Chapter Ten

The razor scrapes down the side of James's cheek and he pulls a face, squinting into the grubby mirror. Easy now, he thinks, pulling back and examining his handiwork. Damn it, now the right side is too short … He returns the razor to his face, this time on the left side, trying once again to even out his sideburns.

As James carefully chips away with the razor, his thoughts go back to the week he and Kal spent together on the Citadel. The subject of shaving had come up on the third day when Kal, somewhat embarrassed and sporting almost a centimeter of grey whiskers, had asked James how to get rid of it. As he explained, quarian suits regulate hair and nail growth through some chemical or another, and without the suit Kal's beard was growing unchecked for the first time in his life. James smiles, remembering the morning he tried to teach Kal how to use a razor.

"Which one is it?"

"The one that's not a toothbrush or a comb," called James through the shut bathroom door. He pulled open a drawer, rummaging through it for two socks of, if not the same color, then at least the same length.

"The grey thing? Am I supposed to put a new blade in it?"

"No, it's fine the way it is," called James, sitting down on the bed and pulling a sock over one foot.

"It's all tilty, how is it supposed to—ouch!"

James opened the bathroom door to find Kal standing in front of the sink with a towel wrapped around his waist. He smiled ruefully, sucking on the tip of his thumb. "It seems a bit dangerous. I might need some help."

James stepped inside the small, humid room, taking the razor from Kal's hand. "Alright, hold on. You're gonna want some of this gel stuff," he said, reaching into the medicine cabinet.

"You're letting the cold air in," said Kal, squeezing past James and closing the door. "Much better." He gave his hair a shake, splattering James with water droplets.

James passed Kal the tube of shaving gel. "Okay, put this on your face."

"What for?"

"It makes it smoother and more comfortable," said James, and received such a look from Kal that his ears turned pink.

"You'd better put it on for me," said Kal. "The mirror's all fogged up." He took a step closer and James stepped back unconsciously, feeling his back press against the sink. Kal grinned, pointed canines flashing, and leaned in until his body was pressed right against James's. "Come on," he said, his voice low and playful.

James took a less-than-steady breath, trying to think of anywhere he had to be that morning but for some reason having a difficult time thinking clearly. He leaned back enough to fit his arms in between himself and Kal and squeezed a blob of gel into his palm. "Alright," he said, his mouth running on a little faster than its normal speed. "You want to go ahead and spread this wherever you're going to shave, ah-" James's breath caught as he felt Kal's hands working their way up his back.

"Don't stop halfway," said Kal innocently, and James finished the job in a rush, giving a yelp as his shirt suddenly found its way to the tiled floor. "It's a bit warm in here," murmured Kal, leaning in still closer, his silvery eyes locked with the human's. The smell of him, close and alien and most definitely, undeniably male, combined with the muscled firmness of his stomach and chest against James's was almost overpowering. "Besides," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "You were making me feel overdressed."

James blinked, trying to make his brain work. "Where, ah, where did you put the, um, the, ah …"

"You left it on the sink," said Kal, and his hands were at James's hips now, gently trailing up his sides, roaming over his lighter skin, deep indigo and violet against pale brown and white.

James reached behind him, his fingers dancing wildly for the razor, his back still pinned against the sink basin. His hand finally closed on the handle and he raised it like a sword, warding Kal off. The quarian leaned back a little bit, allowing James to put a hand on the side of his neck and bring the razor up to his cheek. "Okay," said James, inhaling deeply through his nose and trying to regain a hold on himself. "You want to go with the grain, otherwise you'll get ingrown hairs, and those are nasty. Just take it easy, go slow the first time," he said, continuing despite Kal's grin, "so you don't cut yourself."

"I don't want to do that," said Kal, his eyes and hands roaming in entirely separate directions. "You had better show me."

James made a few practice scrapes against Kal's face, fighting to keep his hand steady. "Goddamnit, Kal'reegar, if I cut you it's your own damn fault," he muttered, his squirming making Kal's grin wider. The quarian's hand reappeared, closing around James's own.

"Maybe you better put that down, then," he said, his face growing very close to James's and his voice taking on the gravelly depth that gave James shivers. "It seems like you're a little distracted. Something on your mind?"

"Not … not my mind, per se," said James, doing his best not to gasp as the tip of Kal's tongue traveled slowly up his neck.

"James," said Kal, close enough for the human to taste the heat of his breath.

