Author's Note: I've returned and completed the first part of this story, which gets us to the actual crossover.
I still don't own Mass Effect, alas.
This chapter contains some bashing of lawyers and bureaucrats. I'm both, so I choose to believe this is okay. However, please do not take anything said herein as legal advice. Seriously, don't do that.
We're starting to go significantly off-canon now for a couple of reasons which should become clear. Most obviously, because there is no canon I'm aware of for what Shepard was doing in between his/her defining event and Mass Effect 1.
2176 CE Elysium
"Elanos Haliat, or, do you prefer John Smith? An alias used to replace a true name that sounds like an alias. Some people might find irony in that."
The man jumped at the voice from behind him. Some part of his mind noted it was female, young, attractive and confident, but the rest of his mind sent one hand to activate his cloak as the other retrieved a submachine gun from behind his back.
He disappeared before hitting the ground, which didn't stop the man who'd come out of the shadows through which Elanos had been sneaking from flattening him with a savage tackle. The pirate leader tried for an elbow strike, but the man on top of him was massive and in full and heavy armor. Switching into stolen civilian garb had seemed like a good idea as he attempted to sneak off the planet following the utter destruction of his plans. Now it did not, as his unarmored elbow rebounded off the armor, leaving his entire left arm numb from the elbow down, while his right was trapped behind his own back, gripping the SMG, but pinned in place by the man's weight.
"I'll call you John then, shall I?" the voice said, gradually growing louder as she approached, not that he could see her through the massive bulk of the man atop him.
The cloak faded as its power ran out. The mountain of a man pinned his arms the moment they could be seen and jerked Elanos to his feet and spun him around to face the speaker.
A tall, gorgeous woman with long black hair, dressed in a black and white cat-suit that left very little to the imagination, stood above him. The Carnifex on her hip made it clear she wasn't just a pretty face. Or, if she was, then she was a very well equipped one.
"My name is Elias Hale, I don't know who you think I am, but I'm not him! I'm just a traveler, I was stranded here when the attack came, I just want to go home!" His story came out in awkward bursts, he was not a skilled liar, he hadn't had to be in years, but it might work. The ID on him matched the story he was telling and the fake ID was a real work of art, provided by one of his few remaining contacts on Elysium, far too many had either been killed in the crossfire, or exposed themselves by joining his forces.
The destruction of the fleet he'd assembled was a disaster, but being trapped on planet with the destruction of his escape vessel was a nightmare. Still, if he could just get off world, then he could rebuild his position. He'd built himself from nothing before. He could do it again. Three weeks hiding downside and the Alliance guards had finally been distracted, his moment had come, but it was clearly a trap. It might, just might be possible to slip that trap, especially since this wasn't an Alliance trap, those weren't Alliance colors the woman was wearing and that certainly wasn't an Alliance uniform she was wearing. Besides that, he was familiar with Alliance tactics and they didn't include two-person snatch teams. They didn't deploy in units smaller than a fire team of four.
His thoughts were cut off by the sight of the Carnifex rising, its massive muzzle drawing his eye and stopping that hope. "That's unfortunate. Cerberus has no use for Elias Hale and I do not permit people for whom Cerberus has no use, to see my face and live."
The man pinioning Elanos's arms twitched slightly to ensure he was out of the path of the shot. Even through the armor, he could feel the man trembling slightly, he believed that she would shoot Elanos.
He'd heard of Cerberus before, rumors mostly, but some boys he'd known had raided one of their facilities once. They'd suffered heavy casualties, but they'd come away with information and material allegedly related to Cerberus. Their subsequent sudden, violent deaths leant some credibility to their claims. The sheer amount of money the Shadow Broker's agents had paid for the information he'd taken from them made him quite sure that whatever Cerberus really was, it was important. In fact, that windfall was part of what had permitted him to gain the power and influence he had.
Elanos sighed heavily, dropping the act altogether. "Fine, I prefer Elanos Haliat. And what do you prefer? Echidna? Persephone? Hades?"
She very definitively did not laugh at his mockery of the name of her organization. Ice clear through. The man's grip tightened menacingly, but he didn't act without instructions from the woman, who was clearly in control. "You already know my face," she smiled, which didn't soften her appearance at all, "well, you know this face. You don't need a name as well, not yet anyway."
"Fine," Elanos said. "What is it you would like to discuss?"
"Me?" her laughter was ice cracking under your feet when shore was in sight, but clearly out of reach. "I don't want to discuss anything with you, pirate, but the Illusive Man wants to see you. It's time for us to take a trip. The only question is, are you going to come along quietly," a flash of white teeth that was distinct from the flash of a blade in some respect, though if asked, Elanos couldn't have said what respect. "or are you going to come along dead silently?"
"Not a metaphor?" He asked, going for charming.
"No," she said, tone making it clear he'd missed.
"I'll come along quietly." The 'for now' didn't need to be said.
"Good boy." The 'we'll kill you if you try anything' also didn't need to be said.
2176 CE Kuggani Spacedocks
The deal was done. The contact had shown up, provided the oral and electronic passphrases and exchanged the single use, biometrically locked electronic vault for the Eezo lightened case of refined, unmarked* Element Zero.
*Due to the necessity of Eezo for modern military and civilian ship construction, Eezo mined or refined in Citadel Space is molecularly marked with its point and time of origin, meaning that there's no legitimate market for stolen Eezo, in Citadel Space. Since the governments affiliated with the Citadel are a net purchaser of Eezo from the unaffiliated worlds, unmarked Eezo is not particularly suspicious, even though it is the currency of choice for transactions of which no record is desired.
