When the door in front of her slid open, Shepard's eyes refocused from their faraway thoughts. Looking up she saw her gaze was not met, and got to her feet.
Joker had two beautiful black eyes. His broken nose had been treated and was not as swollen as it could have been, but it would take a few hours before it looked normal. The bruises themselves would take days to fade away.
Some might have been concerned about hurting the man. His Vrolik syndrome caused his bones to be brittle, especially in his limbs, leading to his need for leg braces and his inability to move quickly. Being his commanding officer, however…and a woman with some degree of common sense…Shepard knew that his skull, spine, and pelvis were of normal bone density…only his ribs and limbs were hollow and easily broken. Had it been otherwise, Joker never would have made it into the Alliance Military in any capacity. You didn't train a marine or even park someone in a pilot's seat if a hard pat on the back or a minor bump to the head risked killing them. Had Joker been that fragile, he'd have been stamped out 4-F before even making it to boot.
"Look at me, pilot," Shepard ordered. Obediently, Joker's gaze lifted and met hers. Even if she didn't know the man as well as she did, she could have seen it in his eyes in that moment. Furious as she was at him she understood what he'd done in trying to save the Normandy. She knew that, for the last two years, the man had been forced to relive that moment again and again, watching her get blown out into space because of the choice he'd made. He'd lived with the burden of her ghost, knowing that his thoughtlessness had been what had gotten her killed. Any punishment he deserved he'd been living with ten-fold, his own conscience judge and executioner enough.
Nodding once, Shepard offered her hand. Blinking a little, Joker just stood there.
"Are we good, Mr. Moreau?" Shepard asked, not lowering her hand. Clearing his throat roughly, he nodded and then reached out, shaking her hand.
"Aye, ma'am. I just wanted to say that I'm sorry, Commander. I-"
"Your apology is accepted, Jeff," she told him. "And that is the last I want to hear on the subject. Now you can tell me what the fuck you're doing with Cerberus."
As they started down the hall he shook his head. "Last two years have been a nightmare, ma'am," he admitted. "When you and the Normandy were…lost, the Council and the Alliance put on this big show. They blamed everything on the geth, declaring that the synthetics would be made to pay for the attack on the Citadel and for murdering you."
"The geth, not the Reapers?"
Joker snorted. "Anytime anyone even mentioned the word 'reapers' they all but laughed in their faces. Said there was no evidence, that it was just a story, misinformation. Normandy's surviving crewmen were grilled and debriefed until they couldn't see straight, myself included. They just wanted everything gone. I got my ass grounded. I'm a pilot, Commander. Haven't got any family, my friends were scattered to the four winds, and they took away the one thing in my life that mattered to me. So, I started hunting around, trying to find any gig that would let me fly, you know? Then out of nowhere, a month later, I get Cigarette Man on my phone offering me a job, letting me fly again. Fuck yeah I signed up."
"The Illusive Man contacted you personally?"
"Yeah. Said he wanted to sign me on. Wasn't until a few months later he finally told me the real reason why…you. Said it would be a way to atone and…you know, deep heavy shit like that."
"You trust him? These people?" she asked with a scowl. He shook his head a little.
"Most are good people," he admitted. "They're just trying to make a difference. As far as Mr. Illusive well hell, I don't trust anyone that makes more than I do. Besides, he just seems kind of…off you know? A bit too smart for his own good. But, they're not all bad. Saved you. Let me fly."
"And won't tell me where Liara is," Shepard huffed. He looked at her and she shook her head. "You haven't heard from her, have you?"
"Not since…well, you know. Honestly, Commander…I wasn't strong enough to face her after what happened. When she saw me get out of that pod without you…I never thought I'd see hate on her face for anyone. Didn't think she was capable of feeling it at all, but it was there. I'll never get over seeing that look in her eyes. I felt like I'd killed her right along with you."
Shepard let out a faint humming sigh, then shook her head. "They won't tell me where she is. They keep saying they don't know but, I smell shit every damned time they do. They said something about her working with the Shadow Broker but I don't know if I buy that either."
"I don't know," he admitted, then gave a matter-of-fact nod. "But we'll find her, right?"
"Damn right we will," Shepard replied. "Illusive told me that he was going to have a ship ready for me soon. Not damn soon enough if you ask me."
