Chapter 9

Lakota stood at the window of her private room that looked across the Wellington Bay while sipping her morning coffee. Or at least what marginally passed for coffee. One of the Spectre's peculiar and more expensive vices was her love of a good cup of java. Between purchasing organic, earth grown coffee beans and "aged-to-perfection" cognac, the commander had been known to spend an entire month's salary. As such, she preferred to enjoy her caffeinated beverage in its purest form without additives or adulteration: black, no cream and no sugar. Just like her current mood.

She took another sip from her mug and then grimaced involuntarily as the hot, bitter liquid slipped past her tongue and down her throat, its taste she colorfully imagined being reminiscent of battery acid. The Systems Alliance Advanced Medical Institute may know how to save lives with medicine and machines, but they would have failed miserably if someone's life depended on a flavorful, dark roast brew.

Shaking her head in disgust, she tapped her omni-tool to verify the time and then checked her messages. Her date was ten minutes late and hadn't yet sent a communication. Sighing heavily, she bit back the sudden irritation that flared through her body. She was on edge and she knew it. The low-grade migraine throbbing in the back of her head and lack of quality sleep compiled with having too much idle time on her hands was a toxic combination. Too much time to think meant that there was too much time to traipse through memories past, which meant there was too much time to successfully avoid the second guessing and futile regrets that were inherently bound in the long view of hindsight.

She scowled as she straightened her posture, throwing her head back, dark locks falling loosely around her shoulders while the first light of day broke across the seascape, casting shadows of deep blue along the water. In the distant southern skies, dark grey thunder clouds rolled across the horizon. Somehow the moody weather felt like an omen.

For the first time in a week, she was dressed in something other than a hospital gown or comfortable loungewear. Her attire was simple and efficient: navy blue cargo pants with a matching blue and white short sleeved top. The pants were snug enough to accentuate her athletic legs while the shirt was loose enough to give the hint of sensuality beneath its surface. The N7 patch on its sleeve revealed it was an Alliance approved garment along with the marine issue black boots. Overall, the commander looked comfortable, but a solemn haze seemed to cling to her, as well. The brooding mood was depicted in the lethargy of her movements and the dull listlessness in her eyes.

After six long, tedious days of being confined to the medical facility, she finally succeeded in finagling her release, but only after agreeing to a few concessions—daily physical therapy, bi-weekly checkups and restricted military duties which loosely translated to "do absolutely nothing." All things considered, her recovery had gone well and was ahead of schedule, which is why the request was granted. With the help of modern medicine, two knowledgeable and fastidious women watching over her case and a body laced with cybernetic implants, the Spectre's lacerations, contusions and internal injuries had healed, and her broken bones had mended. She was still in the early stages of her rehabilitation, but at this point, both Miranda and Dr. Chakwas knew the Spectre's recovery would be hindered if she stayed any longer at the facility. Simply put, they knew their patient would go stir-crazy and do something impulsive or reckless out of sheer boredom.

"Enjoying one last view before you depart, Commander?" said Dr. Karin Chakwas as she entered the room. Dressed smartly in her finely pressed grey and white Alliance uniform, her shoulder length silver hair immaculately polished in both its sheen and style, the woman exuded a keen intelligence and an attractive self-assurance born from her years as a respected medical professional in military service. Even her European accent somehow enhanced her refined manner and graceful elegance.

Lakota turned her head, greeting the newcomer. "I sure hope it's my last view from this room."

With her slate green eyes twinkling in merriment, the older woman stopped in front of the window, standing to the left of her patient. "Not a fan of the accommodations?"

"Not a fan of being confined," the Spectre admitted, her lips curling into a rueful smile.

Chakwas and the commander had a unique relationship which had been forged on the Normandy SR-1 during the hunt for Saren, starting as professional colleagues and evolving into trusted friends. Over the years their familiarity and affection for each other was readily discernible in their easy-going camaraderie and respectful interplay.

"Actually," the doctor said, "I'm surprised to find that you're still here. I know how much you loved the med bay on the Normandy. I thought you'd have run for the hills once you were released."

"I was waiting on Liara, but it appears she was detained."

Frowning momentarily, Chakwas asked, "Where are you staying?"

"Anderson lined up an apartment subsidized by the Alliance. Lieutenant Commander Calibri is taking care of all the details."

"You don't sound happy about that."

"I'm not unhappy. I just don't have a lot of say in the matter."

"And that bothers you."

Lakota raised a challenging eyebrow. "Are asari blue?"

