Pt. 8 El'azar Sleeps
{TOP SECRET LOCATION} Lazarus Station, Dark Space, Horsehead Nebula, Earth Systems Alliance Space
For anyone under the false impression that restoring full functionality to a deceased and damaged body merely takes ten kilos of medi-gel and throwing the switch, you are sorely mistaken. Nor does piecing back together what was once a human involve grave robbing, or mystical incantations.
On the contrary, recreating life is a tedious- and I mostly stress the word for chronology's sake…mostly- team effort.
Firstly, rebuilding a walking, talking, intelligent, mildly attractive human being from the ground up without substituting him for a high tech Virtual Intelligence is a very expensive undertaking. About 4.532 billion credits expensive to be a bit more precise. Split between the salaries of sixty-five full time staff members- including myself, quality provisions and kitchen staff, activities available for employees on their off hours, basic maintenance and amenities to sustain a station's population such as housing and laundry, engineering in spite of VI regulation, security mechs and precautions, not to mention the obscene amount of medical supplies and treatment- both for staff and the project.
Which brings me to my second point.
While I'm sure every race could vouch for the same acknowledgment, the human body is nothing less than an incredibly complex, well-maintained machine- if it works properly. Even when the basic unit of life is something as simple as a cell- which, mind you, is not all that simple. A cell's main purpose is to reproduce and replicate the DNA stored inside- for however long the telomeres allow. My own for instance, replicate very slowly and decrease my aging drastically…for a human.
But I digress.
Scouring Shepard's mutilated corpse for any and every salvageable cell that had not been exposed to heavy bouts of vacuum, blunt force trauma, and every degree of burn was not too much trouble. But recreating those eleven vital systems those cells composed was. Because each and every system interacts with one another. So it wasn't simply a matter of completing one section and moving onto another. Everything integral had to be covered within a relatively similar time period.
For example, while the heart's main purpose may be to pump blood to the arteries and through the veins, blood also caries carries oxygen from the lungs and carbon dioxide back out. Blood pumping requires a waste filter through a functional renal system as it transports electrolytes and antibodies that fight infection. In turn, the skin is the first measure of defense. But when the epidermis is covered in lacerations and charred like steak left a bit too long on a barbie, the defensive mechanism is basically rendered useless. Not to mention all potential hemorrhage points that needed closing once blood was beginning to pump again. After all, letting the commander bleed out before he was even completely alive would have put us back several weeks.
As it was, for one year, eleven months, and eighteen days Project Lazarus trudged onwards with one goal in mind.
For one year, eleven months, and eighteen days I directed and accomplished the most substantial scientific effort Cerberus and humanity- no, the galaxy- had ever seen.
And by the end of that one year, eleven months, and eighteen days I had brought back to life the one man potentially capable and sincere enough to rally a divided galaxy together to make a stand against a force that could and would obliterate all of our culture, history and existence if given the opportunity. A man that saw a threat to everything he knew and was supposedly willing to stand in its way. A feat I highly doubted simply anyone had ever, or would ever, be able to accomplish.
Including the Alliance's poster child, Lieutenant-Commander Ernest James Shepard.
At least initially.
After all, the day he was brought to me, he was little more than tendrils of organic material hanging from shattered and broken bone. Which is in no way meant to imply that I had severe doubt about my resources' and my own ability to restore his body to at least some semblance of good health, and my determination to make sure his condition was impeccable. If he was anything less than what he had been before he died, Lazarus would have been a failure. I do not willingly fail.
The fact of the matter was that Shepard- for all I had deduced up until the beginning of Lazarus- was simply a man who had earned the keen attention and respect of humanity after surviving the slaughter of Akuze. A man who had been handpicked by Alliance Brass as their first Spectre- a prime example of our species' perseverance- inspired his followers to stand by his side, and headed the battle against Sovereign, Saren, and their geth. And now I was reassured of our limiting mortality as that same great man civilization cheered on as the Savior of the Citadel, lay dead on an operating table beneath blinding, light emitting diodes and the hands of a surgical crew.
The first of which I allowed to remove his corpse from the stasis tank, after most of the irreparable tissue had been sheared away and the damaged matter had been germinated with surviving copies of his own DNA to synthesize ribonucleic acid, were the cardiopulmonary teams. Despite being clinically brain dead with a complete lack of cognitive awareness and neural functions- so long as blood and oxygen ran through his veins several of his major organs could be easily fooled into functioning with a few additional incentives.