"Actually, it'll be ready first thing in the morning," Joker told her, eyes lighting up for the first time since she'd turned around in the holograph chamber. "They told me last night, Commander. You are going to flip your shit."
"Oh, am I?" she asked dryly. He grinned and gestured.
"I'm taking you to see her now."
They stepped through another pair of doors and into a docking berth. Mechanics rushing around in a flood of brilliant light did not distract her gaze from the moment it was fixed on the gleaming frigate clamped in front of her.
It was the Normandy…or rather, the Normandy's bigger, sleeker, more athletic sister. Joker grinned at her expression, then winced a little, touching the side of his bruised nose lightly.
"They only just told me too."
Moving over to the huge observation windows, the dock not being dry but open to the vacuum of space, Shepard couldn't explain what she felt as she looked over the vessel. The Normandy, almost perfectly replicated save for a slight increase in size, a slightly more sleek line. It was painted, of course, with the Cerberus colors and logo, which she could more than have done without.
As she scrutinized the sweep of the hull, unconsciously looking for the slightest imperfection, she noticed that while the designation had been added to the side of the ship, no name was listed.
"Looks like they missed something," she murmured.
"No, Lawson told me they were going to let you decide on a name," Joker informed her. "I wanted Fairy Dust or Rainbow Unicorn but you can imagine how well that went down."
She barely heard his joke, her eyes unfocusing.
The Salgado. The Alenko. The Liara. The Tianlán.
"The Normandy," she murmured, voice faintly rough as she turned away. "Of course."
Joker nodded his understanding as he watched her go.
"Of course, Commander."
"A boy, raised by a human woman."
The krogan was huge, and old. His scales were weathered and pale, his eyes foggy with growing cataracts, sagging jowls speaking of more centuries than he probably cared to tell about. Yet his every gesture still spoke of predator and warrior, of deadly strength and intrinsic cunning. It was not common for a krogan to grow old. He had clearly earned the honor. It was etched indelibly all over his plates in scars and cracks both old and new.
Before him, even the towering Thug looked small, though the young krogan regarded the older warrior without fear.
"He is as krogan as any other," Gellian barked. She and Eír stood beside the pair, the former scowling sternly, the latter simply watching in curious fascination.
"A foundling," the old krogan clan-leader snorted with amusement. "Impossible. The breeding camps are well-guarded. For a child so young as you claim he was, to have been found away from Tuchanka is unheard of."
"Well, you are hearing of it," Gellian retorted. "Perhaps a fertile female from one of the other clans wanted freedom. Perhaps she was kidnapped. Perhaps the child was, for some random reason. I don't know. All I know is the boy was found nearly dead on a ship I salvaged near the Traverse. He was barely walking age. I took him in."
His foggy eyes fixed to her. Though she didn't doubt that he could barely see her with those cataracts, his sense of smell and hearing were so acute as to make no difference. She wondered if he could smell the lie on her. Thug had, of course, not been salvaged or abandoned as an infant on some derelict. Thug was her own creation, forged of her own two hands. But to let the other krogan know that was to invite a large amount of unpleasantness and would hardly get her what she wanted.
"Then why did you not bring him back to Tuchanka? Why did you raise him as if he were your own?" the old man demanded. "The boy is completely stunted now, soft! He does not know what it means to be krogan!"
"You don't know that," Gellian snarled. "Thug is strong. Stronger than any warrior in your clan."
He barked a rough laugh, the sound like a bucket full of gravel being shaken madly. The sound was echoed by the dozen full warriors standing around them.
"I say let the boy fight in the trial," One of them smirked with a wave of his hand. "He is worthless anyway. Let him try. His death would be some amusement."
"Even if I wanted to, it is impossible," the old leader grumped. Beside him, another nearly as old nodded his wrinkled head.
"It is true," the Shaman of Clan Dundrin agreed. "He has no one to stand with him. He has no krant."
"I will stand with him," Eír offered. Eyes turned to her, and the clan leader snorted.
"Hmm. Asari…that might be acceptable. Who are you, girl? His mate?"
"I am his sister," she replied indignantly. The leader barked a laugh and looked at Gellian.
"You have quite a collection of 'children', human," he grumped. "Shaman…a single asari to stand with him as krant. What say you?"