"You'd have more practical knowledge about that fact than I, Commander," Chakwas said playfully.

The Spectre shot the older woman a look of mock disdain, but after a few seconds her eyes brightened perceptibly. At that moment her omni-tool beeped, indicating that a message had been received. Tapping a in a few commands she quickly read the missive, then closed the display.

Sighing softly, she said, "Since Liara has just cancelled our date, how would you like to join me on a quest for a good cup of coffee?"

"As lovely as that sounds, I'm afraid I shall have to decline. Too many reports, too little time. Rain check?"

"Sure," Lakota said.

Only because of their long years of friendship did Chakwas hear the hint of disappointment in the Spectre's voice as she walked over toward her medical console by the side of the bed, accessing its holographic interface. "I saw Admiral Anderson leaving your room earlier. He seemed deep in thought."

Still staring out the window, Lakota shrugged her shoulders noncommittally. "He was just making his daily rounds, asking if I remembered anything that happened, which I haven't. Not only are the Alliance and the Citadel Council applying pressure for answers, but now the media has stepped in, too."

Finishing her work with the nimble dance of a few keystrokes, Chakwas returned to stand by the Spectre's side. "I've never known him to give into political pressure of any sort. As for the media, I know he has kept the more tenacious ones at bay with the help of our krogan allies. I heard a rumor that Grunt has taken a particularly zealous interest in keeping the masses away from you. Thankfully, I've never had to deal with the media directly. Unlike you."

"Consider yourself lucky, Doc." Lakota let out a frustrated sigh. "Over the last few months I've tried to get along with the media maws, hell, I even let Allers broadcast her show on the ship," she said incredulously, "but now that I'm planet side, my patience is gone."

"If at first you don't succeed, Commander, then you try again." The older woman turned, looking at Lakota with a hard, focused expression. "When that fails, then you quit. No use being a fool about it."

Lakota nodded her head in agreement. "For me," she said, "one of the hardest things to learn after becoming a Spectre was which bridge to burn and which bridge to cross. But with the media, I've decided to just burn them all."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Because I'm so predictable?"

"Predictably obstinate," the doctor parried glibly.

Without missing a beat, the Spectre replied, "I honor my personality flaws. Without them I'd have no personality at all."

"I wouldn't call it a flaw."

"Oh?" Lakota said, her interest piqued. "What would you call it?"

"A defense mechanism."

The Spectre chuckled. "Good thing you're not in charge of my psych eval."

Tilting her head in thoughtful contemplation, Chakwas asked, "But if I was, what would you tell me?"

"That with the Reapers gone I was becoming increasingly worried and concerned about the lack of anxiety in my life." Lakota crossed her arms while leveling an impish gaze at her friend. "How many days of rehab would that get me?"

Chakwas' shoulders shook slightly in amusement. "At least a month on a tropical beach somewhere."

"Hmmm… I'll have to seriously consider it then."

As she gazed upon the younger woman who had gone through so much tragedy, a look of concern formed on Chakwas' face. After hesitating a moment, she said, "You mentioned something about finding a good cup of coffee, is the offer still open?"

"A minute ago you were too busy for coffee."

"It's been a very insightful minute." Playfully nudging the Spectre with her shoulder, Chakwas added, "Honestly, Commander, you need to work on your flexibility."

"Is that your professional opinion, Doc?

"Without a doubt," the older woman said matter-of-factly, one corner of her mouth curling in delighted merriment.

Grinning, the Spectre said, "Then I better start now... by finding us a good cup of coffee."

…

A few hours earlier…

"Do you remember anything?"

"No, I don't. You?"

Admiral David Anderson was outfitted in his formal military uniform—a dark blue blazer adorned with various awards badges, insignias, service stripes and ribbons and navy blue pants with a white stripe down each side. He was a tall, dark skinned man with an athletic build that defied his age. A man who normally had an imposing presence, but today, in the Spectre's opinion, he looked rather small and weary.

"My memories are choppy, but consistent. Making it to the beam, then suddenly being on the Citadel. The Illusive Man, you and I arguing. I was shot." The man paused momentarily, his lips pursing. "I died, I think… But then I woke up, still in London, close to where the beam had been." He glanced at the Spectre questioningly, as though hoping her answer may suddenly change. "You sure you don't remember anything?"

"No," Lakota repeated sharply, "I don't."

Anderson turned his full attention toward the Spectre, silently contemplating their situation.

Lakota returned the look, surreptitiously eyeing her old mentor, her friend, and then flashed him a noncommittal smile. "I can make something up if that will help."