Nevertheless, progress was slow. Especially in the beginning when many of my staff had not quite made peace with their deities for traversing into what some whispered was 'heretical' science. I heard 'horrific' and the notion of 'playing god' tossed around more than once. And the first time I heard their whispers, I nearly scoffed in scornful laughter, masking the reaction away as a fit of coughs.
The Illusive Man and I had handpicked them each from a list of the best and brightest. Many had spent their lives advocating the progression of science. Some had remolded faces of soldiers mutilated at Shanxi, while others had attended to the organs of victims of chemical exposure. Even still there were those that had questionably prodded away and poked eezo nodules into the underdeveloped somatic nervous systems of test tube embryos- like my sister and myself.
These scientists had created life from stem cells, and a few had even taken it away. So the fact that many could hardly stand to operate on Shepard without any sign of disgust, or horror was disappointing. Certainly not surprising, but still disappointing.
But I wouldn't stir the pot. Even though my disenchantment was buried just beneath the surface in all of my interactions with them. There was no need for rustling feathers so long as they could swallow their assigned tasks, and follow direction. Because while few offered to babysit the corpse of a fallen hero, each was useful and qualified in their own specialization. I had made sure of it.
And the truth of the matter was, we weren't radicals rewriting moral law. If they were bludgers who could not or did not contribute to our creative efforts, follow simple direction, or were too fearful to interact with a mound of tissue, they would be dismissed. None were willing to take that risk. Not with the salaries the Illusive Man dished out. There was just something about the project's implementation that caused my religious and non-religious staff to pull out their prayer beads, and swear to a god I wasn't sure existed.
Lazarus is dead. And I am glad for your sakes that I was not there, that you may believe. Nevertheless let us go to him.
A fortnight after Liara's departure from Lazarus, Shepard's heart beat. Mechanically, of course. Tubes and wires were attached to his temporary airways, and what could have once been an arm, for dialysis. There were still no brain waves. His heart moved to its own spirometer, timed by implants and the first ragged rise and fall of what could have only been described as his chest. And from that point onwards the heart monitor beeped away with steady accuracy, creating a constant rhythmic lull of beeps, decompression, and low whistling to the atmosphere of the surgical bay.
The only other person in gloves, mask, and gown that did not pause in astonishment, with his hands applying sutures to Shepard's thoracic cage, was Wilson. Wilson, the neuroscientist with a bachelor's degree from Oxford, a medical doctorate from UCLA, and a PhD from Harvard. Wilson, the man that had once proposed and nearly made reality the possibility of organically reviving a consciousness from a vegetative state. Wilson, whose brilliant research was discarded for unethical practices. Wilson, who had the conviction to detach himself from the mound of meat and tubes to work alongside me for countless hours without blowing a gasket.
But even after he would retire for the evening I remained until the dawn that did not exist aboard Lazarus Station returned the medical crew to their stations. On those nights I couldn't sleep I assisted Shepard's round the clocks nurses: charting our progress step-by-step, adjusting his O2 flow rate, double checking his intravenous drip, and monitoring his implants.
Those numerous, A-class biosynthetic implants that substituted synapse firing to other organs and around the hunk of fairly intact tissue known as the brain while we reconstructed true neural pathways and function. They were not permanent and neither were the B-class that promoted healing, organ functionality, and structuring. But red-in color, the C-class implants were. Each muscle and bone weave that decreased potential for deterioration of ligaments and tendons, and increased durability of his body's structure. Both retinas that were incapable of detecting light as the original organic material were now enhanced to provide a more acute visual perception of his surroundings. They glowed an eerie vibrant crimson that set those professionals on edge. In time, when the skin grafts set in and melanin was reintroduced, his coloring would return to normal.
The Illusive Man denied only one of the implants I requested. A control chip that would have prevented Shepard from running off the moment he was well and able to sabotage Cerberus. My reasons had been logical, if not a tad paranoid. He was an anomaly, a bit of a free-spirited Spectre that had gotten himself into heaps of trouble. A few dismissed charges to mention would be mutiny and piracy. Of course, I only knew those things after Hope Lilium had stolen his classified Spectre records for me two days before Oriana's seventeenth birthday.
That year I had anonymously gifted her the opportunity to apprentice under author and investigative publicist Bernard Plim, the founder and president of the Conspiracy Accountability League. While a tad eccentric in his methods of exposing hanar for their true nature in their hierarchal order with the drell, and how salarian dalatrasses used the STG as their personal guards, his impassioned hunches tended to turn into accurate revelations. As he maintained a habit of requesting funding from his supporters, I figured a few extra credits would make him willing to take on an intern. Turns out I was correct.