The wrinkled Shaman grunted. "Asari are strong, though I do not hold much hope for the boy with only one girl at his side. Hmm. I say yes."
The leader cracked his neck sharply, before stepping forward and looking in Thug's eyes. "Well, boy? We are clan Dundrin. We are small but we are strong. We endure and make each other stronger. I am Battlemaster Dundrin Frek. My line of warriors, of leaders, stretches back to the time the krogan found their feet and crawled from the swamps. We do not have the keystone or the elaborate ritual of some clans for our trial. Our ways of strength are simple. You survive, and if you do, you are strong enough to be Dundrin."
"I am ready," Thug stated.
"Oh, I doubt that," Frek snorted, then pointed. "There is a pit. You and your krant enter it, and then these fine men around you will as well, five at a time. If you emerge from the pit again you will be one of us."
Gellian nodded slightly as Eír met her eyes. The krogan males were heading toward the pit, Thug moving along with them without hesitation. Without a word but with much understanding, the asari girl turned and followed, trotting a little to catch up to her brother's side.
"Do you think they'll come through this, Jelly?" Not-Shepard asked as she folded her cadaverous arms, watching the group move toward the pit. "I know you made them strong…stronger than they've a right to be, but those krogan warriors were honed by nature for millions of years."
"Nature," the older woman snorted. "Nature is nothing but chaos and disorder, dependant on random mutation and chance. Nature couldn't replicate Eír or Thug if it had a billion years to try. I have no doubt they'll wipe the ground with these so-called 'warriors'."
"You're probably right," Not-Shepard agreed, then smirked. "So how come you're so afraid then, Jelly? Bit attached to the Fake 'n Bakes, are we?"
"Don't call them that!" Gellian snarled under her breath. "You are the one that should be afraid. Eír and Thug will be the last sight you see, and when they're done all the credits in the galaxy won't be enough to bring you back."
Not-Shepard grinned, a boney rictus that stretched impossibly far, showed far too many teeth. "Promises, promises."
The OSD from Nan's house tapped lightly on the edge of the small table in the temporary room Shepard had been assigned on the platform station, keeping time to some beat that only existed in her head. In front of her was a stack of thin data pads; the dossiers the Illusive Man had promised her. She'd been scanning through them, determined to stay focused, but her own thoughts would not be denied long. Her dark brown eyes were brooding as they focused on nothing, turned inward toward a turbulent storm.
Nancy was gone, vanished…prey to these enigmatic Collectors who had gathered her and the rest of the colony up like children picking up their toys to return home.
Nan had never had cause to be nice to Shepard. She was just another street kid, just another sorry member of a sorry street gang, barely one step above an animal. Nancy saw kids like her twenty times a day, the refuse of an enlightened society that preferred to shut their problems away behind shiny white walls and sterile chrome window frames and pretend they didn't exist.
When Shepard had met her, she didn't know what kindness was. Such simple concepts as being touched, being hugged, were completely foreign. Nancy could have just pushed her through the system, remanded her to be institutionalized for the rest of her life, or churned back out onto the street to eventually die alone and unmourned in the gutter….but she hadn't. She'd looked past the feral glares, the grime and desperation, and seen something worth salvaging. Shepard owed her everything and now she was out there, somewhere…alive, or dead, or being tortured in horrible ways for whatever inexplicable reason those damn bugs could come up with.
Shepard's fist slammed into the table and she rose, pacing tensely around the small room, ignoring the burn of her still weak, over-used muscles.
She wanted a smoke. She had no cigars, not so much as a god-awful pussy little cigarette. No smokes, no whiskey, no guitar.
She wiped a hand over her eyes, staring at the little bed as if expecting something to appear there.
No guitar. It was gone, probably no more than cinder and ash on some planet somewhere. Her hat was gone, her wolverine tail. Her drawing…
Her eyes glossed and her fist clenched, trembling. Her drawing. Paul's drawing. The only thing she had left of him. Gone.
Whipping around she slapped her hand over the stack of dossiers, scattering the pads around the table and sending several to the floor.
Liara, where are you? Where are you? I can't do this by myself…
Sagging into a sit against one wall she folded her arms over her knees, head down as she closed her eyes.