"If I thought it would, I'd have made something up already."

Lakota frowned as though deep in thought. "You look tired," she finally said.

"I am," he sighed. "If possible, I believe things are more hectic now that the Reapers are gone." The man gazed out the window, losing himself in the rolling waves of the bay. "People are confused and looking for someone or some group to take charge in restoring a semblance of order to their lives. Most governments are looking to the Citadel Council to lay the groundwork for inter-species cooperation."

"I heard you've been re-appointed as humanity's representative," Lakota said, wondering if the rumors were true.

"It's temporary… until they can find somebody more suitable for the position. It's also why I'm dressed in this monkey suit." The Admiral's hands made a flippant gesture as though unveiling his uniform for all to see. "Reports, interviews, debriefings. I've had more face time as a diplomat than I ever had as an officer. Almost makes me wish I was still in the trenches."

"Nah, then you'd miss out on all the fun."

"Fun?" Anderson said skeptically.

"Yeah, fun. As a diplomat you get to tell someone to hell in such a way that they'll look forward to the trip."

"I think you've missed the point of being a diplomat."

"Probably why I'm not one."

The Admiral rolled his eyes in gentle exasperation. "With the mass relays working again, people are scampering to get home, find their loved ones and rebuild their lives, but we still have the issue of the Citadel being in the Sol System. The best scientists are trying to figure out how to get it back to the Serpentine Nebula, but first they've had to assess the damage done when it moved. Thankfully, the casualty rate of the inhabitants was much lower than expected."

"Makes sense that the Reapers would set up various Wards as internment camps like they did on Earth and the other home worlds," Lakota said. "It was a logical way for the Reapers to keep people in check and subject them to indoctrination while they focused their efforts on the war."

Anderson acknowledged the statement with a nod of his head. "And now we're left to pick up the pieces."

"Considering the alternative, that's not such a bad deal."

Lakota was quiet for a moment, gathering her thoughts together. "I've heard that the Reapers caused minimal damage on the salarian, quarian and krogan home worlds and although Palaven sustained heavy damage, the turians are already focusing the majority of their resources and energy on restoration efforts. As for Thessia, only time will tell. I have no idea if the asari will ever be able to recover from the level of destruction they endured. But…" the Spectre said, narrowing her eyes questioningly, "what happened to the geth? Nobody is saying a word."

"I suppose people are staying silent because they don't know exactly what happened to the geth… and our synthetic allies aren't offering much information on the subject either."

"What do you mean?"

"To the best of our knowledge, the wave of red energy that took out the Reapers also affected a certain percentage of geth troops."

"A certain percentage…" Lakota whispered, her eyes widening in surprise. "So it's true, some survived? Intel on them has been sketchy, at best." She didn't mention that the classified information she was reviewing came from Liara's well-placed agents.

"We don't have an accurate count and the quarian's peaceful relationship with the geth is still in its infancy. Basically, the geth haven't been forthcoming about the losses they incurred. Hell, they're probably still trying to sort it out for themselves."

"But there are survivors?"

"From what we can tell, although the energy wave wiped out a large percentage of them, the majority of the geth were unaffected."

Lakota stared incredulously at the Admiral as though he had just grown wings.

"You okay, Shepard?"

Startled out of the thoughts running through her head, Lakota stammered, "What? Uh… yeah… I'm okay. I just hadn't… it all seems so strange."

"Tell me about it," Anderson said sardonically. "Brighter minds than mine will figure it out, of that I am sure. For now though, we still have to unravel the mystery of the Crucible, the Catalyst and the Citadel. We need to know exactly what happened and how it happened."

…

For Lakota, the fitness center in the medical facility was better than working out in the Alliance's private gym on the base. There was the benefit of less people using the equipment and fewer security cameras. Plus, it was outfitted with varied and up to date machinery. It had a full nautilus setup, a complete set of free weights, a bench press, four treadmills, an elliptical machine, two stair climbers, two stationary bikes, jump ropes, a heavy bag, and a speed bag. There was a lap pool off the gym and a sauna, whirlpool, shower area and massage setup in between the rooms. The ceiling of the gym was high, the walls were mirrored and the floor was done in some type of resilient rubber padding. This was the only room that she had been in that didn't have a view of the bay, but bright fluorescent lights made up for it by giving the illusion of permanent daylight.

"Wake up."

The Spectre was grateful for the extra dose of caffeine she had this morning at the quaint coffee shop she and Dr. Chakwas discovered close to the institute. Whether psychological or not, the Spectre felt more alert and energetic.