Selecting him as a mentor for Ori satisfied both my need to be sure she was educated in opening her mind to possibilities, to always ask questions before being cajoled into believing just anything; and her incessant desire to learn and admire the work of one of her favorite authors. An interest I may or may not have discovered through monitoring her extranet history and credit chit purchases. According to emails she exchanged with her friends and comm calls with her parents, she had enjoyed my gift with all of the awe and enthusiasm of a normal, over-achieving, teenage braniac. I was elated. Although, I did pause to wonder if her parents were ever curious about all of the free prizes, scholarships and anonymous donations Oriana received over the years.
Alas I digress.
How Lilium managed to wait out her extraction team on the Citadel without keeling over and dying was a feat in and of itself. The same day she and Spectre Tela Vasir had double-crossed one another, Lilium had been exposed to an unknown toxin that my medical staff had immediately triaged her for. Pallor had set into her deep almond skin, purple ringed her eyes, and she shook violently, strapped to a gurney by my EMTs.
I had barked orders for them to run a full toxin screen at once, rattling off instructions for the lab work I wanted drawn from her nurses and the immediate IV saline the operative needed to be put on. There was always a risk for field agents to be physically, emotionally, or psychologically compromised when they were on assignment. I myself had been more than forced out of my comfort zone on multiple occasions- put in mortal danger quite frequently actually. But having one of my agents return on her deathbed was certainly not a pleasurable experience.
I was fairly certain she tried to warn me about the virus encrypted amongst Shepard's data as I gave her well wishes and reassurances about the quality of her upcoming care. However, she slipped into unconsciousness before I could ask her to clarify.
Thankfully, I caught the error the moment the Illusive Man connected with me through the QEC. Holo-emitters transferred the image of me standing alone in my office, typing away at omni-screens surrounding my terminal. If he had been standing, we would have mirrored one another.
The glow of the red star behind him tinged his peppered, auburn hair with fire, and he raised an expectant eyebrow. "Was the intel complete?"
"Almost." There was a hefty pause as I chewed on the front of my lip, battling the last bit of the viral infection intended to bleed Cerberus dry. Hacking is a bit like riding a bike- you never forget how. And I happened to be very good at riding a bike. "But I was just able to extract the remainder when they attempted to activate their virus."
Oh, and what's this? I noted the one sided link still established between the Spectre offices and Cerberus attempting to drain our finances. A link I was able to inversely establish and collect, Ah-ha.
The Illusive Man's approving smirk- caught out of the corner of my eye- nearly matched the smugness I felt swelling in my chest. He nodded, "Good."
Very useful. Bravo, Miranda. So I needed to provide myself with a little self-confidence every once in awhile. Sue me.
Punching in a few more codes I allowed my lip to curl upwards in satisfaction. A subtle amount of mirth slipped through my inflection. "And I even found some extra credits to boost the Lazarus funding while I was at it."
"If they weren't suspicious about our interest in Shepard when Operative Lilium stole his records, they will be now. Lazarus needs to be a success, Operative Lawson." Though I knew he meant well, I had already fallen into a habit of reminding myself of the exact same thing 11.25 times a day- on average.
I paused to consider a way to humanely rid myself of Wilson's scapegoat before it was too late- the copycat body he insisted Commander Shepard's mind could be dumped inside of if he failed to remap the entire nervous system of the true Shepard. The body I knew that could never succeed the original. Because clones are individuals- if truly autonomous. They are not meant to replace a predecessor.
I stood up from behind my desk, coolly collecting data pads I would distribute to my staff for review of their progress. "So, I take it the clone is no longer a priority project?"
"You may continue to use it for testing, but I want Shepard."
A weight evaporated from my shoulders, like water from the pavement on a hot summer's day. I would no longer have to deal with Wilson's incessant nagging to reroute our efforts. Then I remembered the other field agent placed in my care. "What about Hope Lilium?"
"What about her?" He wondered flatly.
"Aside from the fact that someone tried to kill her?" I snapped exactly as tersely as I intended. I knew he meant nothing by it, but at the time his response struck me as a bit…cold from someone that treated his employees so well.
He paused 8.7 second longer than usual to take a drag on his cigarette- and probably to remind me to regain my bearings. He consented, "Yes, that was troubling. I assume she'll live."
My thoughts flashed back to the operative currently stabilized in my med lab. "Yes." And suddenly I felt a pang of sympathy, "But her cover is blown. Vasir put her real biometrics in the Spectre database for wanted criminals. Her Council-standard identitags will no longer allow her free reign. She won't work in the field again, at least not for a while."
