Nick awoke with a shiver and immediately began rubbing at the goosebumps on his bare forearms. He hadn't noticed it when he'd first come aboard, but the Normandy was cold—almost uncomfortably so, and the chill had settled on him as he'd slept. Sitting up in the chair where he'd been slouched, he gave a long groan as the aching muscles of his lower back moved weakly to obey.
Propping one elbow on the table to cradle his head, he used two fingers to scrub the exhaustion from his eyes. His headache had retreated, but it had been replaced by a dozen aches and pains as he began to feel the aftermath of his eventful afternoon. The side of his thigh was raw and itchy, and the dressing on his ankle chaffed inside his boot. It was possible that he felt worse than when he'd fallen to sleep and, despite the fresh clothing, he was still unshowered and sticky with dried sweat.
"Morning." A chipper voice said from nearby.
Shepard stood across the table, dressed in dark blue fatigues like the ones he'd been given and holding a white coffee cup in one hand as the other rested casually on her hip. Out of her armor she cut a much slimmer figure, and crimson bangs hung across her brow to conceal twinkling emerald eyes that observed the waking corpsman with amusement.
The enlisted man gave a grunt and loudly grumbled something unintelligible in greeting.
"Coffee?"
Coffee? Yes, coffee would be incredible.
"Please." Nick rumbled, his head still resting in his hand.
Jane withdrew a moment to the line of cabinets along the far wall and returned a few moments later with a second cup. Setting the steaming mug of brew down on the table, the lieutenant commander watched as the medic reached across to seize the mug, still looking mostly asleep as he brought the cup to his lips.
There was a long, thoughtful pause after Nick took the first sip, after which he quickly downed the rest of the mug. Shepard gave a chuckle. "That good, huh?"
This was coffee? No, it wasn't. Coffee as the young medic knew it was something very different—it came in packets and was the color of old motor oil. The coffee he'd subsisted on in the field was a vile, bitter drink that you drank to get through a late watch or early patrol.
As he sat savoring the faint aftertaste of cream, the corpsman could scarcely believe that the smooth, rich brew that Shepard had just given him was the same thing.
No longer leaning across the table, Nick set down the empty mug and gave a wide yawn as he stretched. Rising stiffly from his seat, he gave a quiet groan, drawing a questioning look from the red-haired officer.
"You alright or am I going to have to cart you out of here?" Shepard half-joked, not seeming entirely convinced that the marine would be able to navigate the ship under his own power.
"I'm fine," The medic lied, trying to hide the soreness in his voice. He could amend what he'd said earlier. However bad he'd felt slouched in the chair, now that he was standing he was quite certain than he felt worse now than before he'd fallen asleep. His arms were covered with small scratches that had reddened while he'd dozed and his feet ached inside of boots that hadn't been broken-in. "I should be asking you. You took a pretty nasty spill down there, glad to see you're up."
"I've been up for a while actually, making my rounds. Saw you here, but I figured you could use the rest." Jane remarked, watching the young enlisted man trying to work a crick out of his back. "You know, I'm sure we could've found you a bunk if you'd asked."
Nick shrugged. He'd slept on enough styrofoam mats and in the back of enough troops transports for a chair in the common area to be a comparably comfortable place to bed down. "Speaking of, how long was I out?"
"A few hours," Shepard answered, taking a glance at the orange display on her forearm. "Actually, Anderson sent me to grab you—you ever been to the Citadel?"
The young marine shook his head slowly, drawing a wide grin from the officer. "Then have I got something to show you."
As he stared out the window with a blank expression, there was a sense of dread that danced across the fine hairs of Nickeli's arms like electricity. Or was it exhilaration? In truth, the sensations had mingled for so long that he could hardly distinguish between the two anymore and the feeling, whatever it was, added to the corpsman's growing confliction.
Still, Shepard had been right—it was a hell of a view.
Beyond the thick armored glass of the Normandy's cockpit lay the Serpent Nebula with its rich swirls of magenta and rose. Cradled within the waves of vibrant light was a space station of almost unfathomable scale, long arms spread open like a half-budded flower and its surface painted with orange lines in the glowing starlight. The "Citadel", Nick had been told, was their destination.
As he stood on the bridge, Williams suddenly rushed by him to the side window and pressed her nose to the glass. "Look at the size of that ship!"
Outside, the massive craft—its polished silver hull more closely resembling the exterior of a temple than a starship—cruised through the void.
From the co-pilot's seat Alenko nodded, leaning to see passed the displays in front of him. "The Destiny Ascension—flagship of the Citadel fleet."