"The Citadel. It's my home."

It was still early morning, so Lakota took extra time stretching each and every muscle of her body. She had taken the time to change into a dark blue tank top, heather grey shorts and a comfortable pair of grey and white gym shoes before starting her exercise routine, so she felt prepped and ready to burn off her unruly agitation. Although she had physical therapy every day for the last week, her body still felt tight and her muscles stiff. She wanted to work out all of the kinks before exerting any kind of focused energy, so she kept her pace slow and methodical as though trying to hold each pose to its maximum stretching potential. When she finished, she walked over to an empty corner of the room. She lifted her arms straight up over her head, kicked one leg in front of her while lunging forward and placing both hands in front of her on the floor, shoulder-width apart. Using the momentum from the lunge, she kicked one leg up, and then followed it with her other leg and popped into a handstand. She held the pose for a count of five then dipped down, touching her nose to the mat and began a set of fifteen, free-standing handstand pushups. By using her core muscles and hand muscles she kept her body balanced while maintaining her rigid posture. In peak health, she was usually good for fifty, but today fifteen caused her arms to shake from the exertion.

"I am the Catalyst."

Even as a child, Lakota had excellent hand-eye coordination, strength and agility. Those traits had been recognized and nurtured soon after joining the Tenth Street Reds by the Den Mother who had handpicked her for specialized training. As the handstand pushups continued, Lakota thought back upon those early years in the Reds—the wisdom of time bringing insight and clarity to a period which was filled with deception.

"I control the Reapers. They are my solution."

In the beginning of her life with the Reds, Lakota was schooled in gymnastics and martial arts. Discipline, concentration and confidence were the primary focus of her developmental skill set. When her aptitude for math and science emerged, the Den Mother—who rewarded intelligence—ushered Lakota into an education which revolved around the various engineering branches: physics, mathematics, and mechanical systems. Those hand-picked disciples who excelled in their scientific studies were encouraged by the Den Mother to seek out other creative influences, as well. Lakota had chosen music to balance out her cultural learning, specifically learning how to play the cello. The dedication, creativity and focused passion required to play the instrument had been valuable outlets during her adolescence and youth. Although she hadn't played since joining the Alliance, Lakota had always felt that playing music allowed her to touch upon the four bodies that make a person whole—the physical, mental, emotional and spiritual realms.

"Reapers harvest all life, organic and synthetic…"

She strolled nimbly over toward the heavy bag, grabbed a pair of red training gloves and then launched an all-out attack. She funneled the irritation generated from her memories by spinning in mid-air to kick the bag and then whirled gracefully, and with a precise ballet-like fluidity, to drive home an elbow which led into another kick. Her movements were sometimes too quick to follow and the heavy bag pitched and shivered as she hit it, kicked it, slashed it and butted it, all at what appeared to be the speed of sound. The red gloves she wore were no more than a red blur as she repeatedly hit the bag with a rhythmic cadence. For the coup de grace she leapt into the air, scissor-kicked the bag with both feet and went into a backward somersault as she landed on her back, rolling to her feet in one continuous motion.

"You have choice, more than you know…"

She was breathing hard and her toned, lissome body was glistening with sweat as she stared at the heavy bag swinging aimlessly. She tried to push the thoughts of a shimmering construct out of her mind and moved back to the heavy bag to work on her punches.

"If there is to be a new solution, you must act."

Most people back down in the face of savagery. In a civilized world, it is not a common trait to be confronted with, but growing up in the slums where a social hierarchy of brutality existed, those who were the most savage were the ones with the most power. This power had nothing to do with physical strength; it was bound in the strength of one's convictions, personality and will. While still with the Reds, Lakota encountered a surly man who was twice her size and was looking for a fight. He was from a rival gang and wanted to make a mark by taking down the oppositions' leaders. He was belligerent and loud, but she was able to end the confrontation before it began. He stood a foot taller than her with an expression reminiscent of a snarl, yet she met his gaze without flinching. She looked him straight in the eye with an icy, dead calm stare and in an impassive voice said, "I don't want to fight you because we both know that you will eventually win. You might even kill me. But know this… I will make it my life's purpose to tear out your eyes before that happens." The bloodthirsty sincerity of her statement caused the man to falter. He looked at her for a few moments, shook his head and then walked away. When she joined the Alliance, she didn't have to learn how to intensify her fighting style, she had to learn how and when to rein in her brutality.