Life without the freedom to move about and put myself to use the best way I knew how would have been nightmarish, and for a moment I actually felt sorry for Lilium. Especially when I considered the fact that I was the one that had given her the assignment to directly interact with a Spectre in the first place. In a way, her fate was my responsibility.
Another failure to add to a very long list.
At least we had the data.
"We anticipated as much, but don't worry. I have another purpose for her." The Illusive Man quelled my inner concerns, turning back to a list of files covering his numerous holographic screens. "When Shepard is ready to go back into action, he'll need a team to operate with to ready the galaxy for the Reapers."
I recalled quickly what I knew of Hope Lilium: An orphan from a backwater mining colony in the Attican Traverse, she had climbed her way up on a life built around secrecy and trading information. Sometime in her early twenties, she had approached Cerberus and was eventually accepted amongst the Illusive Man's prize operatives. In her near decade of service we had worked together once or twice, rotating between the analytics and the actual interactive campaign. She had been cordial and efficient- perhaps even a bit coy and playful, but that was quickly overturned by my staunch professionalism. Motivated by self-preservation and opportunity, and quite proficient at reading people and absorbing new identities- I did not trust her.
So I decided to tread carefully when I agreed. "Hope has always been good at doing her research. When she's feeling better I'll assign her to composing dossiers of potential recruits. Should keep her mind off of field work for awhile."
"And I want nothing but the best for the commander."
For three months and seventeen days, Hope Lilium did exactly what was asked of her. She composed a list of the most powerful warriors and mercenaries, intelligent strategists, experienced assassins, psychotic criminals, tech, biotic and medical experts. She reached a grand total of forty-seven completed dossiers before she became paranoid about her lockdown to the Lazarus Cell, started finding the commander a bit too interesting, and had to be removed accordingly.
I was certainly not hoping for another betrayal or two.
Two months before the end of 2183, Paul Grayson was the next outside operative to grace my station with his presence. I had always liked Paul. Probably more so because we had connected as friends at The Farm in Nos Astra than for the red sand addict he had become. Ten years my senior, I had appreciated his lone wolf efficiency- a trait he had similarly praised me for. While Paul had shown me how to hotwire automobiles and improve my star fighter piloting skills- a skill that absolutely terrified Petrovsky- I had versed him in the arts of decryption and covering his tracks.
Naturally unforthcoming like most spies of any race or organization, there were years and extended periods of time we fell out of touch and knew very little about one another. If keeping tabs on one another's movements every so often constituted unfamiliarity. Still, there were lapses in his records and completely blank slates on missions. I knew of his daughter, though I had not heard he'd been married. It had been short lived due to her death in childbirth, but the union had produced Gillian- now a twelve-year-old little girl, a very gifted autistic savant and biotic prodigy. I was one of the few people Paul had shared her existence with, yet he was not one of the scarce individuals that had become aware of Oriana.
Tall and lean with dark hair and eyes, he had once been nearly as passably attractive as Lentz. But the day he had stepped through Lazarus Station's main loading bay doors, he was almost as ghastly in appearance as the body in the med lab that had just begun to retake shape. His eyes were rimmed red and bloodshot, his cheeks were ashen and gaunt, and his teeth had taken on a luminous discolored hue. And though he made a sincere effort to disclose the evidence, his body quivered slightly, easing its way down from a recent trip on false biotics.
"Paul," I had greeted him at the base of the docking ramp with Jacob, a few security mechs, and a disarming smile, disallowing him free reign of the station. My hands were folded cordially behind my back, grasping the package I had been instructed to give him since the Lazarus and Minuteman Stations were currently Cerberus' bases for pharmaceuticals. I scrutinized his expression a bit more carefully and noted, "You look terrible."
"Always good to see you, too, Miranda." His smile pulled back to reveal a few more damaged teeth, and his dehydrated eyes flickered between the doorway, to the guards on either side, and then to myself. "You look a little stressed. Security seems tight."
His attempt of feeding for information was completely rebuffed when he extended his hand out for a friendly shake. I scowled and refused to budge. "You've been dusting up again."
"Not really." Paul scratched the tip of his nose inconsequentially, still shivering. "What's going on here, Miranda?"
"You know I'm not going to tell you." I deflected, lowering my voice. I wasn't sure if I was more annoyed with a man I had once tried to help kick a habit- a man that was a father with a responsibility to a young girl no less- or with Dr. Loba, who had just this morning suggested we completely replace Shepard's missing leg with a bionic one to create some sort of damned cyborg. I placed the paper wrapped box in Grayson's hands. "Be a good father to Gillian, and clean yourself before you go to Grissom Academy. I'm sure the Ascension Project doesn't take kindly to its students' parents being sand-blasted. Sets a bad example."