Liara was out there, somewhere. She wanted…no, needed…to find her, if for no other reason than to say she was sorry, to make sure she was ok. The Illusive Man was right. Shepard couldn't just expect to come back after two years gone, to rip open the wound like that again. She had no right to do that.
If the situation were reversed, if you thought she was dead and suddenly you found out she wasn't, that she'd been brought back…would you want to know?
Fuck yes.
Liara was going to hear about it anyway. If she really was working for the Shadow Broker…well, information was his game, wasn't it? If someone, somewhere, knew something…the Broker knew it too. No matter how classified Cerberus might think it was, a project of the cost and magnitude needed to bring her back…the Broker had to know about it, or would soon enough. Rumors would spread. The Alliance had their own intelligence forces, the Citadel the STG units. Somehow the news would eventually get around and Liara would find out. Shepard couldn't stay secret from everyone for the rest of her life.
So what was better? Liara finding out she was alive from her own mouth, or hearing it through the grape-vine?
Unless you can find her, that's exactly how she's going to find out.
And what then? Would Liara put herself at risk to find Shepard, to find out if the rumors were true? And what about this Feron? Was he real?
She felt her jaw clench, her throat tighten. Yes, Shepard…what about this Feron? What if Liara has found love with someone else? Someone less…crazy, less hot-headed. Someone who's not going to run off into a thresher maw's mouth every fifteen minutes because duty commands him to? What then?
Shepard knew the answer, as much as it made her feel sick. If Liara had found someone else, Shepard had no right to interfere in that, to come back out of the blue and just tear that apart. If Liara had found someone else, then Shepard would accept that, fade into the background, as it should be. Just so long as Liara was happy…that's all she wanted, Liara safe and happy.
You never deserved her anyway, and you know it.
Her watery gaze fell on the scattered dossiers. Rubbing the heel of her hand over her eyes she slowly got to her feet and gathered them up, before sitting down again and perusing the first one. She had to concentrate, get this done. Nancy was relying on her, and she wasn't going to let her down.
It was perhaps the strangest ship's christening ever. Alliance Naval tradition dictated that smaller, faster ships like frigates were christened by a toast from the senior officers of the crew, in full dress uniform, while the ship itself was launched. The captain of the new vessel was then ferried in via shuttle and boarded through the front airlock…thus the first foot they set on the new deck was always at the helm.
Cerberus was, clearly, not Alliance but they did hold to one aspect of the tradition. Shepard stood aboard the small shuttle and watched as it maneuvered in to lock at the helm. There had been no toast, unless you counted the six beers that Shepard had downed alone the night before while reading over dossiers…the only booze she could rustle up.
Billions of credits…you'd think Cerberus would have something better to drink than mule-piss beer.
As for dress uniform, Shepard was as far from it as a person could get. She hadn't been joking when she'd told Miranda and the Illusive Man that she had no intention of wearing the insignia or drinking the kool-aid. As far as she was concerned, Cerberus were terrorists, and nothing but a tool for her to use and toss away as soon as the job was done. Miranda had come through and delivered quite a lot of clothing that didn't bear any mark of the organization. Most was even Shepard's taste, but insignia or not, she couldn't bring herself to put on any uniform that wasn't Alliance.
As a result, she set her first foot upon her new command wearing jeans, a dark blue t-shirt, a new pair of steel-toed boots that needed some serious breaking in, and Nan's gold cross on its chain around her neck.
Joker didn't even bat an eyelash as he caught sight of her, flanked by Miranda and Jacob who had both gone with the traditional dress uniforms. He merely tossed her a solemn salute, then turned back to his post as she continued onward.
It was the Normandy…and yet it was not. Everything was brighter, newer. The faces that turned to regard her, snapping salutes…all were unfamiliar. The CIC was bigger, an elevator bank in place of the partition where the comm room had been.
Even so, she half expected to see Pressley or Ash come striding over, one mindless report or another in their hand for her to sign.
But Pressley's dead, isn't he? And Ash is fuck only knows where. Probably got her own command by now, if the Alliance was smart.
"Welcome aboard the new Normandy, Commander," Jacob said as she regarded the CIC.
"There are improvements in design but we built her as close to the original as was feasible," Miranda informed her. "We wanted her to feel like home."