"What?

"You've only got one sock on."

"What?"

"I love you, James," Kal had laughed, and the razor had tumbled onto the floor, and that had been the end of that day's shaving lesson. It had been one of the days when nobody left the apartment until four o'clock in the afternoon and the bed never got made at all. Come to think of it, most of the week had been like that, with-

"Come on, you bloody fruit," snaps a voice from behind him. James snaps back to the present with a jolt, nearly slicing off his nose. His eyes raise to the mirror, to meet with the surly-looking face of the first mate. His heart pounds for a moment as he wonders if he has been thinking out loud.

"You've been standing there for half an hour," says the mate, scowling at him. "You gonna put on some mascara too, or what? Jesus bloody Christ, there's work to be done! We're suiting up in twenty minutes, you can pluck your bleedin' eyelashes later!"

James drops the razor into his kit, splashing his face with water and shaking his head vigorously. "Right, sorry," he says, trying to remember the man's name. Rogers, I think that's it. The one the captain's always yelling at.

"Don't 'sorry' me, just move your ass," grumbles Rogers. "We're wanted in the hangar." With that he shuffles out of the washroom, leaving James to pack up his things and hurry after him.

…

The suit is cold. James tilts his head from side to side, his movement limited in the cumbersome helmet. His breath condenses on the inside of the wide T-shaped visor, fading away again in a moment. The sound of his breathing is loud in his ears. He shifts uncomfortably, wishing the chilly fabric wasn't clinging so close to his skin. Static crackles in his ear. "Mic check, mic check. Sound off, sound off," says the bored-sounding voice. "One. Rogers."

"Two, McCormick."

"Three, Tyler."

There's a moment of silence, then a thumping noise from the back of the hanger. "Four. Anderson," says a sullen voice.

"Five," says James. "Mikaelson."

"Six. Andre."

"Seven. Rhoda."

"Alright," drawls Rogers. "Let's get out of here then. We've got an oyster to crack."

What's an oyster? Wonders James, but instead of asking he's watching as the hangar ramp clanks loudly, lowering itself with a mighty groan to let in a billow of smoke. The group of miners begins to file out of the hangar and James falls into line, his mouth hanging open as they step out onto the planet's surface.

James's boots sink into a thick layer of ash. The world around him is cast in lurid shades of orange and black. Smoke fills the sky in great, low-hanging clouds shot through with bloody veins of fire. Embers drift on the heavy air like fireflies, smoldering remains of trees and birds and mammals glowing against the darkened sky. James looks around, his breath thunderous inside his helmet. Flames lick at the smoke clouds here and there, snaking up blackened skeletons of trees in search of fuel. "Keelah," says a voice beside him, and James looks down to see Zael, the quarian mechanic.

James follows his gaze. Ahead of them lies a crater the size of a large building, torn messily into the ground. It gapes at him, a giant blackened mouth with teeth of jagged rock and torn tree roots. Ahead of them Andre crosses himself.

James looks down at his boots, which are making a strange sucking sound. The ash beneath them is not just ash, but a kind of funny greenish-grey paste. "What is this stuff?" he wonders aloud.

"Fire retardant," answers McCormick from up the line. "We dumped it before we landed. These suits are nice an' cozy, but not entirely fireproof. So don't go divin' into th' flames, alright boys?" He laughs.

They've reached the lip of the crater. The team spreads out as Rogers walks along the line, attaching a line to everyone's belts. "We're going down in there," he explains. "Once we get down the ship can lower us our prefab shelters and gear down, and once we get camp up they can lift out the eezo. But first we have to climb down, so don't fall." He reaches James, clipping the cable onto his belt and carrying on.

"Right!" says McCormick, clapping his hands together. "Into the abyss!"

"Shut up, you fucking loony," mutters Rogers. He walks back to the edge of the crater, clipping himself onto the head of the line. James notices the cable is fixed to a short stake pounded into the dirt. Is that supposed to hold all of us?...

Rogers takes a step back, propping himself against the edge of the crater and gripping the cable. He leans back, looking down into the depths. "It's a long fucking way down," he says. "So don't fuck around. We'll go single file, one step at a time. Wait for the guy below you before you push off. I'll call out each step." He looks back up at them, then pushes off with his feet and disappears over the edge.

McCormick follows, the line advancing behind him. One by one they stand with their backs to the crater and push off down from the lip until it's James's turn, and with his heart pounding in his ears he rappels away from the edge and into space.