A reproachful gaze was cast upon me. "I am a good father. I love Gillian. It's just… never mind. You wouldn't understand. You don't have anyone to care about besides yourself. No one else to look out for."
"You're right," I lied coolly. "I don't suppose I do."
Frustrated and quaking, Paul grasped his forehead and muttered, "Sorry."
"I don't doubt you care for your daughter," I half-heartedly reassured him before throwing a disgusted look at the package. "But, that medication- it says it's for migraines. I bet she gets them from time to time. And yet, one of the adverse reactions are stimulated eezo nodules on the SNS. Seems like a suspicious prescription to me. I would be very careful with it if I were you."
"PIPEDA, Miranda," Grayson snapped, rubbing at his wrist. "Still exists."
"On Earth." I acknowledged. "But, let's not pull a legal rights card. You and I both know we circumvent the law when circumstance benefits us. And I'm telling you as someone who would be disappointed to see you wind up face down in a gutter- be careful for yourself and your daughter, Paul Grayson."
When Paul and I parted ways for the second to last time, Jacob had whistled lowly on our march back inside the station. Maybe if I had known that within the week Grayson would call in an emergency extraction for himself and Gillian from the quarian cruiser Idenna, proceed to have a Cerberus team board, and further offer his impromptu and unwarranted resignation to the Illusive Man- our conversation probably would have gone a bit differently. How he, his daughter, and an Alliance rep had even managed to be kidnapped by quarians working for the Shadow Broker was beyond me.
Jacob shouldered his recently preferred shotgun- an M-27 Scimitar that he took pristine care of- and kept his eyes pasted on the path ahead of him. "Grissom? That's an Alliance effort, right? They could take his kid away if he's an addict, have him lose any custody rights."
"That's what he's afraid of," I agreed. "And then he goes back to the red sand to cope with the anxiety. A vicious cycle. One he's going to need to work out for himself."
Jacob pursed his lips as we hooked a right, and his LOKIs trotted up a flight stairs a few steps behind us. A few maintenance personnel moved about and we passed another security officer leading his own small detail of bots. The station and project's wellbeing had been one of my top priorities from day one. Mr. Taylor shrugged out of the corner of my eye. "At least he cares about his kid. Wants to be with her."
"Well, I can assure you of one thing, Jacob. Sometimes a father just shouldn't be involved with his children." It just sort of slipped out. I wasn't really directing the sentiment towards Paul, and I certainly hadn't meant to fling anything brusque at Jacob personally…Even though I'm pretty sure he took it that way.
"Yeah," He suddenly agreed. I detected a subtle layer of bitterness in his lower vocal chords, but he masked the expression fairly well. "Maybe. My old man wasn't around long enough for me to have bad memories. He backed out completely when I was fifteen."
For about 2.07 seconds, I scrutinized the marine I had head hunted on Cartagena several months before, rounding yet another hallway of the labyrinth. I had been knowledgeable of Jacob's father's absence. Ronald Taylor had reportedly gone down with his ship eight years ago, but I had been unaware there were three extra years he had chosen not to spend with his son. "I'm sure you turned out better than you could have if he'd been involved."
"Thanks," He murmured sincerely as we halted in front of Shepard's current surgical room.
Truthfully, Jacob was a good a man. Honest, structured, dutiful, private, direct, and polite. He had never tried to press his greater romantic interest upon me. I believe he sensed my disregard for the pursuit of a relationship beyond colleague, which I was thankful for. Firstly romances between coworkers- at least I believed so at the time- were typically terrible ideas. Rationally though, some of his traits seemed like things that I should have been able to care for. And I did- just as a friend.
But, no matter how I reasoned away- noting our shared structuring and lack of a need for dwelling on trivial- the emotions were not present, deep honest communication would have been a problem between us, and some of our essential views on the world were just too fundamentally opposing. I did not love Jacob Taylor. I did, however feel a bit guilty ever so often when the feelings I did not reciprocate shoved a wedge between our efficiency as teammates.
"Trust me, Jacob. I'll prove it to you sometime," I promised with a slight smile, which he returned before nodding and turning on his heel.
When I stepped foot into the med lab, I expected to walk in on my hematology and oncology teams mulling over Shepard's lymph nodes to check for pathogens and growths. Then I figured I would deliver new instructions to his charge nurse and revise his care plan. Instead, Wilson- with devilish excitement in his beady blue eyes and a perspiring bald head- shuffled towards me like a rotten little troll. He practically bounced with anticipation when he pointed at what was beginning to appear more like a very marred burn victim versus a rotting pile of ash. "Our boy's a bastard."
