2188 CE, SSV Elbrus, 1 Light-Year from the Citadel
Like the eye of a hurricane, Admiral Hackett strode into the war room of the SSV Elbrus, his calm demeanour belying the commotion of his aides taking their accustomed places around the room, as well as everyone's attempts at saluting. He waved it all away with an efficient motion.
"Apologies. My ride was delayed," he said dryly. "May I trouble someone to update me on the battle plan?"
Brief chuckles filled the air. Hackett was a master at understatement, especially delivered with his trademark gravelly voice. The delay in this case had occurred in the frontline of the battle currently being waged in Citadel Space. For a day it'd been touch-and-go with the SSV Okinawa only making dock fifteen minutes ago. Nonetheless, it was a saying within the Systems Alliance Fifth Fleet that as long as their chief commander didn't lose his habit of understatement, things couldn't be too bad.
Shepard looked up from studying a readout on his omni-tool and came to attention like the rest. He tugged at the collar of his dress uniform. It felt ill-fitting to him, the same way the rank tabs of Captain on his shoulders made him feel like an interloper, rather than a rightful participant in this particular meeting. It didn't help that events in the past few days served to heighten that impression either.
They were nine trillion kilometres out from the Citadel. Close enough for communication with ships currently around the giant station, albeit with a lag of several seconds, but far enough that what was left of fleet here, or at least the FTL-capable vessels, could make the jump for one of the twelve relays in the Serpent Nebula should the battle take a sudden turn for worst. Right now, the Fifth Fleet of the Systems Alliance as well as the Thracia, Taetrus, Edessan Fleets of the Turian Hegemony Navy were engaged in a fierce fire-fight against as many as seven Reapers around Citadel space.
Short and portly, Rear Admiral Ortiz, fleet staff tactician, cleared his throat.
"I'm about to brief on the final details of the plan, sir."
"Go ahead, Ortiz. Give me some good news."
The low frequency hum of the dreadnaught's engines melded into the background with the blips and pings of massive computers that constantly calculated and compensated for the lag time to display fleet positions and tactical readouts as holograms above projection pedestals.
Ortiz called up a detailed schematic of the Citadel over one of the darkened pedestals. The entire population in the war room moved in to surround the holographic projection.
"As you've requested, we've pinpointed the location of the mass relay switch. It lies deep in a shaft that intersects with the Presidium Ring at the base of Tayseri Ward here. Beyond this bulkhead lies the inaccessible core of the station. We've concluded there's no way to disable the switch permanently short of destroying it. The area is well armoured because the mechanism that folds the wardarms into a defensive position is located here and here."
He highlighted the relevant areas with a remote.
"There's a high chance bombardment tactics will destroy the hinge mechanism and rip the wards away from the core, destabilising the station and causing further structural damage. I believe your orders were for us to keep damage to the Citadel's superstructure to the minimal, sir."
Hackett studied the schematic with its highlighted areas.
"What are our alternatives?"
"Our tests have shown that nothing short of a dreadnaught's main gun would be able to punch through the bulwarks to destroy the switch. And even so, the weapon needs to be positioned within the shaft or in the Presidium Ring for greatest effect. Unfortunately, there's no single source of power in that part of the Citadel to hook that big an accelerator up."
"Can we detach a dreadnaught's main gun in the first place? Hook it up to a mass effect engine of a ship anchored outside?"
Ortiz fired up his omni-tool and input a set of data. After a short while, he replied, "Including the link-up work and subsequent calibrations, we're looking at a time window of one week at the shortest."
"We can't afford to wait that long," Hackett muttered. "What's the next plan?"
"I'm afraid to say there isn't one." Ortiz said. "We can attempt to breach the walls of the Presidium, create a gap for a dreadnaught to aim at the shaft, but the firepower needed to punch through is likely on the same magnitude and carries the same consequences as carpet bombing the area."
Hackett slapped down a hand hard on the pedestal.
"Surely you didn't bring me back here to tell me what we cannot do, man. Tell me what we can!"
Shocked silence greeted his outburst.