The line buzzes in his gloved hands, his stomach twisting as for a moment he swings out into nothingness, and then his boots connect with the scorched earth of the crater wall. The line rattles, Rogers calls "Clear," and the man below him pushes off. James follows suit, and above him Zael swings out over the edge.

The procession crawls down the side of the crater for what seems like hours. James's arms and legs go numb, his mind dulling too under the constant rhythm of "clear," push, wait, "clear," push, wait. The light from above grows dimmer and dimmer, until it becomes so dark that James has to trun on his helmet flashlight. Not that there's anything to see, besides the cable between his fingers and the wall of soil and rock in front of him.

Finally, after ages upon ages, the call comes up from the bottom of the line. "Bottom!"

In a few moments James pushes off from the crater wall and his boots hit real ground. He sways, his exhausted legs unsure of themselves, and fumbles with his belt clasp, unclipping himself from the line. The rest of the miners are doing the same, gathering around Rogers and McCormick to form a little bubble of light in the near pitch-blackness.

Once everyone is off the line, Rogers steps back and takes two cylinders from his belt. He snaps off the ends and the tubes erupt into fizzing green light. McCormick lights two more flares and the two men place them in a square on the crater floor. "Alright," says Rogers, straightening up and looking up at the faint light of the sky above them. "Now we get the campsite up. We won't start digging until tomorrow."

McCormick stretches, sighing as his back cracks loudly. "Ahh, that's better."

"Don't get too comfortable," snaps Rogers. "We still have a lot to do. We've got a generator to rig, wiring to run, lights to set up, not mention the barracks and—"

"Ah, can it, Rogers. We've done all this before. Well, most of us have. Well, at least half." He looks around doubtfully at his crew. "It'll be fine, I'm sure."

…

Captain Gale Hendrickson stares out the viewport of his room. He knows it's not really out; in actuality, he is staring at a solid wall of alloyed metal and pipes and wires. Still, pretending the screen in front of him is really a transparent window pleases him. It calms his nerves, makes him feel as if he's not really trapped inside a steel tub.

Outside the imaginary window and beneath the belly of the ship, the pearly winter-face of the planet turns slowly. Quarians and mercenaries, he thinks. What a mess. And now we have them on our ship. Gale sighs. He wishes that less of his men were hired thugs. He wishes he had a crew of fellow believers, or at least men with functioning brains in their skulls. But they'll do their jobs. He'll point and they'll shoot and good will be done, even if by unwitting instruments.

He looks down at the clean, white face of the planet and tries to imagine the research facility like a wart, a dark blemish on the seemingly pristine surface. He wishes he had someone to talk to.

As if in answer to his thought, there's a sudden rap at his door. "Come in," he says, and the portal slides open.

"Captain?" says a hesitant voice. "Ensign Williams, sir. You sent me to check on the quarians."

Gale smiles, his eyes still watching the viewscreen. "And how are our guests, ensign Williams?"

"Well, they are talking amongst themselves, sir," says the ensign, still sounding nervous. "But the men you left to watch them are, ah, a bit distracted, I think."

"Distracted?"

"They are playing poker, sir."

"You're one of the acolytes, aren't you, Williams?"

Williams blinks. "Yes, sir. This is my first assignment."

"What do you think of my crew, Williams?"

"They're a fine crew," says the man warily.

"They're a pack of dullards," says Gale. "They're only here for money, for the most part. What are you here for, Williams?"

"Permission to speak plainly?"

"Come join me," says Gale, motioning to the space beside him. "We're equals as far as I'm concerned." He sits down, crossing his legs, and Williams sits next to him.

"Well," says the younger man after a pause. "I joined the order a year ago." Gale waits, and after another pause Williams continues. "I had a sister. She was blessed, since she was born she had always had the gift. She was born at home, so they never tested her, no-one ever knew. We knew what would happen if they found out, so we kept it a secret, like all families try to do. But it doesn't work. It never works. They found out, and they took her. They made it look voluntary, of course. 'Great opportunity for children with biotic potential.' You know."

Gale nods. He does know.

"And so just like that, she was gone from our lives. I was happy for her at first. I couldn't understand why my mother was so upset, I was even a little jealous."

"And then you got the letter," says Gale gently.