I scowled heavily. Bile- something along the flavors of indignant and bewilderment- rose up in the back of my throat. He needed to clarify. "What?"
"Shepard," He said a bit impatiently. "I compared his parents' DNA to his own, looking for genetic anomalies or discrepancies in sequences. James Tiberius Shepard is not Ernest James Shepard's biological father."
The news did actually surprise me. Hannah and James Shepard had been listed on the lieutenant commander's birth certificate, but I supposed those signatures could have been forged. The pair had been married shortly following their son's birth, but such practice wasn't necessarily uncommon. According to Shepard's early history, James Shepard had raised the boy as his own, signed his report cards, paid his medical bills, purchased the first skycar Ernest was allowed to use as a teenager.
Of course, all of my data was objective, easily quantifiable with hard facts and records. I had no subjective insight into the relationship between adoptive father and son save for a few brief vid clips from the first of many memorial services honoring the men and women who had sacrificed their lives during the Battle of the Citadel. Council News Networks had severely limited Shepard's air-time, completely disallowing him from making a speech for fear of mentioning Reapers on live public broadcast, and even attempted post-interviews with the press had been circumvented. All I had to judge off of was his reaction to the toll of the bells as Admiral Steven Hackett read out the names of the deceased, and the one that must have stood out to the commander- Major James T. Shepard, SSV Hong Kong.
A high-resolution, single camera shot had panned a close up of Lieutenant-Commander Shepard. Besides his official identification photographs, the camera had captured the most detail I had ever see of him on a vid. Sullen in expression and attentive to the speaker, Shepard sat up straight with broad shoulders squared, reassuringly patting his mother's hand which desperately gripped his arm for support- a sure fire way to belie Captain Hannah Shepard's stern composure. Even adorned in the same dress whites that I will admit made her son look inexplicitly handsome, she was truly one of the most striking female humans I had ever seen with glossy, ebony hair pulled back in a tight bun, high cheekbones, dark olive complexion and brightly colored eyes only slightly outshone by her son's. I believe the only defining dissimilarities in their appearances- aside from contrasting spry masculinity and middle-aged femininity- were the commander's strong rectangular jawline, snubbed nose, and his unusual not-quite-buzzed copper hair. A rare, fiery color for humans indeed.
Even the stiff upper lips, and resistance to tear shedding were alike. Then again, so was the horrendous amount of pain swelling around their eyes, crinkling of sorrow in their brows, and infrequent swallows they forced upon their throats. So yes, in spite of all my supremely reliable personal experiences with parental figures, I believed Ernest and James Shepard were close, if not amiable. And I was certain Wilson's new fascination with one of the commander's supposed skeletons was a tad unfounded.
"So?" I admonished expectantly, resisting the urge to tap my foot as I offered Wilson an opportunity to come forth with any genetic or medical concerns. "What does this mean for Shepard? Did you find any unordinary structures or inherited defects? Family history of COPD maybe? Alzheimer's? Sickle cell anemia?"
"Well, no," Wilson confessed. "And all of those diseases are-"
"Revisable with gene therapy," I completed. "According to Shepard's psych profile, he doesn't seem to harbor any mental shortcomings due to parentage. Did you get a trace on the biological father?"
"Nothing concrete. But it looks like some nobody mercenary that died around First Contact."
"Well from the looks of it, I doubt he even knew. So, unless a gene falling along his Y chromosome is going to do him harm, don't mention it right away when he wakes up." I stared back at the wreckage on the operating table, adorning a surgical mask and filtering out Wilson's inconsequential data. In hindsight, I wish I had looked into Shepard's genealogy bit more. But I chose not to, and told Wilson, "Which I hesitate to believe will be anytime soon."
Wilson shook his head as he led me towards the lower bulkhead that also doubled as and interactive monitor for the commander's medical history and procedures, doctors' and nurses' notes, blueprints and maps of every portion and vital system of his body, how his implants worked. His blood pressure, respirations, and heart rate were all stabilized. If not a tad low from an extra bout of anesthetic. Yellow color-coded implants fired off signals to organs, but most of the nervous system was dark. Save for the natural green-coded impulses responding to portions of the hind and midbrain.
I stared intently at the monitor, expecting the sudden, natural flair to have been a fluke. We had only begun remapping more advanced features a few weeks earlier. His A-class biosynthetic inserts had encouraged the brain to recall the act of breathing and monitoring the heart, but what I saw was more. Consistent since a minute portion of the hippocampus- the memory storage unit- had interacted with the cerebellum to send ghost signals down his spinal column.