"Anderson's out there holding the line right now," Hackett jabbed a finger in the direction of the viewport. "C-Sec and Partinax's troops are evacuating the civilian population as fast as shuttles can turn over, with the end result not making a damn difference when one out of three transports gets shot out of the sky. We're going to be out of fuel running them there and back in thirty-six hours; there's no guarantee we can even survive another day's worth of fire fight. And after three days, you're telling me the best you can do is no plan at all?"
Uncomfortable shuffling and coughs filled the room. Ortiz looked around to his colleagues. When there was clearly no input to be offered, he cleared his throat diffidently.
"Actually, Captain Shepard has a radical proposal in mind."
Hackett's eyes went unerringly to Shepard.
"Trot it out, Shepard."
Shepard came forward, and avoided meeting anyone's eyes in case he raised the subtle animosity he'd been encountering ever since being assigned to the Fifth Fleet. Picking up a remote from a nearby pedestal, he called up the schematic of the Normandy.
"I'd like to suggest we use the Normandy to make the run. It is small enough to fit in the shaft, as well as equipped with a cannon that has the armour penetrating capabilities of a dreadnaught gun. There's no smaller or better ship with the requisite firepower to make the clear shot."
Rear Admiral Mikhailovich raised his hand. "I have to go on record and say I'm against this. The clearance in the shaft as well as the Presidium ring measures in metres! If that ship breaks apart in there, its nuclear reactor and mass effect core will blow the wards apart the same way as our original scenario."
"The ship is equipped with an onboard artificial intelligence," Shepard interjected. "As well as one of the best pilots humanity has to offer. It's singularly suited to do the job."
"What if this AI of yours decides that self preservation is far more important than the mission?" Mikhailovich shot back. "Its original directives were programmed in by Cerberus, weren't they?"
Shepard quelled his irritation as the arguments that took place over the past three days surfaced again.
"EDI's behavioural blocks have been removed years ago. She and my pilot Jeff Moreau are firmly behind the objective of our fight—to defeat the Reapers. Besides, that ship carried me to the galactic core and back, through the Perseus Veil and beyond without a single incident. Every one of those missions held far less chances of success than the proposed shaft run."
"I still don't like it," Mikhailovich muttered. "AIs are expressively illegal in Citadel Space and for good reason. An independent AI is likely to have a synthetic mindset at odds with our goals."
"With all due respect, Admiral, you can argue that EDI is a potential liability because she's bound by her original programming, or her status as an independent entity endangers the mission, but you can't pick both." Shepard growled.
"Gentlemen..." Hackett interjected.
Shepard opened his hands in a placating gesture.
"What I'm saying is with the Normandy we get one chance to destroy the relay switch without resorting to bombing tactics. Should the run fail, and the wards get blown apart, it'd still expose the switch to conventional weaponry. There's nothing to lose."
"Or everything to lose." Mikhailovich countered. "We're dealing with absolutely unknown and untested factors here. All we have is your say-so. And estimates aren't going to cut it in this case."
"Thank you, both of you. I've heard enough." Hackett held his hand up. Pitching his voice to carry across the room, he announced, "Ortiz, announce all battle-worthy ships are to go on level one alert. We'll be moving into Citadel Space in five hours. "
"All ships, sir?"
"Damaged support craft can stay behind; assist the personnel transports that are still coming in. When the last is accounted for, they can jump out."
Mikhailovich asked in astonishment, "We're going in with everything we've got? Now?"
Hackett let his eyes travelled all over the room, holding everyone with his gaze.
"The Citadel is written off. Our primary objective now is to destroy the mass relay switch at any cost. Even if we have to throw flagships at the Reapers." He directed his attention at Shepard. "You're in charge of prepping the Normandy for the shaft run. Liaise with General Partinax. He'll provide ground support with his troops, including demolition work to widen your flight path if needed."
Turning to Mikhailovich, Hackett continued, "I want you to select a number of ships to run escort and protect the Normandy. Work with Shepard on this. Carmichael, get on board the Kilimanjaro. Assist Anderson, coordinate with the turian navy to keep the Reapers busy. Stagger our resources and boost that interference signal to its maximum strength. We need to hold them back for up to twelve hours upon arrival.
"Ortiz, I need you on civilian evacuation. Take over coordination of the shuttles. Jettison unnecessary supplies from the freighters, free what you can and use them to expedite the process. Start with Tayseri Ward and make as many round trips as possible to Bekenstein the moment we get there. I'll take command of the Elbrus and move it into contingency position should the shaft run fail."