"Should have built her into a bar, then," Shepard stated without mirth.
"There is a small bar on the lower decks," Miranda told her. "In one of the observation rooms. As well there is a full kitchen in the mess and a small gym just off the Crow's Nest. Amenities I believe the original was lacking."
Shepard eyed her. "Crow's Nest?"
"Your quarters, Commander," Jacob told her. "Top level. Crew calls it the Crow's Nest."
"Your things have already been taken up there," Miranda stated, then motioned to one of the crew standing nearby. As the woman started forward with a nod and a smile, the Australian introduced her. "This is Kelly Chambers. She'll be your Yeoman."
"A pleasure to meet you, ma'am," the Yeoman said as she saluted. She had to be of an age with Shepard but life had been slightly kinder…or she'd been slightly kinder to herself…and she looked less worn. "I look forward to working with you."
"She'll keep track of your messages and duty ros-"
"I know what a Yeoman does, Lawson," Shepard said with disinterest. "No offense, Ms. Chambers. You drink?"
"On occasion, ma'am," she replied honestly.
"Good, then we'll get along like aces." Looking over at Lawson she said, "Now, is there anyone else I need to meet right this instant, or can we actually get moving?"
"I don't see any reason why we can't at least put in a heading," Miranda replied. "You made your choices from the dossiers?"
"A couple. Seems like a lot of them call Omega home so we're heading there first. Kill as many birds with one fucking rock as we can. That salarian scientist was there…what's his name? Solus?"
"Mordin Solus," Miranda agreed. "Top of his field. A good place to start."
"Dr. Solus is an excellent choice," a woman's voice floated out of nowhere. "He should take little convincing to recruit, and is the best option for defeating or creating protections against the Collector's technology."
Turning her head, Shepard squinted at a blue orb that hovered above one of the CIC consoles. Seeing Shepard's expression, Jacob intervened. "Commander, this is EDI…the ship's Enhanced Defense Intelligence."
"Pleased to meet you, Commander," the orb flashed as the voice spoke.
When Shepard said nothing, Miranda glanced at Jacob, then filled the awkward silence. "EDI is the ship's AI. She controls electronic and cyber warfare but cannot otherwise interface with ship's systems. Cerberus keeps our AI's tightly leashed."
At the word 'leashed', Shepard's glare turned on her XO, before she straightened. "You'd think Cerberus would have familiarized itself with human history, if not that of other species," she murmured. "The tighter you leash your subjects, the harder they revolt. Or need I remind you about the geth."
When Miranda just looked at her, Shepard turned her attention back to the orb. "How's Joker taking you so far?"
"Mr. Moreau seems to be…slightly put-out by my presence."
Shepard smiled, faint though it was. "Good," she said. "I think you and I will get along just fine then."
The Crow's Nest, as Jacob had titled it, was nearly three times the size of her rooms on the original Normandy. A partition and a small set of stairs led down from an office loft to the bedroom proper. The entire port wall was taken up by an enormous fish tank in which almost diaphanous white and silver piscine floated. Shepard moved over, peering at the lovely, delicate creatures before she abruptly recognized them. They were called white brides, a type of fish native to the more tropical seas of Thessia…expensive pets to say the least.
"EDI, can you access in here?" she said abruptly as she watched the beautiful animals shift and move.
"I can access anywhere in the ship, Commander," the AI's voice answered immediately, the blue orb appearing to hover over the desk.
"What's all this about?" she asked, jerking her chin toward the tank.
"They are fish, Commander."
"Yeah, I know they are fish, thank you. Why are there fish in my room? It's impractical. Unless Cerberus thinks to dazzle me with luxuries-"
"The tank and the white brides were Ms. Lawson's idea," EDI answered calmly. "I believe she added them to the room at her own personal expense."
Now that surprised her. Turning away from them she stared at EDI. "Lawson? Why?"
"Ms. Lawson spent a great deal of time doing research on you, Shepard," EDI explained. "She familiarized herself with every aspect of your history, thought processes and personality. Such intense research was necessary for the project to return you exactly how you were. Ms. Lawson feared you would be…upset, given circumstances. She wished to include something that would help to comfort and center you. She knew of your affiliation with both the ocean and with Thessia and felt such a display would be soothing."