Time stamped this morning at 0753 hours.
"This was just after we examined a few of his eezo nodules. Look here," I pointed at the spider-webbed activity brimming around his shoulders and extending through his arms. "See how the static energy concentrates around the nodes and flows outwards. There's no follow through. The reflex is strained, practically nonexistent. More like a shadow rather than a true process. It looks like he was almost… remembering biotics."
A distinctive memory.
To feel nothing, to know nothing for seven months and four days. To have no thought, no emotion, nor reasoning or awareness and to suddenly, out of gray matter evoke the phantom of a reflex. But not recollect the sensation of the cool fire that licks at your skin, or comprehend the exhilaration of power so great you could tear apart molecules with a single thought and a motion. To not recall the first time you were confronted with the realization that you were different, gifted and cursed at the same time.
A whisper in the dark, I decided, catching myself absentmindedly clenching and unclenching my fist.
"So," Wilson implored. "Am I good at my job, or what?"
Our friend Lazarus sleeps, but I go that I may wake him up.
"We aren't finished yet."
During the next morning's pre-conference, when the staff learned that Shepard was no longer officially brain dead was hardly any reassurance to them that their souls would not be cast into the fiery depths of Hell on their day of revelation, and only a few of them found my quip that the demons there couldn't possibly look any worse than Shepard did at that moment nearly as amusing as I did. I could respect their abilities as doctors, but not their lack of vision and creativity in the field of science. Because to them, we were not reviving a fallen hero that still had so much potential left for a life. In their misinformed eyes, we were defying the basic laws of nature to reanimate a soulless monster.
But as brain activity became more and more common in varying regions, indicative of an actual person living somewhere in the subconscious, their intrigue was stimulated and my nursing staff's behavior shifted. As though they were caring for a human being rather than a vegetable. It was his night shift nurses that specifically earned my respect. Before his skin grafts were complete, while so many points on his body still glowed orange, before his nose and ears were constructed by the cartilage knitter, before there were nails or hairs. Without flinching they would whisper to Shepard in low, reassuring voices, and stroke his hands and arms with soothing fingers.
During the many twilight hours that sleep evaded me, I soon discovered myself implementing similar tactics. At first, I felt a bit ridiculous speaking to someone I was sure was completely unaware of his surroundings- an opinion I had no problem sharing with Shepard. Nonetheless, in his deep medically induced slumber, I explained the procedures I performed. I kept him up to date on recent galactic affairs like the Kingu comet that devastated the hanar colony of Belan, the Raloi- the new sentient avian race the council had made contact with, and I expressed my concern over the seven human colonies that had been mysteriously abducted the day I learned Cyrene and its population of just under half a million people had gone dark. Still it was not a sentiment I truly understood until the day Wilson almost accidentally killed the commander.
Months had passed and a human had taken form. The planes and angles and extremities were all now distinctly male. By the beginning of March 2185, Shepard no longer needed a bone knitter. His entire skeletal structure had been repaired and was reinforced by countless weaves. His cardiopulmonary systems functioned properly, albeit keeping an endotracheal tube stuffed down his mouth and through his throat to keep an open airway was unanimously agreed upon. So was the urinary catheter to intercept the ending result of his renal function before his patient gown could, and the IV drip that provided his medications and nutrients. The deeply bronzed olive complexion Shepard had sported before his fall to Alchera had returned, but was ashen from lack of exposure to natural and artificial sunlight. Apart from the countless tangerine scars wiring his features, his skin was smooth and unblemished.
Factoring the considerable amount of time Shepard had been unconscious, atrophy and contraction had hardly set into his muscles due to the constant electrical nerve stimulations of his biosynthetic inserts. However when Wilson and I planned to remove the final group of Shepard's A-class implants from in and around his spinal column, Wilson refused to realize the fact that a 75-kilogram person required more than 180 mg of titrated barbiturates to remain unconscious during an operation. Unfortunately, he had already administered the drug by the time I arrived in a fresh uniform, prepared for surgery. Suffice to say, I was displeased with his irrational undermining. Rational, logical undermining that improves a situation is respectable in my book. But when such actions are based solely on sheer stupidity and possibly endanger my objective, I tend to be rather displeased.
"His body mass will be unaffected by that low of a dosage. The implants will just burn the medication off."
"Then it's a good thing we're removing them," He countered.
"Shepard's going to wake up during the operation," I hissed, throwing Wilson a reproving look. "He's built up a tolerance to narcotics. You need to up the dosage."