"Sir, it'd take three hours going to and from Bekenstein." Ortiz muttered after checking some figures on his omni-tool. "Freighters would net us fifty thousand more spots per trip at best, and Tayseri Ward has close to three million in population."
"We're not going to be able to save them all. Most of the Citadel's population will be left behind. There're not enough ships or time to evacuate everyone."
Stunned silence filled the room. It was quickly broken up by Hackett who barked, "You've got your orders, people. Get moving!"
Like being woken up from a dream, the energy level in the war room rose perceptibly as everyone moved to their assigned tasks.
"Garrus, did you get all that?"
Shepard spoke into his comm unit.
"Loud and clear, Shepard. We'll begin preparations right away."
"Good. I'm on my way."
He was in the process of leaving the war room when Hackett placed a hand on his shoulder.
"A question, Captain. Who are you going to assign on board the Normandy to oversee the run?"
He frowned, surprised the question was even broached.
"Myself, sir."
Hackett's eyes narrowed.
"I thought so. I'm expressively forbidding you to."
"Surely you can't expect me to sit on the command deck and order men to die in my place, sir. In this, I must to be the one to lead the way." He stopped short, checked by Hackett's studying gaze, and realised what he'd said could be construed as insubordination. He couldn't help but wonder if three years of acting independently had the effect of undoing a decade's worth of habits following orders. Or perhaps I don't fit in the system anymore.
Taking a deep breath, Shepard lowered his voice.
"May I at least know the reason?"
"I'll be frank; your greatest worth to the Alliance is the credibility and rapport you've built with the allied species. Like it or not, you are the de facto spokesperson for humanity and the galaxy."
"A figurehead, sir?" He couldn't help but bristle. "Is that what you take me for?"
"A weapon, Captain. To be put into use at the right time and place, not before. Same as any soldier in this war." The older man eyed him shrewdly. "I didn't promote you so you could go on playing a grunt, Shepard. Your value now lies in your ability to inspire and command."
Shepard stared at Hackett for a moment before lowering his eyes, unable to refute the truth in that. He tried to wrap his mind around accepting the fact, but found it as hard to swallow as the lump in his throat.
"May I at least choose the person I want to oversee the run on the Normandy, sir?"
"Who do you have in mind?"
"Garrus Vakarian. He's a turian and a trusted member of my team—my former team. He was the Normandy's gunnery officer for three years. There's no better person other than myself to command the ship and liaise with General Partinax's forces." Ruthlessly, he forged on to the logical conclusion. "I'd imagine the choice would also earn us solidarity points with our turian allies."
Hackett nodded approval. "Go ahead, Captain. Be sure to inform Mikhailovich about the changes in your plan."
With a hand wave to signify his aides, the commander of the Fifth Fleet left the war room, leaving chaos in his wake.
Shepard made a half-aborted gesture at following before turning back and walking towards the viewport. With a heavy heart, he rested his forehead against the plexiglass surface.
Nobody had raised the issue of how to extricate the Normandy from the shaft even if the run was a success. It wasn't possible. Neither was it likely the crew could be rescued past the point of no return.
Outside the massive window that filled the starboard side of the mid-size room, half of the ships of the Systems Alliance Fifth Fleet floated stationary in interstellar space, far away from any star systems or celestial bodies. Support craft like supply freighters, fuel tankers and their small minders were parked near the centre of the congregation while thirty or so frigate, carrier and cruiser-class warships dotted the perimeter in defensive positions.
Blackened hulls and sheared-off sections were prevalent. Damage control craft worked around some of the more heavily damaged vessels, their frenzied activity belaying the ominous inactivity of darkened hulls. Now and then, orange fire flared brightly from truncated portions, to be quickly snuffed out by the vacuum of space. Personnel shuttles weaved in and out of the chaos, transporting the injured to medical frigates located in the epicentre.
There was a surrealistic feel to the whole spectacle, in the lack of sound and the backdrop of interstellar space where stars congregated into luminous clouds and the nebula itself imbuing an incandescent pink glow to reflective surfaces. That was the problem with space casualties. Survivors were a rare breed. Death arrived, smooth and casual, when mass accelerators overloaded kinetic barriers and bulkheads exploded, puncturing suits and venting bodies into space, their screams stolen as quickly as the air in their lungs.