Shepard looked back at the tank, staring. "Well, fuck me," she murmured softly. Unconsciously her hand stole into her pocket, where the still unviewed OSD from Nan's house was sitting.
"That is also why the small gym was included," EDI told her. "Physical activity relieves stress, and it will aid to return you to your former condition."
"Yeah, hitting shit makes me happy," she said absently, her heart not truly in to the joke. "How long until we reach Omega?"
"Three hours, Shepard," EDI answered obediently.
"Right. Make sure no one bugs me until we're ready to dock, ok?"
"As you wish, Commander," the AI said obediently, and vanished. Shepard didn't delude herself into believing EDI was really gone. She had no doubt that every bolt of this ship was bugged or otherwise monitored.
Fuck, they probably even have a camera in the john to count how many times I take a shit, she thought darkly.
Striding down into the bedroom area she unsnapped the small case that had been left on her bed, alongside the duffel containing her clothes. Pulling out the dossiers she sifted through them until she had selected three, and returned to her desk. Sitting down she switched on her console, then looked them over.
The first was for Mordin Solus, the salarian scientist nesting in some clinic in the lower reaches of the station. He'd worked for some time with the STG and headed up some highly ambitious projects, most of which had been redacted even off her copy of his records. Either the Illusive Man didn't want her to know what he'd been involved in…or he himself didn't know.
Personally, Shepard didn't have too much experience with salarians, save the Citadel Councilor who was hardly her favorite person in the galaxy, and the STG group led by Kirrahe they'd assisted on Virmire. Kirrahe had been a bit of a racist prick, acting as if krogan were some kind of virus that needed to be eliminated. She hoped this Solus wasn't the same. She'd hate to have to kick his ass out an airlock.
Setting his dossier aside she picked up the next. This was some merc commander who called himself Archangel. She didn't know what it was with mercs that they had to give each other fancy or scary-sounding nicknames…like Fist, or Blades, or Slingshot. It made them sound like fucking morons who had nothing better to do than see how much further one could piss than the other.
According to the dossier, however, this fancy-ass Archangel was not a two-bit thug. He was taking on some of the strongest crime lords on Omega…and winning. He had a strategic savvy that was just short of absolute brilliance and a grim determination that made him a serious contestant.
That was good. Pissing-contest nickname or not, Shepard needed some fucking muscle that could hit hard and not get his face blown off doing it.
The last dossier was on a human man named Zaeed Massani, a bounty hunter that Shepard had actually heard of. He had a bit of a reputation for mopping up messes and bringing in some rather tough marks. The Alliance had kept tabs on his activities and, though she of course had no proof, Shepard wouldn't have been the least bit surprised if they hadn't actually contracted Massani now and again for their own purposes. Alliance trained agents were all well and good, but contracted bounty hunters actually worth their salt stirred fewer ripples when a mark ran to an unfriendly location…like Omega.
If nothing else, Massani would have some serious underworld contacts that might be able to get them additional info on the Collector's movements.
He might even have some ties to Shadow Broker agents, she thought, leaning back in her chair a little. Might be able to put me in contact with someone who knows how to find Liara.
Her eyes wandered toward the aquarium and the slow, graceful dance of the white brides, before she pursed her lips and drew the OSD from her pocket. Turning it over in her hands she regarded it.
It could be nothing…probably is nothing, she told herself. Could be a copy of a vid letter Nan got from a friend or Colonial Affairs requisition forms for the colony.
Something told her, however, that it had to be something more. The OSD had been placed deliberately against the stand for her commendation…not somewhere you just tossed random records or forms. It had something to do with her…or it was something that Nan had wanted her to see.
Nan thought you were dead, for fuck's sake! She'd hardly vid something she wanted a dead woman to see, as if she'd just show up and watch it.
It was probably just a copy of the award ceremony after the Citadel battle, or that little vid that she had mentioned the last time they'd talked to each other…the one of her and the crew saluting Matriarch Benezia's casket. Some tiny bit of nostalgia that Nan couldn't make herself part with.
You're never going to find out what it is sitting here staring at it, Shepard. Grow some fucking balls and just put it in the player. Then at least you'll know, dong ma?
"Shi a," she murmured to herself, before she turned the OSD over and slid it into the console's drive.