The physician flouted my warning, continuing to run electromagnetic scanners across Shepard's body to detect the locations of the implants and marking them on his skin with blue ink. "He'll be fine. I've got sedatives prepared just in case. It's a quick procedure anyways. We can give him more once we're done."
"I don't think you're hearing what I'm saying," I snapped. "He. Is. Going. To. Wake. Up. He already teetered on the verge of awareness last night. You saw the report."
"Yeah, and it was because of-"
"Another medication error. Do you have any idea what it'll do him if he regains consciousness during spinal surgery? First: if he lives, the experience may traumatize him. Physically and psychologically. He could jolt and we could sever something important. And, I don't know. Paralyze him. That would put us back months. Credits don't grow on trees. Second: He could hyperventilate from anxiety and give himself a heart attack. I've got half a mind to…" I was going to say 'fire you' even though I knew finding a replacement would have been foolhardy this late into Shepard's recovery.
But the sudden spike in Shepard's heart rate from 83 BPM to 115 BPM caught my attention.
In the background Wilson muttered cleverly away, "Look Lawson, I've got degrees from the best schools on Earth. I've been published across the galaxy for my work on in vitro spinal taps to access element zero in the body. I rebuilt a vegetative consciousness, and I brought Shepard back to life. I've got thirty years of medical experience, which means I've been doing this since before you were probably even born. So don't tell me-"
"Pull your head in and look at the monitor!" I directed at once.
The steady beeps and chirps became so frequent in repetition, there was hardly anyway to distinguish individuals. Brain activity had spiked. Rooted in the visual and auditory thalamus and landing straight in the amygdala. An indication of emotion based off of…
"Oh my god," Wilson breathed, shuffling towards the monitor to get a better view of the brain and the neural pathways firing at rapid speed. "Shepard is reacting to outside stimuli. Showing an awareness to his surroundings." His voice became a bit smaller. "I think he's waking up."
Might explain why he's trying to sit up, I decided not to shoot back. Instead as Shepard's heart rate continued to climb, I rushed to his side and grasped the hand that flailed desperately for understanding, the one still too heavy and awkward under its own weight. Delivering a reassuring squeeze to his fingers, I pressed down against his chest with my free hand and was met with terrified glowing eyes. God, I will never forget the look on his face. The ominous orange of cybernetics diluting his natural green irises, the horror and bewilderment and pleading infused in his expression as he tried to pull the pieces together. Frightened, uneven respirations thrumming beneath my fingertips, sapphire corona flaring around his shoulders. I could not wrench my gaze away as I ordered Wilson to deliver another dose of the sedative.
For the first time since I could recall, I was chilled to the bone. Disturbed even more so by the flash of gratitude and trust as Shepard faded back into unconsciousness. Wilson could not meet my eye when I decided to postpone the surgery until the next day to allow his body to recuperate. Locking down the med lab, save for two nurses, I retreated coolly, suppressing Mary Shelley's insight into my situation.
The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardor that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room.
No, that's not true, I told myself as I slunk to the floor behind my desk, swallowed 5 mg of Eximo, flipped on the Rabbit of Seville, and opened the first pack of cigarettes I had touched in seventeen years. The last time I had smoked, Petrovsky had caught me, sat me down, and had a very sincere discussion about the cancerous risks and aging and his concern for my health. He also departed on the note that if he ever found another cigarette in my hand he would make me smoke an entire carton all at once. And if I hadn't been so unsettled, the memory might have made me laugh.
A/N: Firstly, let me apologize for the long waits. And thank you to everyone sticking with this story because it is moving ahead. Slowly but surely. I'm going to try to pop the next chapter out way sooner though because Lazarus was never intended to be a two-parter. It just got so damn big that I had to split it in half. So, yes, Shepard will be up next chapter, and no he is not default Shepard. If you would like to see him, you can go to my profile and look at my icon or follow this link: cheernerd7. deviantart art/What-You-Don-t-Think-I-m-Hungry-459781189. Just be sure to remove the spaces.
Second, I would like to point out that commandocucumber updated "Perspective' this weekend. For those of you that haven't read it, you're making a mistake. It's a wonderful, realistic, in character telling of the dynamics between Shepard and Ashley and Miranda with a far more in depth spin on ME3 and the Collector Mission.
I believe LaterHosen has also updated 'Forgoing the Inevitable.' A great aftermath fic.
And Mal Cobb's 'A Measure of Salvation' has also been updated with a great character arc for Miranda and build up sequence to ME3.
Check out their fics guys, they're great.
Thanks for reading!