But was a clean death better than being indoctrinated and turned into husks, or paralysed by seeker swarms, awaiting harvest by Collectors?
Shepard banged a fist against the glass in a futile motion. Finally, he remembered time was of the essence, and opened the comm-channel to the Normandy.
"Thought you'd be here by now. Or are you thinking to skive from the scud-work?" came the dry rejoinder.
Shepard's eyes wandered to the edge of the fleet where the Normandy, still in its Cerberus colours, was parked with the rest of the frigate-class ships.
"There's been a change of plans," he said heavily. "You have to take command of the Normandy this time, Garrus."
Silence greeted him from the other end.
"Sounds too good to pass up." Garrus finally replied, the insouciance in his voice more obvious than usual. "I've always wanted ship command some day."
"You're going to have to take my place." Shepard swallowed. "I'd originally intended a skeleton crew for this: myself, Joker and EDI."
A forced laugh emerged from the earpiece.
"This is better. Don't want you breathing down my neck anyway."
"Right," he mustered a brief laugh. "I'll just cramp your style."
"Besides, I get to work with the great General Partinax," Garrus quipped. "Chance of a lifetime really."
"Your father's a big fan of his, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
Time stretched until Shepard imagined he could feel the seconds ticking in his head. Finally, Garrus cleared his throat.
"Mind doing me a favour, Shepard? If you get the chance, tell my father I'm sorry he thought me a disappointment. I need him to know I never stopped trying to be a good turian. I'm just... I'm sorry my best wasn't enough."
A brief moment ensued where neither said anything, before a flanged snort filled the transmission space between them.
"Ahh...listen to me. You'll never let me live this one down now."
"Never say never, Garrus," he said fiercely. "Because you haven't done your best. Not just yet."
"Always one last chance with you, huh?" A wistful note entered Garrus's voice. "Think namedropping the good general will score points with my old man?"
"I'm sure it will. I'll remember to do that."
"Thanks, Shepard. Thanks for everything."
A deep breath almost turned into a coughing fit as his throat hitched.
"I-I'm afraid I have to go. Tell EDI and Joker I—"
"Will do. Take care of yourself."
He lifted a hand to cover his tightly-shut eyes.
"Good luck, all three of you."
The channel went dead. With great effort, he tore himself away from the viewport and took over one of the holographic pedestals. Calling up the mission proposal he'd prepared days ago, Shepard focused all his attention on making the necessary amendments to fire it off to all relevant parties.
The next half an hour saw him engaged in a frustrating time-lagged discussion with Partinax to widen the Normandy's flight path. That was how Mikhailovich found him, flushed features giving away the hint that all was not well.
"Putting a turian in charge? What's next?"
Shepard glared at the recalcitrant man. One week getting stonewalled in every manner, his advice ignored until it was made absurdly obvious that there were no other options. He was sick to death of the stupidity and stubbornness of his new colleagues. And it looked like the most vehement of his detractors simply refused to let go.
"Got that filed on record too, Admiral?"
Mikhailovich stopped short, his lips pursed in displeasure.
"You'll find I log all my complaints. I'm not afraid to stand up for what I have to say."
"Good work." Shepard drawled out in false cordiality. "I hope you get the chance to review your complaints when all this is over and tally up the death count your foot-shuffling cost us. Maybe you could pull rank and get the casualty list declared top secret."
He looked on with savage satisfaction as Mikhailovich's face reddened further until the man looked as though he'd developed an aneurysm. When the rear admiral spoke again, it was sotto voce, but his eyes more than made up for the mildness of his tone.
"If it were up to me, you'd have stayed court-martialled by the Council. Rot in a prison. See if I care. You were nothing but trouble the moment I met you. Consorting with aliens and terrorists—you betrayed the Alliance, humanity. Did you think you could return to the fold just like that?"
The words hit Shepard like a blow to the gut, so much so he had to place both hands on the projection pedestal to stand steady.
"Count yourself lucky you've got Hackett's ear." The other man continued, oblivious to Shepard's response. "The others are afraid to speak their minds, but make no mistake; I will fight you every inch of the way. And when you reveal yourself to be the traitor you are, I will not hesitate to take you down."