"The Crucible will not discriminate. All synthetics will be targeted."

She had learned to box shortly after she joined the Alliance. A member of her platoon had taken her under his wing, teaching her the basics and she took to it quickly. As she hit some combination cycles, chaotic images and sensations flashed within her mind. A white light, the feeling of being suffocated, Anderson and the Illusive Man, pain and blood, falling… The more she tried to focus the more elusive the images became and the harder her punches hit. The muscles in her upper body coiled and uncoiled in her sweat-shiny skin as she hooked the heavy bag—three left hooks, one right and then repeated the pattern in an endless loop. The bag bounced and swayed on the heavy chains. The shock of the punches went up her forearms. That had been one of the first surprises when she had first started to box: punches hurt the wrists and forearms. Until she had built them up she had been not only arm weary, but arm sore.

"Even you are partly synthetic."

As she was beating the hell out of her simulated opponent, she caught her reflection in the mirrors. She felt sort of silly, but the imagined pummeling of a small, shimmering being with a matter-of-fact malevolence still felt good. She spent another forty-five minutes channeling her frustration to exhaustion and her body to the point of fatigue.

"The paths are open, but you have to choose."

Lakota was a weapon, she knew it. What the Reds started the Alliance had finished and polished, but the difference between the two organizations was vast. What the Reds had forced and manipulated, the Alliance had offered freely. Where the Reds had tainted choice with false illusions, the Alliance had shed light. A few years ago, the Den Mother, who once held so much power over Lakota, walked back into her life and tried to reassert her previous dominance, but the Spectre refused and ended her mentor's life. That ordeal forced Lakota to come to terms with her past and the choices she had made. She finally realized that when she left the Reds, she had reclaimed the power that had been taken from her as a child. And when she chose to enlist with the Alliance, she had chosen to become a weapon all on her own.

As she wrapped up her workout, the words of Admiral Steven Hackett echoed through her thoughts:

"Sometimes harsh things need to be done in war. Inevitably, each and every one of us will face a moment where we have to decide and commit to that tough choice. If we flinch in that moment, if we hesitate for one second, if we let our conscience get in the way, you know what happens? There are more people dead."

When she made her choice, she knew; knew that she would die, that EDI would cease to function, that all synthetics would be destroyed, but it was not in her nature to admit defeat or succumb without a fight, no matter how hopeless the struggle. When she made the choice, she had been willing to take the responsibility that went along with it, but in all reality she was going to be dead, so the ramifications and weight of that choice were supposedly only going to last a few microns in the real world, an eternity in the next. But the events that unfolded afterward did not go as predicted. She had survived along with EDI and the majority of the geth. What she had been told would happen and what actually happened were two very divergent outcomes and now, alive and well, she was struggling with their discrepancies and their deeper, more personal implications. Until she understood what happened, until she felt more settled with the aftermath and the consequences of her actions, she intended to continue circumventing and censoring the accuracy of the events as she remembered them.

After all, she didn't really know what happened after she entered the beam. Not definitely. Her memories or what she thought she remembered didn't add up to the reality that currently existed, so they could be a delusion brought on by physical and mental stress. Or even indoctrination. She wasn't so foolish not to consider that option. She'd been around Reapers and their technology more than most and knew she held no special immunity to their insidious means of mind control.

She knew if she told anybody what she remembered that they would think she was crazy or was telling some bizarre, "not quite conceivable" truth. At this moment, without knowing what the truth actually was, without believing that her own memories were honest reflections of her experience, she was going to stay silent. She had once been told that discretion was the better part of valor, now she had an experience to apply it towards. The Spectre also reasoned that she wasn't exactly lying; she was just divulging a highly edited truth.

Lakota shook her head ruefully as she ambled to the showers. Since her early days with the Reds, she had always been on the run, she had always been moving, always moving forward, with no time to think about the consequences of her decisions. And then, suddenly, when she hit a week of nothing, there was nothing to do but look back and face the demons of her choices. The time on her hands was disconcerting. For the Spectre, a lot of what she did and who she was—her rules, principles and guidelines—was something that she felt more than thought about. Guided by her instincts and intellect, she just did. It was not in her nature to unduly ruminate or self-castigate on choices made, but the decision she made on the Citadel was somehow different and she couldn't shake the darkness it attracted.

When she had stripped off her clothes and the hot water was sluicing over her weary muscles, a thought came unbidden to her weary mind.

"The Catalyst was wrong, all synthetic life didn't end. So what the hell really happened?"