Urdnot Wrex had kept one eye on the pair of cops lingering outside the café near where they were making the exchange, while the other one watched the other side of the street. The cops ate their lunch. One, a big Batarian glanced over at the pair of Volus trading a large briefcase to a Drell for a disk and started to rise. His older, smaller, smarter comrade very definitively did not look towards the giant Krogan wearing heavy battle armor and carrying weapons whose recoil would break the arm of anyone else in the spaceport and instead caught his partner's arm and pulled him back into his seat.
There were some things the local police weren't paid enough to deal with and a Krogan Battlemaster topped that list. Wrex gave the world a toothy, arrogant smile as he escorted the Volus back to where their ship was waiting.
"That was easy," the younger of the two Volus said. Wrex hadn't bothered to learn their names. The contract was to keep them alive, not make friends with the Broker's minions.
The older one smacked his comrade in the arm. "Don't say *HSHKT* things like that!"
"Why not?"
"Because the universe *HSHKT* loves to prove such statements *HSHKT* wrong!"
"Come on brother, *HSHKT* you're no believer."
"Not in fate, no, *HSHKT* but I in taking the *HSHKT* 20% Tempting Fate surcharge *HSHKT* in his contract, *HSHKT*" a hand waved at Wrex's smirking self, "out of your share? *HSHKT* That I definitely *HSHKT* believe in."
The younger Volus looked up at Wrex, "You have a 20% *HSHKT* 'Tempting Fate' surcharge *HSHKT* in your contract?"
"Yes," Wrex said simply, smiling as he considered what he would do with the additional pay. Probably the same thing he'd always done with his pay.
"That *HSHKT* can't be enforceable," the younger Volus said. "*HSHKT* How would you know *HSHKT* when you violated it?"
"I'd tell you. I'm telling you."
"That's not *HSHKT* how contracts work!"
"It is when they're with Urdnot Wrex."
The ship loomed up and Wrex escorted them inside, pausing at the hatch. "Well, that was easy," he agreed, looking out over the throngs of people. Fate, though tempted, did not send snipers, or saboteurs, no assassins leapt from the shadows, nor did thieves attempt to sneak past him under the cover of a cloak. "Well, that's just disappointing," he muttered, walking through the airlock and sealing it behind him.
2176 CE Project Overwatch Command Ship Mindoir, in orbit around Elysium
Shepard greeted the officers she'd been assigned in her standard uniform, rather than the dress uniform she'd worn to her promotion ceremony. It was more comfortable and conveyed the right degree of 'we're all just soldiers together' that she was going for. Her officers apparently disagreed, as Captain Mikhailovich was wearing a dress uniform with its captain's insignia new and brightly polished. The medals on his chest made it clear that though he might have been a popinjay, he wasn't just a popinjay. Two awards for personal bravery and several badges indicating participation in campaigns which had seen heavy space combat decorated his chest and she knew from his file that he was ranked S6, indicating he was considered proficient in all levels of space command which didn't involve multiple fleets, just as her own ranking of N6 indicated almost complete proficiency in ground combat and special operations. There had been whispers that she was going to gain the coveted promotion to N7, but not even politics could grease the wheels of the military bureaucracy into acting with such speed.
She examined Mikhailovich closely as she approached them. Both her new officers were quite properly awaiting permission to board in the airlock, but Mikhailovich was the priority, for he might try to undercut her command in ways no JAG officer could. They had arrived on the same shuttle, and were, rather conspicuously, not talking to one another. Not a good sign. Mikhailovich was about a decade older than her, but still young for his rank, a pleasant looking man in his late thirties, he kept himself fit, in a navy sort of way.
His wedding ring was a black titanium band, traditional for widowers. He certainly looked every inch the naval officer though he wasn't looking around the, admittedly somewhat dingy, corridors of the Mindoir* with any disdain, unlike some of the naval crew they'd had on board to give the modified cargo hauler a once-over. That scored him a few points. Spit-and-polish mattered, they really did, keeping both visitors and crew in the right frame of mind. This was a military vessel, it was not and it would not become just another Terminus gang. But spit-and-polish was at the bottom of her list and she was pleased to see that it was at the bottom of his as well.
* Project Overwatch was renaming all the ships assigned to it. Since they didn't fall neatly into any of the pre-existing ship classes, none of the usual naming rules applied. There had been some suggesting that they not change the names of the ships, however two facts ruled against this. The first was that, though the superstitious might have believed that changing a ship's name was bad luck, Shepard was not a superstitious person (and for those who were, she was happy to point out that the superstition was that changing the name got rid of any luck the ships had, and any ship crewed by slavers, then captured by the Alliance could only have bad luck to lose). The second reason was that no one, not even the most superstitious naval crewman, wanted to serve onboard the SSV Bitchbuster. Pirates and slavers, it turned out, did not have the best taste in names. Rather than choose anything creative and thus potentially politically troublesome, Shepard had decided to name the ships after Alliance colonies, with a preference for those which had been attacked by the forces they'd been sent to stop.
All-in-all, she was favorably inclined towards the naval officer. Turning her attention to the JAG officer, she frowned slightly to see him wearing a good, though not particularly expensive, civilian suit. This wasn't entirely improper for a JAG officer,* but most wore uniforms, if only so they didn't stand out.
*JAG Officers, though provided with some training, were outside the usual chain of command, instead acting as advisors. No one wanted to drop the problem of dealing with a disaster and a senior surviving officer who was a lawyer on some poor senior NCO.