Williams takes a deep breath. "Yes. The letter. About the amp upgrade. They said they were almost always accepted by the body, and rejections were very rare. They said it wouldn't happen. It'd make her stronger, better. More valuable. And so they tried to put it in her and her body rejected it and she died. Her gift ripped her apart." Williams looks Gale in the eyes. "I was so … angry. I was angry at my mother for letting them take her. I was angry at myself for believing their promises. But most of all, I was angry at them. I was beyond angry. I carried that anger for two years, until a sister from the order found me. And now I'm here."

Gale digests the story. It's one he's heard many times. "What was your sister's name?" he asks.

"Jess. She was fourteen years old when they killed her. Fourteen years old. So full of life, so much her own person."

"But they don't see that," says Gale softly. "They just see potential. And profit. More tools, to swell their ranks. You see that?" he asks, gesturing to the planet below. "Down there, they're dreaming up more ways to kill people's brothers and sisters. They're patting themselves on the backs over more little metal chips that will turn natural, holy gifts into curses, turn loving, caring people into machines of death and destruction."

Williams looks out the viewport. "They have to be stopped," he says plainly.

Gale nods. "That's why I'm here."

…

James cranes his neck, his bleary eyes searching for the dim patch of sky far above them. It looks like a grainy smudge, barely visible through the smoke and the soot smeared across his visor. He turns back to the mess of wires in front of him, rolling his aching shoulders and readjusting the flashlight on his helmet. Red, red, green … green. He snaps the connectors together, clumsy in his padded gloves. Okay, three more. James straightens up, his back complaining, and shuffles down the snake of power cables. Thrice more he performs the connections, joining the cables and wrapping the connectors in flex tape to keep them dry and still. As if moisture is a problem down here. The bottom of the crater feels for all the world like the depths of hell, coated in the same blackish-green muck as above. The final connection in place, James looks up and signals to Rogers. "We're good," he says into his microphone.

Rogers nods. "Light 'er up."

The Ariadne, much too large to land in the crater, has lowered down a generator and most of the equipment several hours ago. The quarian technician Zael stands by it now. He nods to Rogers and flips the ignition. The engine coughs to life, and all around the crater floor a ring of floodlights power on. James looks around at the suddenly illuminated space and sees that it's smaller than he had thought. The gaping abyss they had seen from the surface is actually only a rough fifty meters in diameter.

"Alright, let's get power and pressure in the shelters," barks Rogers. "New kids, get the rations and water tanks and bring them into the main room. Actually, bring in everything. Ask McCormick if you don't know where something goes."

James searches the group of miners until he finds the Anderson boy. He meets James's eyes and the two trudge toward the stack of gear. "These ones are the water, I think," he says, after making sure his commlink is set to proximity mode and will only transmit to nearby receivers.

"Brilliant," mutters Anderson, heaving a tank down from the pile and then nearly dropping it on top of himself.

"Better use the cart," says James. He unfolds the small handcart and lifts the barrel onto it. "Shit, that's actually really heavy!"

"No kidding," says Anderson, reaching for another barrel.

"How old are you, anyway?" asks James.

"How old are you?"

"I don't know," says James, taken aback. He helps Anderson load the rest of the tanks in silence, then curiosity gets the better of him again. "Did you really run away from home?"

Anderson looks at him, his expression invisible behind the reflective visor. After a moment he turns back to the cart, giving it a heave. "I didn't run away from anywhere," he says. "I left."

James joins him, hauling the tanks back toward the shelters. "Why?"

"Because I was tired of being an ornament," says Anderson. "I was sick of being somebody else's point of pride that gets taken out and shown to guests. 'Look, here's my son, he gets perfect grades, he's going to a fucking expensive university next year, look how well we brought him up, aren't we all that,' blah blah blah." The cart stops and Anderson starts hauling off the tanks. "Do you have any idea what that's like?"

James stacks his barrel next to Anderson's, against the shelter's wall. "No," he says.

"Well it isn't too fucking great. Everyone's always going on about all the phony, stupid stuff you did because they told you to. It's always con-fucking-gradulations on the essay contest we made you enter, or the application we made you fill out, the school we made you attend, the hoops we make you jump through. Nobody ever cares about who you are, who you want to be." Anderson drops the last barrel and the two of them start pushing the cart back to the pile of gear. "But you don't even have a clue what I'm talking about," continues Anderson. "You come from some normal, happy family where everybody does their part and you grow up and leave and have your own life and write at christmas and maybe visit every now and then. I'll never be free like that. I'm never going to have my own life unless I take it."