The pilot, a waifish man sporting a beard and dark ballcap, offered a remark that Nick didn't hear, drawing a rebuke from the gunnery chief. As the two traded words about the massive capital ship off their port bow, Shepard entered the flight deck with a datapad tucked under her arm as she quietly munched on a bagel, watching the fleet of warships outside with all the leisure someone else might watch birds.
A few moments later Nick heard the approach of the noisy footfalls of square-toed shoes, which he had come to recognize as belonging to Captain Anderson. Halting beside Shepard, he addressed the lieutenant commander in his usual tone of calm authority as the others watched the ship begin to cruise to its berth. "Once we're docked, Ambassador Udina will be waiting for you at the embassy, take Alenko and Williams." Glancing at the half-eaten bagel Jane was holding, the officer gave a weary shake of the head. "And get yourself another cup of coffee. It's going to be a long day."
As docking drew near the command deck became increasingly busy, with a sea of blue-clad Navy personnel moving between stations as Nick quietly withdrew from the cockpit and took a seat at a deactivated terminal. A few minutes later the ship lurched slightly and Nick felt his balance shift, which he imagined meant they had docked. The corpsman sat for a while, content to watch Shepard lead her team off the ship and the bustle of the ship's crew as they went about their duties. Eventually rising with the intent of seeking something to eat in the galley, he was surprised to be met by Captain Anderson with Ouder on his flank as the pair stepped around a wide dividing wall at the rear of the command deck.
The captain was in his dress uniform, the polished golden bands on his shoulders shining in the white-blue light of the CIC. Behind him, Sergeant Major Ouder was still wearing his armor and combat equipment.
"Private Vandas," Anderson greeted, wearing a serious expression and not seeming altogether pleased to see him. "Come with me, I've arranged for you to be taken to an Alliance facility. They'll deal with you there."
Brushing by, he headed in the direction of the airlock before the corpsman could compose a reply. Nickeli hesitantly followed after a glance at the stone-faced sergeant behind him confirmed his suspicious that politely declining wasn't an option. Frankly, he wasn't sure he liked the sound of the captain's "arrangement", but so long as he didn't have a choice in the matter he'd go along with it quietly.
Anderson was waiting by the airlock door to usher the corpsman inside and stepped in behind him followed by Ouder. The door slid shut with a hiss and for a few long moments the three stood in silence as the airlock cycled.
Finally, the section of hull in front of them swung upward to reveal a short, enclosed gangway. Through a small window in the walkway, Nickeli caught his first glimpse of where they had docked.
The Normandy had set down on one side of a massive hangar split by a long metal dock and was held in place by a set of massive clamps. Despite the utilitarian walls of polished white alloy and the stained floors of the well-worn pier along which a handful of people mingled, the young marine couldn't help but be awed by the incredible scale of it all.
He was on a space station. It was a thought that was simultaneously bewildering and exciting, and it left him in a pleasantly confused daze as he looked around the landing area. The wharf was populated by a crowd of human and alien dockworkers who casually strolled along its length as they went about their duties. The aliens—tall creatures with narrow, bony faces—seemed to be the same as the body Shepard's team had found on the planet, and a few noticed the young marine staring as they passed.
Nick was brought back by the sound of Anderson's unhurried footsteps as he approached the end of the catwalk and stepped onto the dock.
"Sir."
The medic glanced over where a previously unnoticed soldier stood offering a crisp salute which the captain promptly returned. Behind him a small, boxy-looking transport had touched down, a section of its blue and white hull open to offer a view of the craft's small interior where another armored figure stood. The pair—along with the other two Nick noticed standing on the dock to his left and right—were clad in grey armor plate, similar in appearance to Ouder's but lacking the bandoliers and rigging. They weren't armed, but they stood rigidly and despite their mirrored visors, the medic could tell they were watching him closely.
"He's all yours, gentleman." Anderson said sternly, his arms folded as he stood at the end of the narrow bridge leading to the ship's airlock. Ouder appeared for a moment to hand something to one of the soldiers on the dock.
"Thank you, sir." The soldier in plain grey armor replied. Turning to the corpsman, he indicated for him to step into the craft. "This way, please."
Nickeli felt his throat tighten and sudden feeling of panic gripped him. There was nothing in the world he wanted to do less than climb aboard that transport.
There was a wide blue door at the near end of the dock and as the marine spotted it out of the corner of his eye, he felt tempted to run. But what if it didn't open for him? Would these figures in grey kill him rather than let him escape? They were soldiers—Nickeli was sure enough of that, but he had no way of knowing what their orders were and that made them dangerous. Taking a moment to compose himself, he forced down the fear rising in his chest.