Not that it was the suit that made the man stand out. Long and lean, he was built like a runner and kept himself in better shape than the captain, though she'd wager she could pound him into the dirt (though not, perhaps run him into it, depending on the circumstances). The right side of his face was quite attractive, but the left was a ruin of scars. Metal flashed under his skin where repairs had been made. The scars themselves were confined to a rectangular patch comprising most of the area from his cheekbone to his jawline. His eyes, spared the damage were a startling light green that stood out sharply from his darkly tanned skin. Lighter than her, though darker then Mikhailovich, he stood calmly as Shepard approached, studying her as thoroughly as she'd studied him.
She saluted sharply, waited for her salutes to be returned, then leapt in without bothering with the niceties. Studying their files had eaten much of her day, but it was necessary. The other officers would necessarily owe her their positions. If trouble was going to arise, then it would come from these two. She needed to get a firm handle on them. "Captain Mikhailovich, what would you say our first step should be?"
The older man smiled at the question, looking to take control of the situation, just as Shepard was. "Well, I would say that the first thing to do is to head for Japor. It's a central location which would permit us to—"
"Wrong," Shepard interrupted. The area was empty of anyone but the three of them. She'd gone to some trouble to arrange that. It was necessary to ensure everyone understood the pecking order, it wasn't, yet, necessary to make lifetime enemies of two extremely competent officers, nor to destroy their credibility with what crew the ships already had.* "Our first step is to hurt our enemy in order both to prove to everyone that we can and to hurt our enemy."
*Mostly volunteers from the ad-hoc Elysium relief forces. Shepard intended to keep the skeleton crews the ships had lifted with, unless Mikhailovich had a very good reason not to do so, as they came with high recommendations from officers who she owed her life to.
Mikhailovich gaped at her for a moment. "So, how would you have us hurt the enemy?" she continued.
"Well…" the silence stretched and he began to flush angrily as he racked his brain for a method to attack an enemy that generally lacked bases, colonies or fixed positions of any sort (at least, as far as the Alliance knew). The exceptions were well outside the capacity of four ships to deal with. An attack on Omega, for instance would just be a relatively painful way of committing suicide. At least at the moment.
As his anger grew, Shepard spoke. "Good man. Take a moment to think about it," she turned to face Hassan. "Officer Hassan Al-Jilani, welcome aboard."
"Thank you, sir," he said, taking the hand she extended to him. Her grip was crushing and his runner's build and training did not equip him to match her pressure for pressure, but he didn't wince.
"Good god man," she stared at his scars, "for a man whose name means 'handsome' you look like shit. How'd you get that scar?" Of course, she knew the answer to that question, but his record indicated a man who'd been famous, or at least as famous as JAG officers got. She needed to know if he was bitter, and more critically, she was attacking what of their strengths she could, as she lacked the knowledge to attack Hassan's legal skill.
"Thresher maw venom, sir. And yours?" he asked, running a finger along his face, tracking the same path as her brand new scar.
"Shrapnel. I didn't know that Thresher Maws spat in rectangles," Shepard noted as she traced the pattern of his scars on her own face.
"Oh, they don't. Their spit is acid. A caught some. It melted through my helmet, but I didn't have any sort of basic solution to counteract the acidity of the spit, so I had to cut it off. Ruined a perfectly good combat knife. Sergeant Khadi would still be giving me shit about that. If she hadn't died about ten minutes later."
Shepard's lip curled slightly as she tried to stare the JAG officer down, unsuccessfully. The scowl turned into a slight smile, which he mirrored. "You didn't handle that too badly at all," she said.
"Thank you, sir. May I suggest not testing other people in that fashion? I'd prefer not to end up trying to defend you from charges of harassment," his smile broadened slightly. "If you make me defend you at the MJ-CRC,* then I'll find a way to make you pay, I promise."
*Military Justice-Civil Rights Court.
"No promises," Shepard said with a grin of her own. "Now, Captain, have you had time to think?"
"Yes, sir. I've been considering the problem. Ships can be seized, or purchased legitimately. People can be recruited, or hired from mercenary groups. People can be equipped easily enough in a universe awash with guns. However ship-to-ship weapons are generally tightly controlled and installing them isn't something you can do on your own. A spacedock is needed. What I would do to hurt them is find out who's selling the weapons and who's installing the weapons and either take them out, or take them over."
Shepard thought about it for a second then nodded. "That hadn't occurred to me. I tend to think too much on the dirtside. It's a good idea. You have any idea where that would be?"
"No, sir."
"Then we'll just have to keep a sharp eye out for information when we hit Loki."
"Loki, sir?" Mikhailovich said.
"A moon in close orbit around a gas giant near the Batarian border, an easy FTL trip. It's one of the main transfer points between the Terminus pirates and the Hegemony, because the radiation the gas giant pumps out screws with sensors. There's a small shielded facility on the ground where the pirates leave their slaves and the Batarians show up later on 'routine patrol' to pick them up, then leave the payment behind."
"So, what's the plan?"
"The first plan is to get us crewed up. You'll handle the naval side, I'll get us some ground forces. Then we'll head to Loki and grab whatever's there. If it's the payment, then we'll stick around and ambush the pirates when they return. If it's the slaves, then we'll rescue them, avoid the Batarians, then ambush the pirates when they come for their payment."
"We're avoiding confrontation with the Batarians?" Hassan asked, in a manner that might have appeared casual to someone who hadn't spent their entire career dealing with people who thought she was a bloodthirsty Batarian-bashing barbarian.
"We're avoiding a war with the Hegemony. It's not the same thing. Besides, driving a wedge between the Hegemony and their pawns outside their own space is worth a great deal." In fact, she thought to herself, she had an idea how to do that even better than simply stealing some money, or rescuing some slaves.
Hassan spread his hands. "Yes, sir. How do you know about Loki?"