"I grew up in a shack made of scrap metal," says James flatly. "I didn't have any parents. The only family I ever knew was my brother. When I was young, men broke into our house and shot him in the stomach with a shotgun. His body was thrown into a trash compacter. There's not even a grave to visit."

The two push the cart back in heavy, prickly silence, and begin to stack the ration crates. "So no, I don't understand," says James after a while. "It sounds like you have a family that cares about your future. It sounds like you have people who love you and are trying to provide for you and give you an education and the best life they can. I would have given anything to have that, when I was your age. It was what I used to dream of, when I wasn't dreaming of food or clothes without holes in them. No, I don't understand why you want to throw it away. I don't understand at all."

They finish moving the gear in silence. When the last box is inside the main building James goes back outside to look for Rogers. He finds him on the roof of the shelter. Once he gets close enough his commlink picks up what the man is saying. "… the fuck is wrong with you? You trying to kill us, is that it?"

"N-no," stammers a second voice, and James catches sight of Zael'rhoda, hunched over a portable computer unit next to Rogers. "I just—I was trying to run a diagnostic on the filtration system, but the system is old and I'm trying to remember the commands-"

"Well that's fucking great," yells Rogers, throwing up his hands. "Some deal we got here! You people are supposed to be smart with computer shit! That's some fucking luck, we got a retarded quarian that can't even program an air filter!"

"I'm sorry!" says Zael, sounding as if he's on the verge of tears. "I'm trying! I just need to find the diagnostic command, and when I'm nervous I lose track of things!"

"Hey!" calls James, waving to Rogers.

"What the hell do you want?" demands Rogers. "I'm busy! I told you to ask McCormick."

"We're done moving the supplies," says James. "I can help with the air filter. I've worked on those before."

"Well thank the fucking lord," says Rogers nastily, giving Zael a whack on the shoulder. The quarian flinches. "Somebody knows what they're doing. Climb up, kid. I'm taking a break. I'm too sober for this shit."

James steps out of the way as Rogers climbs down and storms off, before mounting the ladder and joining Zael in front of the console. "I'm sorry," says the quarian again, wringing his hands. "I really am trying, but the codes are complicated and that kind of thing is hard to remember when I'm under stress, and-"

"Hey, take it easy," says James, patting Zael on the shoulder. "I know what you mean. I'm sure having Rogers screaming in your ear wasn't helping."

Zael lets out a shaky breath, collapsing a bit. "Oh, he's awful," he says.

James laughs. "He's just cranky he had to stay sober for a whole day. Come on, let's look at this thing."

Zael moves out of the way, letting James take a look at the tiny computer screen. "Have you really worked on these before?" he asks.

"Yeah, actually," says James, squinting at the display. "I had a job as a duct rat on Omega for a few months. The maintenance teams had me crawling around the access tubes, reconfiguring busted filtration units."

"Really?" says Zael. "That must have been an interesting job."

"It was okay," says James. "It was sure better than the one I had after that." He half smiles, half winces to remember making the decision to join the pirate crew on Omega. And as it turned out, it was one of the best choices I ever made. …

Zael leans in again, looking over James's shoulder. "Oh, I remember now," he says. "Wow, I really am an idiot."

"No, it's an easy mistake to make. This is one of the older models. They didn't standardize the code until the APR-4, so it's basically the same, but some stuff works differently. For example, you have to call the diagnostic function from outside the main script before you can run it."

"What are you doing in a job like this, James?"

"What?" asks James, startled by the question.

"Come on, look around you. Everyone here is an asshole who can't get work anywhere else. You're not like them, you're smart and clever. You should be doing something great."

James stares at nothing for a moment. "I'm not so sure you'd think that if you knew me," he says after a little while.

"I don't know," says Zael, looking away. "I feel like I know you better than anyone else here. You're the only one who isn't a complete bosh'tet as far as I can tell."

"They're not that bad," says James, fiddling with the computer. "Well, maybe Rogers is." They both laugh at this. "Alright, I ran the check and all the components seem fine. It should be good to start up as soon as the rooms are sealed and all the hoses and stuff are ready."

"Thanks, James," says Zael.

"No problem. I'd better get down there and see if they need any more things pointlessly rearranged."

"Okay. Have fun."

James smiles, backing down the ladder. He feels much better than before.