He didn't know what they intended for him, but there was a sense of certainty in the realization that it was beyond his control. So he wouldn't be afraid. He refused to be.
Taking a pause to steady himself, he climbed aboard the shuttle.
Being the Department of Diplomatic Intelligence's senior field operations advisor at its Citadel branch had its benefits. It was a quiet posting focused mainly on electronically monitoring communiqués, and the Citadel was a large and cultured enough place to satisfy the tastes of a man even as worldly as Collin Morris. In his younger days he could've been found trailing alien envoys through the Wards as they went to visit their mistresses or secreting into diplomatic quarters to plant listening devices, and he had been a fixture of the intelligence realm as the Alliance made its first awkward attempts at wooing the Citadel races following the First Contact War.
But that had been nearly thirty years ago, and now his once jet black hair had greyed and the years had furrowed his strong jawline with wrinkles. He was a handsome man still, but experience had tempered him and he had come to enjoy the finer things his tenure had won him. There were reasons the posting was regarded as one of the cushiest postings in the DDI, and the well-furnished apartment the Alliance provided and having most all his expenses covered were particular favorites of his.
Therefore, Morris found the arrival of a department skycar with instructions to whisk him back to the Irin Center particularly irritating. The fact that Alliance command had requested him by name did little to soothe his ire over being pulled away from his stroll through the Presidium's gardens and the enamored asari maiden who had been keeping him company.
The Irin Center, the DDI's base of operations for its Citadel branch, was situated in the Wards. Spread throughout several floors of one of the station's enormous skyscrapers, it housed offices, mainframes, and intelligence centers and its halls were constantly filled with agents and analysts.
As Collin navigated these halls, most of these people had the sense to steer clear of the dour-looking agent. Most.
From the passing bustle, a cheery voice greeted him. "Good afternoon, Senior Agent Morris!"
Glancing to his left, the veteran operative watched Kyle Wilkes quickly dodge his way through a group of people to walk at his side.
"Junior Agent Wilkes," Morris replied, making no attempt to hide the disdain in his voice. The man, oblivious to his colleague's icy, seemed positively thrilled to be acknowledged all the same.
The young analyst, a wiry, brown-haired man of twenty, was one of the newer faces around the Center. He'd been churned out of the department's recruitment agency a few short months ago with decent technical scores and enough family friends to secure him a nice assignment.
He struck Morris as someone who would spend the entirety of his career behind a desk or standing at a coffee machine. Still, that hadn't stopped him deciding that the silver-haired agent was the type to take someone under his wing and, moreover, that that someone was going to be him.
The old spy glanced at the datapad Wilkes had tucked under his arm. "Is that my brief?"
"Yep."
Morris took it from the man and began to peruse it as he walked. The pad, keyed to the senior agent's biometrics, sprung to life as he took hold of it and a glance at an attached report brought a small smile to his face. David Anderson. There was a name that he hadn't seen in a long time.
Walking for a bit longer as he read, the aging agent suddenly looked up from the document in alarm, realizing he'd been following Wilkes. "Where are we heading?"
"Interview room one." The younger man answered.
Morris let him lead, reading the datapad with a look of growing concern. With a muted curse, the greying operative pinched at the bridge of his nose. The report read like the plot of a science fiction vid.
Word of the attack on Eden Prime was already circulating throughout the Alliance intelligence circles and the rumors that the geth were behind it were discussed in low voices, uncertain but fearful of what the implications might be. To have it confirmed by an Alliance scout ship was…
Even for Collin, a man of some thirty-seven years with the DDI, the news was jarring.
The pair continued in silence until they arrived at a door marked with a 1. Stepping inside, they found a third man waiting in the small room.
"Lieutenant Hawthorne," Morris greeted, his tone uncharacteristically warm.
The young officer, still in his charcoal hardsuit and wearing a sidearm at his hip, smiled politely. "Senior Agent Morris, sir, it's good to see you."
Collin liked the marine. He was the executive officer of the human embassy's security detail and he and his men were often occasionally called upon by the DDI when they needed uniformed servicemen. He was a courteous, soft-spoken man and the agent found him to be a welcome contrast to some of the other personalities around Irin.
The lone figure in the adjoining room caught the operative's attention. "Is that him?"
The marine nodded. "Yes, sir."
On the other side of the mirrored glass window a young man in dark blue Alliance utilities sat slouched in a chair at one end of a polished metal table. His cropped brown hair gave him a martial appearance, but there was something peculiar about him that the agent couldn't put his finger on.
"What do we know?"
"At the moment? Only what he reported to Captain Anderson." Said Hawthorne, sounding a bit apologetic.
"Is that his uniform?"