"I've been gathering information about slavers since Mindoir, hoping we could find some of the others. The Alliance knows a surprising amount about them."
"It's never been information we lacked, it was will that was missing," Mikhailovich snapped.
"Was missing, indeed," Shepard agreed. "Now, let's get crewed up, Al-Jilani—"
"Hassan, please."
Shepard did not invite him to use her first name. "Hassan, do whatever needs doing to get us able to legally go into the Terminus systems."
"Yes, sir."
Shepard turned sharply, "Commander?" Mikhailovich said.
"Yes, Mikhailovich?" she asked, deliberately not using his higher rank.
"You said that we should be proving we can hurt the enemy—"
"But Loki will need to be a covert operation, or at least one for which we cannot claim credit," Shepard finished.
"Yes, sir."
"That's why you'll be taking the Eden, Anhur, and Bekenstein to deal with Loki, while I take the Mindoir to be rather more visible." Mikhailovich opened his mouth, but Shepard held up a hand. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you have a very competent Marine commander to handle things downside." He opened his mouth again. "And where I'm going, I won't need naval command, I promise you that."
2177 CE Refueling Station Huuuge
Justicar Samara had not prayed since she swore her oaths. Nor did she pray now. Some part of her may have wished that she did not come across anything which would require her intervention while crossing the station to where her target's ship was located. Tracking him hadn't been particularly difficult, as he relied upon word of mouth advertising to get him his clients. Parte Divi was a Salarian born in the Terminus, he'd gained admission to a Citadel university, graduating with honors in Electrical Engineering. Funded by various investors looking to buy a piece of the next great mind, he'd instead absconded back to the Terminus with their money.
Now he made his way by selling specialty goods, especially tech weapons, to a select, and criminal, clientele. He provided basic engineering services to Captain T'par, in exchange for travelling with the Asari 'trader.' Samara was not aware of any evidence that T'par was a criminal, but as a ship captain in the Terminus, it seemed likely. It seemed even more likely that she wasn't going to let Samara drag off her engineer without a fight.
Despite her desire not to see anything, her eyes kept up their usual probing stare as she walked through the corridors of the station. The ship which had given her a lift had not stayed to refuel, preferring to head for a more reputable station. Not that the Huuuge didn't have a reputation, it simply wasn't a good one.
Long ago, a ship had set up next to the refueling station, acting as a brothel/eatery. More hulks had slowly joined the first, until the ad-hoc station floated near the refueling station, permitting the visiting ships to sample every pleasure the Terminus Systems could offer.
The station wasn't heavily armed, but the weapon batteries of each ship was slaved together under the control of the Krogan known only as the Stationmaster. Altogether, the weapons were sufficient to see off any shipside assault. Attempts to blackmail the Stationmaster by threatening to pound the station to dust from beyond the range of the station's weapons had met with a stoic refusal to care, because he had his own escape craft. Attempts to attack from within the station itself had all failed when the Stationmaster either butchered everyone involved, or simply closed the door and threatened to vent the station unless everyone got out.
The halls were always busy with people visiting the various entertainments the station offered, and stained with fluids which suggested they saw use beyond merely transporting healthy people. There were, however, more Humans than Samara would have expected.
Everywhere she went she saw a few of them, sticking together, sensibly, as even with the expanded Human numbers, they were outnumbered and plenty of people in the Terminus resented the newest sapient species and their arrogant claim of the Traverse for themselves. The Batarians especially were giving the Humans ugly looks, as only a species with four eyes could manage. Turians likewise eyed the humans suspiciously, while the Asari maidens were examining them with the curious eyes of Asari maidens seeing a species they hadn't merged with, yet, while the brothel keeper's eyed them in a way which said they hadn't been paid, yet.
The Humans, in turn, stared at everyone with undisguised hostility, made worse by the fact that they were wearing civilian body armor* and carrying weapons. Their clothing was a solid blue, standard utilities that the crew of any ship might have been wearing, but for their weapons and their reflexes. These were no mere traders, but that did not make them stand out I this crowd.
*Hardsuits rather stand out in a board meeting, and yet executives still desired protection from snipers, so light body armor could be built into regular clothing, as could shield generators. It was unusual to have such installed on crew uniforms, but it wasn't as expensive as equipping everyone with hardsuits. Moreover, it permitted people who couldn't wear hardsuits and do their jobs, to have some combat effectiveness.
One of the Turians got in her way. Samara stopped. "Yes?"
She leered at Samara, who could smell the drink coming off her in waves. "How much?"
"My affection is not for sale. Stand aside."
"Come on, blue," a clawed hand closed on Samara's shoulder "I just got my share from selling a full shipload of Palladium that we boosted. I'm real flush right now, just name your price."
"Boosted? Any trouble with that?" she asked.
"Nah, beautiful, it was just some Volus miners. Even a pistol and they just pop like a balloon."
"Did you pop any?" her voice was soothing, calm, as if the answer was of no importance to her, but the Turian's eyes widened anyway.
She thought she'd placed Samara now, Asari who liked bad girls and danger. Hardly a unique type, but few had Samara's figure, so why not play it up? "Oh, yeah, babe, I took out three of the little rollers."
Samara's hands came up, glowing blue and caught the Turian's head between the two biotic strikes, crushing her skull with a single blow.
Everyone stared at her, in shock, not reacting. Except, Samara's trained and experienced eyes noted, the Humans, who'd closed up ranks, three surrounding the oldest of their party, weapons in their hands, behind the best cover they could find, which was an ugly couch. The oldest of their lot was already talking into her omni-tool. That was…interesting, but Samara couldn't waste time with that, she had work to do, as news of this might spook her target.
