I have to give a family some bad news. What happened?"
"He's... he's dead."
"Commander Shepard?"
"Yeah," I nodded slowly.
"Tell me what happened," Chellick encouraged, leaning forward.
"It... it all happened so fast," I began. "We'd been patrolling the Terminus Systems, looking for geth activity. Then we got hit. Again and again. Before I knew it, everything was on fire. Smoke was everywhere. We had to abandon ship.
"I watched the Normandy from one of the escape pods. She was practically carved open from bow to stern, practically bleeding for all the atmosphere and plasma she was venting. Then these bright beams of light struck her and... she... blew up.
"We got picked up eventually. Some passing ship or... something. I don't remember. It's all a blur. All I know is that eventually we got together. Did a head count. With every group that came in, I felt this sinking feeling in my gizzard. All the people I'd fought with—Tali, Kaidan, even that bounty hunter Wrex—they'd all made it. But Shepard was still...
"Then Joker came in. He gave the bad news. How Shepard had gone up to haul his crippled ass to the escape pod, how he got him inside, but an explosion had separated them before he could get in himself. Next thing he knew, there was this bright... laser beam, or something, right between them. No way Shepard could get in without vaporizing himself. So he closed the hatch and ejected the pod. That was the last time Joker—sorry, that's the pilot's nickname—that's the last time he saw him."
"And that's when you knew," Chellick guessed.
"That's when I knew," I said.
...
...
"Humans—some of them, anyway—have this custom," Chellick said at last. "They like to talk about the positive attributes of those who've died. Remember the good times that they shared, rather than focus solely on their passing. Tell me about Shepard. He seemed honourable enough, the way he got Jenna out without blowing my investigation straight to hell."
"You know, the way he took care of that was the same way he took care of every mission," I sighed. "He had this way of knowing when people had a problem and listening to them. And people just opened up. Like everyone had just passed them by and he was the first one to stop and ask what was wrong. Or even how they were doing.
"Did the same thing with the crew of the Normandy, too. Didn't matter what rank or species you were. He'd stop and ask you how you were doing. How your day was. What was on your mind. And he wasn't doing it to be polite or just because it was expected. He did it because he honestly wanted to know. Very punctual, too, the way he dropped by every shift of every day. Almost... almost turian of him. Except for the part where he'd enter a room, pause, make a circuit of the room, pause again, then leave without saying a word. Sometimes he did that. No one knew why.
"Thankfully, there was nothing weird about how he handled combat situations. Amazing tactical instincts. He had this knack for sizing up the situation and figuring out how to get through it. I'll never forget our first mission. It was on Therum. Really hot. Nothing but rocks, dirt and lava as far as the eye could see. Especially the lava—I lost track of the number of times I thought we were goners because Shepard almost drove us into the lava. The man is—was—a menace behind the wheel. Did you know his last idea for dealing with geth armatures was to stomp on the accelerator and ram them?!"
"You're kidding," Chellick scoffed.
"No. That's how he took them out. Rammed into one, parked himself on top of it, then shot the hell out of the other one. Then we took out the other. Did the same thing with the next two. My back can attest to that," I finished ruefully, absently reaching behind me to rub that phantom pain. "Thank the spirits Shepard didn't try to loot that."
"What?"
"Oh. Right. Strange habit of Shepard's: he had this bad habit of trying to find extra goodies. Spare credits, weapon mods, actual weapons, biotic amps. You name it, he'd find it. In crates. In safes. On dead bodies—"
"He looted the dead," Chellick frowned.
"It's not like they have any use for it," I pointed out.
"Surely it's not official Alliance practise to do that," Chellick said.
"Probably not. It isn't official Hierarchy practise either. Look how well that turned out," I said dryly.
"Point taken," Chellick conceded. "My best assault rifle came from my dad, and he got it off a krogan he killed during the Rebellions."
"Though I wish he'd wait until the fighting stopped before he started scrounging," I sighed.
"Unbelievable."
"I know," I groaned. "He learned his lesson."
"I should hope so."
"Eventually."
"Oh my."
"Tell me about it."
"So go back to the geth. Did he really take out four armatures by running them over?"
"Well, no."
"I knew it. I knew you were exagger—"
"Some of them were Colossi-class."
"Spirits."
"Anyway, back to Therum. I had never faced geth before. No wonder since they haven't emerged from the Perseus Veil in three hundred years. Shepard had only met them once or twice himself and that was a few weeks before I met him on the Citadel. But he'd learned from those encounters and applied those lessons almost immediately. Figured out the best way to take them out, one by one. How to prioritize targets, how to adapt when enemy reinforcements arrived. How to identify our strengths and make the best use of them, especially when covering each other's weaknesses. Made sure that none of us were lost."
"But then came Virmire. Saren's base of operations. He had a cloning facility there to create more krogan. Legions of them. And a lab to study Reaper indoctrination."
"Reaper," Chellick repeated. "Isn't that—?"
"They're real," I said sharply. "I saw one. Sovereign—the thing Saren was on—wasn't just some dreadnought. It's an actual Reaper."
"Okay, okay," Chellick said placatingly. "Go on. Saren's base on Virmire."
"Right. We had to blow it up. Fought through all the geth reinforcements and some krogan clones. Set up an improvised nuke to take it out. But then more geth arrived. We couldn't stop them all and get away. So... Ashley, one of the Alliance soldiers... she armed the nuke. Gave her life to buy us time to get away."
"That's Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams, isn't it?" Chellick asked. "I heard her name on the news vids. Word is that the Hierarchy is going to give her a medal posthumously. Maybe even the Nova Cluster."
"It's the least she deserves," I said gravely. "There are a lot more humans who deserve them too."
"Yes, I know," Chellick nodded. "Three Alliance fleets distracting the geth to give the Destiny Ascension—and the Citadel Council—time to escape. They paid a heavy price for that. We don't have access to Alliance numbers, of course, but Hierarchy estimates suggest that over a third of their ships were destroyed. That decision was based on Shepard's order, wasn't it?"
"Yeah," I confirmed. "It was."
"Such sacrifice for the greater good," Chellick marvelled, shaking his head. "Very turian of him, indeed. You're lucky to have known him."
"Yeah," I said bitterly. "Emphasis on 'known'."
Chellick looked at me, then opened in his drawer. He rummaged through it for a moment before pulling out a dark bottle and two small glasses. "I didn't know you drank," I said, raising an eyebrow. "You always stayed away from the alcohol during the parties."
"I never drank until I did my compulsory term in the military," Chellick explained, pouring a talon's worth of turian brandy in each glass. "Every time I drank, it was because we had just lost a soldier. After that, well, I never could touch the stuff for any other reason."
He gave one of the glasses to me, then picked one up himself. "Remember the dead," he declared.
"May their spirits watch over the living," I finished the old turian saying. We swallowed the brandy in one gulp. I coughed. "Good brandy," I managed at last.
"The best," Chellick agreed. He turned to his computer, entered a few commands, then glanced at his chronometer. "Mr. Vietor is stationed at Docking Bay D24 today. If you hurry, you can catch the next train to the central ring."
"I'll do that," I agreed, getting to my feet.
Chellick reached over the desk and handed me an OSD. "Biometric profiles for Vietor and Zephi," he explained.
I slotted the OSD into my omni-tool. A beep told me the data had been successfully uploaded. "Thanks, Chellick."
"Thank me by keeping the gunfire, body count and property damage to a minimum."
"No promises," I grinned.
"I know," Chellick groaned. "Spirits help me, I know."