How could I be so dense? Shepard thought dazedly. It'd been so blindingly clear, except he'd been so caught up with the Reaper threat he thought nothing else had mattered.
I don't belong here. I never did.
The realisation struck so hard he had to resist the urge to tear the rank tabs from his shoulders and walk out of the room. Instead, he settled for clenching his fists, head bowed.
"I'll be watching you very closely, Shepard. I won't allow you to destroy what the Alliance stand for. We didn't get to where we are pandering to alien governments and their whims. Go ahead and install all the alien lackeys you want—"
Fury exploded across Shepard's vision. In the blink of an eye, he had Mikhailovich backed up against the view port trapped in a lethal arm lock. The eezo nodules in his nervous system fired up instinctively, causing dark energy to flare up like flicking blue flames all over his body.
"I sincerely ask you to retract your words, Admiral", he grated out through clenched teeth. "Take pot shots at me by all means, but don't you dare drag my crew in. You have no idea what they've done for humanity when the Council and the Alliance turned a blind eye to everything. As far as I'm concerned, you're a goddamn nonentity. You have no right, nor are you fit to pass judgement on them."
Fear stared out of Mikhailovich's eyes, even though it was obvious he was trying to master it.
"Screw you, Shepard," he hissed. "You were the one who turned a blind eye when humanity needed you most. Where were you when the Reapers made their first move? Playing poster boy for your alien friends?"
Shepard's arm muscles tightened spasmodically, causing the older man to start choking.
"I was working to save our collective asses, you fucking idiot!"
"Ex-Excuse me, Sirs?"
Shepard turned around at the tentative voice and found the remaining people in the room had formed a circle around them. A young female aide stood apart from the rest, extreme trepidation evident in her body language. With a start, he realised biotic energy was radiating in waves around him. Powering down in a tremulous act of control, he shoved Mikhailovich away in disgust.
The rear admiral made a show of straightening his uniform, eyes promising retribution as he strode out of the room in tattered dignity.
"Show's over. Get back to your stations."
Shepard said harshly when bystanders continued to stare at him. The crowd, comprising of aides and non-coms, fled at his displeasure. A forced silence, filled only with the blips of computers, rushed to fill the space.
No senior officers had witnessed the altercation. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. No one emerged winner in the confrontation that just took place. What was clear to Shepard was the Alliance and what it represented could no longer be a part of his life.
He couldn't help his bout of helpless laughter at that realisation, uncaring of what the rest of the room thought, before he returned to the holographic pedestal to resume his interrupted work for the next few hours.
There were no communication buoys in this part of space. Scout ships had to be spaced in a rough line to sent updates from the battle field. The resultant effect was a time-lag of ten seconds or so as information in the form of FTL comm-bursts transmitted down the line.
In the far distance, a sparkle gradually materialised as an inbound scout ship.
"Albatross-One to Elbrus." The hail resounded over speakers on the command deck. "Way is clear. I repeat, way is clear. Recommend all ships trim drift to below two thousand kilometres. Space is at a premium on the other side."
"Acknowledged, Albatross-One." The chief communications officer replied and then looked around at Admiral Hackett for confirmation. Upon receiving the nod, the officer reopened fleet comm-lines. "Okinawa, you're free to commence countdown for FTL jump."
One after another, ships jockeyed into position, bows aimed in the correct direction before blinking out of existence in blue flashes of light. On the observer balcony, Shepard stood, hands clenched tight behind him, as the Normandy with its escort of four smaller frigates departed in a daring synchronised motion.
For every Garrus Vakarian, Jeff Moreau and EDI, there were innumerable Mikhailovichs. It wasn't even possible to ascribe any malice to the man; he truly believed in the validity of his cause. Never had Shepard felt the impulse to walk away so strongly. But a part of him remained that refused to give up. How long it'd last, he hadn't the faintest of ideas.
Nonetheless, finality settled over his mind like a shroud. He'd do what he must, no more, no less. And if anyone disagreed, they could go to hell.
Klaxons began resounding all over the Elbrus in preparation for the imminent jump. At the end of the countdown, the navigator punched in the command, sending the dreadnaught into FTL mode. All the stars in the viewport blue-shifted and stretched, converging to a point on the distant event horizon.