"This was a just execution in accordance with the Code, for the crime of murder, which she confessed."
The Asari in the crowd blanched, two started to duck back before being grabbed by their fellows. It was not true, as so many maidens believed these days, that fleeing from a justicar would force her to chase you down, but it was still not a good idea. A Volus, flanked by a pair of flamethrower-wielding Vorcha was speaking urgently into his com. Samara heard the word 'Stationmaster,' and did not curse, or even regret the fact that this was doubtless going to end with her having to fight the ancient Krogan. She would take what came, in accordance with the Code.
Without another word, she continued heading towards her target's ship. Everyone hastened to get out of her way, except for a trio of Turians, clearly comrades of the one whose brains were now coating the floor. An Asari matron intervened before they could do anything. "Out of the Justicar's way, idiots, or you're banned for life," the matron's gaze flicked over Samara, for a moment with a natural attraction masking terror, but then she registered what she'd said and the terror came to the forefront as she continued, "from my…bakery."
The Turians moved out of her path, more because of the terror with which the woman whose clothing proclaimed her a brothel keeper and who moved with the grace of a woman who'd been through commando training, treated Samara. "Prostitution is no crime under the Code," Samara informed the woman, who began to relax. "Lying is."
The woman froze and Samara walked towards her. Despite her undoubted and undoubtable profession, she was enough of an Asari not to run from a justicar, but rather to accept her judgement. Her stride never broke as she passed the woman, but she spoke in the same calm monotone which she always used. "It is good, therefore, that I do not know you do not own a bakery," she said to the world at large, before advancing towards her goal.
There were whispers behind her, but there were always whispers behind her. Neither instinct, nor hearing detected anything suggesting that they would attempt to shoot her in the back and Samara's shields were strong, her jumpsuit armored, and she'd been shot before. It never killed her before. And, of course, nothing which did not kill her could turn her from her path. The Code was her path now, and until death.
She was unsurprised when she came out into an open space, a cargo bay repurposed to act as a bar to find her way blocked by a massive Krogan, flanked by more than a dozen others. A relatively unusual mixture of Turian and Batarian pirates flanked him, in full hardsuits, though there was a pair of Humans in the same suits she'd seen before standing behind them. One, clearly a bodyguard, was as heavily armed as any of the pirates, an assault rifle cradled in her hands, with a shotgun holstered in the small of her back. The other was the one being guarded.
"Justicar!" the Krogan bellowed, stepping forward, massive hammer swinging easily between his hands then up to his shoulder.
"Yes?" Samara asked, as if facing a dozen pirates was nothing unusual, because facing a dozen pirates was nothing unusual.
"Ha!" the Krogan turned back to the Human, "I told you so!"
"So you did," the Human stepped forward and slapped the Krogan on the back, "now let's see if you were as right when you told me how you would kill her." The man retreated back to his bodyguard giving them plenty of room to resolve this.
In her experience, the others would hold back, either to let the Stationmaster have his fun, or because they wanted her to kill him. That was the natural consequence of dealing with criminals. The Krogan himself should not be too difficult, he'd want to close to use his hammer. Though his strength meant that even the immense weight of the hammer could be handled with relative ease, she'd fought enough Krogan wielding such hammers to know that even for Krogan, they were awkward and slow weapons. They relied upon their immense strength and resilience to endure until they could land a blow, because if they landed even a single blow, the fight would be over.
In Samara's experience, it was not a difficult matter to simply not get hit long enough to blind the Krogan with a pair of biotic strikes which would burst their eyeballs, then follow that up with the precisely aimed series of strikes which would burst both hearts, preferably before the blood rage hyper-charged their regeneration.
As she mentally ran through the battle to come, the Krogan stepped forward and exploded.
Admittedly, that did surprise Samara. It surprised everyone else too, except for the Humans. The bodyguard tossed the assault rifle to the one who'd spoken, then drew her shotgun. They opened fire on the criminals, gunning them down quickly. Surprised they may have been, but they were experienced enough to turn on their attackers, which only exposed their backs to Samara's SMG and biotics.
Trapped between the two groups, taken completely by surprise and with their supposedly invincible leader scattered in flaming pieces over the deck, the pirates were rapidly eliminated. Samara turned to face the Humans who had so suddenly turned on what she had assumed were her allies. The guarded one must have placed a grenade on the Krogan's back when he'd congratulated the big Krogan.
What he had done was not in doubt, but the question of why would determine the appropriate response under the Code. Was this an attempt at a coup? Vengeful murder? Political assassination? Execution? Any of these seemed possible and all required the correct response. It would not do to execute these, believing them mere murderers and leave those who had hired what were, in truth, assassins, free to continue their criminality.
As Samara decided how to phrase her question in a manner which would produce the information she needed, the bodyguard brought her shotgun to bear on the justicar. Instinct brought up a powerful barrier, but before the Human could fire, the guarded one, with his scarred face, slid between the two of them, and placed the rifle on the ground, careful not to clear his bodyguard for a shot. "Honored Justicar, this was no murder, but a legitimate ruse of war."
Samara's eyes narrowed. "I do not recognize your uniform. Which badge, if any, do you wear?" This was a crucial question to determining her response. Rarely invoked portions of the Code laid out the punishments for warriors who fought without revealing the badge of their matriarch. It was part of the Justicar's duty to see that war was not prosecuted in that fashion, for to do so could lead to horrific misunderstandings and mistaken war.
"I am an officer of the Systems Alliance. This is a standard utility uniform," he explained, shifting position in accordance with the movements of Samara's eyes, tracking the bodyguard who was trying to clear the blockage of the alleged officer's body in order to have a clear line of sight on the justicar. The 'officer' kept himself in the way, much to the young Human woman's evident distress. The bodyguard had handled her weapons well, with the ease of a veteran, despite her youth.