"No, sir. He was treated by the SSV Normandy's infirmary when he came aboard and what he was wearing was disposed of as medical waste."
Morris sighed. So he had, in effect, a perfectly anonymous person in the next room and his work cut out for him. To think, he could've spent the afternoon strolling around the Citadel with a lovely blue alien on his arm. "How long has he been here?"
"Less than an hour—we met the Normandyat the dock." The lieutenant indicated a small bin sitting on the counter to Collin's immediate right. "His effects."
Peeking inside, the agent withdrew the large knife sitting on top and began inspecting it. Pulling it from its tan plastic sheath and carefully turning the blade over in his palm, he gave a low, thoughtful grumble. The long, sturdy blade and curving point told him it was a fighting knife, but it was a common, if antiquated style and Morris couldn't be sure where it had come from. Noting the letters stamped above the crossguard, he slid the blade back into its sheathe and set it down beside the bin.
The only other things in the container besides a pair of Alliance-issue boots were a black, odd-looking handgun and a pair of grey identification tags attached to one another with a length of chain. Wrapping the chain around his hand, Morris held tag up in the light to read.
Vandas. Nickeli T. 370-58-2508
So they had a name and, perhaps more decisively, a number. It wasn't much, the agent realized, but it was a tangible start.
"Are the details on these tags consistent with what he's told us?" Collin asked, glancing to over to Hawthorne.
The marine gave a slight shrug. "According to Captain Anderson the name is, at least. No word on the serial number. He didn't say anything to us on the shuttle trip here and we didn't ask."
With a nod, Morris turned to Wilkes who had been standing dumbly near the door since they'd entered. Placing the knife and identification tags back in the bin, he lifted it from the table and deposited it in the young analyst's arms. "I want you to run the information on those tags. I want birth certificates, service records, anything you can find. Check the serial numbers on the handgun, too."
"Alright. What are you going to do?"
Ignoring the rather questionable tone used by the young agent, Morris glanced at the man on the other side of the window. "I think I'll have a word with him."
Hawthorne gave a nod and moved to the observation window as the agent headed to the room.
Placing his palm on the metal plate beside the door to the interview room, there was a pause as it scanned his biometrics before the lock slid open with a heavy thunk.
The seated man did nothing as Morris entered aside from watch him walk from the door to the empty chair on the opposite side of the table and sit down. Even then, all he did was glare across the table with a look of bored contempt.
As he got his first good look at the stranger, it struck Collin that he couldn't have been much over twenty. Despite the stern military haircut and the dark rings beneath his eyes, the man on the opposite side of the table looked young—boyish, even.
"I'm Senior Agent Morris."
"Private First Class Vandas." He replied, his tone guarded but calm.
Collin's interview of the man proved a waste of time, and after a dull and frustrating half hour the agent had accomplished nothing aside from getting him to repeat what had been included in Anderson's report two or three words at a time, his voice never rising above a cautious murmur.
Deciding he'd have to wait to see if Wilkes came through with any records for speaking to the man to be a productive way forward, Morris ended the interview dissatisfied.
To the agent's mild surprise, he found the Director standing at the observation window with her arms folded. The Director was a slight woman and she stood several inches shorter than Morris. Still, she was the head of the DDI's branch on the Citadel and had the commanding personality to match. While she was deliberate by nature, she could be forceful when she needed to be.
"Senior Agent Morris," The woman greeted, brushing a wrinkle from the blouse she wore beneath her dark jacket.
"Director, what can I do for you?"
She indicated the man in the other room with a nod. "What do you make of it?"
A sigh from Collin. "I'm not sure yet. I've got Junior Agent Wilkes running inquires, but even if this guy is who he says he is, it may take a couple days for us to find anything concrete."
"What's your gut say?"
There was a long pause and Hawthorne took the opportunity to appear and hand Morris a paper cup full of coffee. After taking a sip, he shook his head, a dark expression on his face. "I think, one way or another, he's in over his head."
The Director gave a slight nod before turning to look through the window. "Not many people know about the situation, but those who do are high up and they're asking a lot of questions. It's your assignment and I'll do what I can to keep them off your back, but Eden Prime has everybody spooked. I need a quick resolution or else this might come down on top of us."
"I'll get it done." The agent vowed solemnly. Surveying the room as the Director departed, he found Lieutenant Hawthorne in the far corner. "Put him into one of the secure suites on floor seven."
The marine snapped off a quick salute and disappeared out the door to gather a few other men for guard detail, leaving Morris a moment peer through the window at the man sitting slouched at the table.
The old spy didn't know what it all meant, but instinct told him it was trouble—for the young soldier in the interview room as much as anybody else.