Samara had no desire to distress the woman and the man clearly wanted to talk, so she put away the SMG. Clearly aware of Samara's biotic abilities, whether from the battle she'd just witnessed (though that would have displayed impressive situational awareness during a very stressful situation) or from the general reputation of Asari in general or justicars in particular, Samara couldn't tell, the bodyguard clearly knew that the lack of a gun did not render Samara unarmed, and so the bodyguard did not relax. "It is duly registered with the Citadel as a uniform indicating that those wearing it are combatants, not civilians."
"Even if so, this tactic is most dishonorable," Samara noted, mostly to see how the Humans would relax.
The man tilted his head in a way which indicated curiosity in both Asari and Humans. "Is the honor of those who do not follow the Code a concern of a Justicar?"
Samara's head tilted far more shallowly, but it did tilt, surprise slipping into her body-language. "It is not. I am…surprised to find a Human with knowledge of the Code." It was not a question. She had no right to an answer to the source of his knowledge, but she would admit to curiosity at the unusual knowledge.
The man smiled slightly. "No more than I am surprised to find a justicar here." Samara nodded, duly chastened for her curiosity, but the man continued, "I am a student of the law. After a guest lecture at the University of Thessia, Solaria, School of Law, I had the opportunity to speak with Matriarch L'va, who spoke at some length about the Code of the Justicars. She was very curious about cross-cultural matches, alas, I was unable to provide her any."
"Perhaps a knight-errant would have been the appropriate analogy," she suggested with a small smile of her own.
"I am…surprised to find an Asari with such knowledge of Human history," he said, deliberately mimicking her own earlier phrase.
"I am a student of peoples. How else might I know how best to pursue those who break the Code? How else to attempt to convince others to follow the Code?"
That was not an answer, but the man accepted it as such. "I see."
"In order for this to be a legitimate ruse of war, you must be at war," Samara pointed out mildly.
The tone did not fool either bodyguard, or officer (and she was quite sure he was an officer, now). The former tensed, the later deliberately relaxed, attempting to minimize the degree to which he appeared to be a threat. Clearly his knowledge of justicars was incomplete. Her actions would be driven by his, not by the degree to which he did, or did not appear dangerous.
"I am an officer of Project Overwatch, commanded by the Systems Alliance to offer aid and comfort to those peaceful colonies of the Traverse and Terminus which do not bow to either the Alliance, or the Citadel Council, though of course, all who do the former, necessarily do the later, simply through the Alliance."
Samara did not agree with that statement, nor did she nod, as either would have been to endorse a lie. When he waited for a response, she spoke noncommittally, "I understand your words. However, this is neither aid, nor comfort," she let one elegant hand wave over the destruction.
"Indeed not. The second part of our ordered task, openly broadcast to all who care to listen, was to eliminate the threat of pirates and slavers who have so recently attempted to seize our kin and colonies," his language and tone were formal and she realized he was speaking as if he was in court, as if he was in an Asari court. Not a fool, he'd picked up much of the anachronistic and even archaic elements Asari high systems could pick up as student took over from mistress, Matriarchs all. It was familiar, but it bought him nothing. The justicars stood outside the Asari courts, they enforced the Code, not the law.
"And these were such? You are sure?"
"We are sure that these have acted as pirates. We are sure they have sold information and weapons. We are sure that they have purchased and sold Alliance citizens, as well as citizens of the Republics. Or were willingly in the service of such as armed marauders. I can provide evidence, if you would like to see it." Samara paused, considering the question. "Of course, regardless, I heard that one," the man pointed at the largest bit of the Krogan still intact, his armored hump, "state that he intended to murder you, an idea his fellows expressed great support for, though most of them preferred for your death to come only after prolonged suffering."
"Sufficient," the man relaxed and so, perforce, did the bodyguard, as Humans were pack creatures. It was then that Samara spoke again, "And yet, I wonder why you call it a ruse of war, if it is merely defense of another." It was not a question, nor, quite, an interrogation, yet. The man wound right back up, then tried to force relaxation, which the bodyguard saw and did not mimic. This was not the tension of approaching combat, this was the anxiety brought on by the realization of an error. Samara was all too familiar with that feeling, her lips quirked in unconscious sympathy, before smoothing back down into the calm mask of a justicar.
The intercom, usually whispering rather vile and occasionally incomprehensible advertisements at a volume only barely audible, screamed to life so loudly that the bodyguard dove into cover, bringing her weapon up to point at the speaker hidden in the wall, though she did not fire. Samara's instincts had screamed at her to do the same, but her instincts were firmly under her own control. The man, by contrast had just glanced up. In Samara's view that wasn't because he'd known it was coming, which meant that he either possessed the same self-possession she'd gained in centuries of following the Code, or he lacked the training and experience which sent the bodyguard into cover the instant the unexpected occurred. All this passed through her thoughts in the instant before words started to pour from the speakers.
"Attention. This is Lieutenant-Commander Shepard of the Systems Alliance Project Overwatch. We have control of the station, including its weapon systems. If you are not a pirate, then you have nothing to fear. If you are a pirate, I advise you to surrender. Those who surrender will be turned over to the Systems Alliance for trial. The worst punishment they have is a long term of imprisonment where you'll be fed, sheltered and well treated. If you fail to surrender, I and mine will show you more mercy than was shown to my kin and colony of Mindoir and kill you quickly. Any ship attempting to lift will be treated as a resisting pirate. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO UNDOCK, OR YOU WILL BE DESTROYED. This message will repeat every five minutes until all docked ships acknowledge receipt."
The man's eyes closed for a moment, gratefully as the tension melted out of his body. "Well, I trust that answers your question?"
"Boss must have got Johnnie's message to move up the time-table," the bodyguard said, coming out of cover with a flush of embarrassment on her cheeks.
"And he must have been able to hold the bridge, even though we had to leave him to do it alone," the man agreed.
"Duh, he's N5."
"Captain T'Par of the Matriarchs' Folly is sheltering the criminal I am here seeking. Do you, or yours, intend to attempt to interfere with my task?" Samara interrupted before they could devolve into bickering like the children which, to her thousand year old eyes, they were.
"Of course not. If you have no objection, we will escort you, just to avoid any confusion?" the man suggested.
"As you like."
The walk was swift because the corridors were mostly empty, as the station's inhabitants had chosen to keep their heads down, rather than argue with the heavily armed Humans moving in orderly groups. The second and third groups they passed were wearing full military level hardsuits, in the blue and white of Systems Alliance, though Samara noticed a small stylized red eyeball patch they all wore on their shoulder and that some of them, the ones who looked the most dangerous, had similar patterns painted on their armor. Samara had studied human history, society and psychology, but all her studies had been in Asar,* she knew nothing of any of the Human languages, except that they were many and varied, which had resulted in historical confusion.
*Unlike Humanity, the intensely social Asari had a universal language very early in their development. That language, Asar, was the most widely spoken language in the galaxy. Though some colonies subsequently lost contact with Thessia and developed distinct languages, and there has been significant linguistic drift, withmany distinct variants and accents arising, the vast majority of Asari will understand Asar.
"Is the red eye insignia the mark of your leader?" Samara asked, as she might, as they were no longer suspects, but merely people she was speaking to. Though, of course, they might become suspects again, depending on the interaction of their unpredictable actions and the constant of the Code.
The man laughed slightly, "It is the sign of Project Overwatch. Sorry, I shouldn't laugh, it's sort of a joke."
"Oh?" Samara asked, raising an eyebrow as if humor was an odd thing done by lower life forms.
"It comes from an old series of games, pre-First Contact, depicting a Human force defending Earth from alien invaders. Lieutenant Suorsa, was one of the Commander's first choices for Project Overwatch and is a huge fan of the game series. She got most of the rest of the first round of recruits addicted to it. Overwatch is also a defensive maneuver in the game, symbolized by the all-seeing eye. It's not an official insignia, but it is an informal one for Project Overwatch."
"Ah," Samara nodded. Such things were actually quite common among the relatively loose unit affiliations that made up the less professional elements of the Asari military, where command was based on personal respect rather than any hierarchical appointment. "Such things are common amongst the Asari. Having skilled combatants under the command of less skilled combatants is far less common, at least at the operational level," she added, remembering the combat capabilities, or incapabilities of many of the Matriarchs she had met.
The point was delicately made, to avoid pricking his pride, if possible. He laughed. "Oh, I'm not in command of Jennie," he waved at the bodyguard, "or any of the rest of them, certainly not any of the N-series."
"N-series?"
"Special Operations soldiers, or officers in her case. Whereas I am an A-Series,* attorney, a JAG officer." Samara looked at him in confusion. "Judge Advocate General," her confusion remained, "I'm the lawyer for this operation."
*The Vocational Code List, was created by the JAG office, with input from other agencies. This may explain why there are three codes for JAG members: A-Attorney, J-Judge, L-Legal Support, while there's only two for essentially the entirety of the Marine Corps: B-Marine-Garrison ("Boots on the Ground), F-Marine-Assigned to a Naval Vessel ("Flyers"), with a smattering of other specialties, most notably, the N-Special Operations ("No Such Vocational Code") series.
"Ah. If I may ask, why would a lawyer have been sent to assassinate the Stationmaster?"
"He wasn't," the bodyguard said. "He was just supposed to use his lawyer bullshit to get us onto the bridge and keep us there, while the rest of us were supposed to open the door to the bridge so the snatch team could handle things, but then some crazy justicar showed up and killed someone and the Stationmaster got all excited about facing a worthy enemy, before our snatch team was in place, forcing the Commander to accelerate her carefully laid plans. Thanks for that, by the way," she said, voice thick with sarcasm.
"You are welcome," Samara said, as if she'd missed the sarcasm.
Before the bodyguard could respond to that, they arrived at the airlock to which the Matriarchs' Folly was docked. The airlock opened at the man's command sent through the bridge. The ship-side of the airlock was unlocked and unguarded, which was bizarre in any port, and downright inexplicable on a station as dangerous as Huuuge.
"Do you know where we're going?" the man asked as they stepped into the corridor.
"I believe so," Samara said, leading them towards the main engineering section. She stepped inside, saw a Salarian working at a console, completely ignoring them and said, "Parte Divi?"
The Salarian turned, "Yes?" he asked.
"I am Justicar Samara, you—"
His hand came up and Samara instinctively strengthened her barriers as the bodyguard dove for cover and the lawyer stood there dumbly. However, the tech attack the Salarian launched bypassed her barriers altogether and she convulsed as fire flared behind her eyes, pain erupting, muscles twitching and sending her to the floor after a few moments of body wracking agony. The pain from the tech attack was so overwhelming she couldn't scream and didn't feel the impact of her face hitting the metal deck.
The man beside her was undergoing the same process, at a somewhat more rapid pace as he lacked her inherent resiliency. The Salarian drew a heavy pistol and walked forward, muttering to himself about the effectiveness of a neural shockwave on both biotic enemies and closely packed groups.
The bodyguard didn't break cover in the face of an unknown and unexpected tech attack, but she did stick her rifle over the top of the console she'd hidden behind and unloaded on the advancing Salarian. Several unaimed shots sparked off shields Samara hadn't seen as she began to push herself back up to all fours. The Salarian glanced in the direction of the hidden woman and launched a second tech attack from his omni-tool. The console overloaded, sending out bursts of electricity, frying the bodyguard's shields and sending her sprawling to the ground.
The Salarian grinned to himself, "Fight me on my own ground, will you? Idiots, everyone's so stupid, so slow, so—"
Samara pushed herself forward, turning a crawl into a sprinter's crouch, then a lunge forward, closing the distance between them as he turned to look back towards his original victims. The man was still sprawled on the ground, twitching intermittently, as Samara slammed into the Salarian, driving the small amphibian back into a metal wall. His unarmored head hit metal, propelled by all the force her armored body could generate, and he went limp under her hands, not unconscious limp, but dead limp, a fact confirmed by a delicate sniff as the criminal's cloaca relaxed.
Samara pushed herself slowly to her feet and walked back towards the fallen Humans. They were already stirring, merely stunned by the sudden attack. "The criminal is dead," she informed them, drawing a politely sociable congratulations from the lawyer and a bitterly annoyed acknowledgement from the bodyguard, who proceeded to strip the omni-tool from the Salarian's corpse, 'for their techs' she said.
Before Samara could complete a review of the Code sufficient to know if there were any problems with that, the lawyer interrupted from the chair he was occupying (as he still wasn't steady enough on his feet to trust them). "Did you get everything you needed?"
"Not quite. He had access to certain information he should not have had. I need to know where he got that."
"Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you killed him!" the bodyguard snapped.
"We have engineers, I'll ask the Commander to assign someone to get into the files. We'll lock down the ship until we can get someone up here to examine the files," the man put in.
Samara turned towards the other door a moment before it opened revealing a matronly Asari and the entirety of her crew behind her. That explained why the entrance was unguarded, they'd been meeting up to discuss what to do about the sudden change in circumstance. The failure to lock the airlock was pretty embarrassing, but perhaps they'd assumed that anyone trying to break in would have enough omni-gel to simply override the lock. "No, you won't!" the Asari, who had to be Captain T'Par, shouted.
Before Samara could exercise her authority as a justicar, the man spoke from the chair, "You were really standing in the hallway waiting for a good line to enter on? Seriously?"
The captain blushed a darker blue, "Hey! I wanted to know what I was walking into! And I don't have to answer to you murderers!"
Samara stepped forward slowly, giving the other Asari time to take in her appearance, bearing and gear. When she was three steps away, the suspected smuggler's eyes widened and she knelt instantly, eyes lowered submissively to the floor. "Justicar, I apologize. I do not have the codes to Parte's files, but we will provide you with any other assistance we can in discovering what this man who abused my innocent hospitality was up to."
Samara nodded, "Thank you for your assistance," she said, turning her back on them to see where the Humans waited, Jennie with her weapon raised to cover her retreat and the man with his hands folded behind his back, though the angle wasn't right for them to be clasped behind his back in a posture of parade rest as they almost appeared to be. As Samara passed between them, she didn't move her head to glance at either of them, but her eyes flickered and she let her peripheral vision focus on the man's hands to see a pair of grenades clutched therein.
They vanished a moment later as he fell in to flank her, while his bodyguard walked backwards behind them, weapon never coming off the armed crewmen at Samara's back and made sure to keep herself and her shields between the crew and the lawyer.
"I thank you for your assistance as well," she said quietly.
"You're welcome."
"You do understand that this will not gain you anything. I will act in accordance with the Code regardless of any personal debt."
"I understand."
"Then, if I may ask, why the assistance? You are no Asari, raised on tales of justicars."
"Several reasons. Most crucially, as this was the first operation of Project Overwatch, it needed to be successful. A powerful third party wandering around could have endangered that success, unless you understood exactly what the situation was. The possibility of cultural confusion resulting in conflict was significant."
"It is true that some have failed to understand the Code, even when it is explained to them in their own language," Samara noted. "And the other reasons?"
"Your Code is…harsh, but it does not encompass crimes which are not recognized as such any longer, like blasphemy in our older legal systems, for instance. So, anyone you are hunting, has committed a crime we would recognize as such. Given that it brought you here, far from Asari space, that person was either extremely dangerous, or had committed terrible crimes, which also might interfere with our operation."
"That's the same reason," Samara noted.
He smirked, "So it was, just from a different angle and with a different third party. The other reason, I've been attempting to avoid, is that this action was also chosen because it will be highly visible. Gaining the support of a justicar would also be a highly visible statement in the righteousness of our action. As well as its…practical benefits."
He stopped, rather than oversell the argument. They walked in silent back towards the cheapest hotel on the station, as Samara would need lodgings while the Humans gathered the files she needed. "I will consider your words," the man opened his mouth, "and evaluate how you handle this station."
She did not add the warning she usually would have included regarding the consequences if she concluded that their actions transgressed the Code. It was clear he already knew that, which was why he was walking so very, very nervously around her. This was not fear bred by children's tales or superstition. This was the caution of a man dealing with someone who he knew would, if necessary, kill him with neither hesitation, nor regret.
That fact made so many people so uncomfortable that the offer to work together was a rare and potentially attractive one. It would be interesting to see what they could find in the files and what they would tell her they found in the files. It would be her duty to see how they treated those they had conquered. But the idea of travelling with honorable fighters who did not flinch at her approach, her eyes flicked over the Humans, that was tempting indeed.