Morris sat at the end of a metal table, quietly perusing the datapad Wilkes had given him. Alone in the bleak interview room, the only sound was the faint buzzing of the white industrial lights overhead and the occasional tapping of the agent's fingertip against the tablet's screen.
There was the faint aroma of bitter black coffee wafting from his half-empty mug, overpowered by the more pungent smell of the strong cleaning agent a DDI crew had doused every inch of the room with. Closing his eyes briefly, he took a deep breath—it was a familiar, almost comforting smell and it prickled at the inside of his nostrils.
The data Wilkes had produced hadn't been verified, but the details collaborated what Doctor Krebber had found, and Morris felt fairly certain anything else they dug up would tell them the same.
Rubbing at his stiff eyelids and lifting the cup from the table to take a sip, there came a deep sigh as he set it back down. The agent allowed himself a moment's release, letting the restrained demeanor he so thoroughly exhausted himself maintaining slip away, and he felt a hot barb of irritation digging into his chest.
A time traveler. What the fuck did they expect him to do with one of those?
Collin was obligated to be skeptical, of course—so he wouldn't actually let himself believe it until he had accounted for every other possibility, but what little information they had gathered certainly hinted at something similarly outlandish. In fact all of it—Eden Prime, the geth—the whole affair belonged in badly made science fiction vid.
Though considering the matter a bit further, intelligent alien life had similarly been fiction only a generation ago. After a few seconds, Collin's agitation faded into a more familiar pang of resignation.
He was a man well past his prime.
Despite the advances that had been made in human longevity, there were still days when Morris felt old, and science had no remedy for that. The days he'd been born in—the years before First Contact and the stupid, messy "war" that followed—seemed like a lifetime ago and, thinking about it, the old agent realized that the feeling was a little closer to the truth every day.
Still, intelligence work had been his calling and, despite his griping, he had come to enjoy the challenge as much as the lifestyle.
Even so, Collin's career had utterly ruined spy vids for him when he found himself relating less to the suave and youthful main characters and more to the experienced, serious veteran overseeing them. Seeing the only relatable characters killed off or turned evil almost by obligation had only furthered his distaste of the genre.
Collin's omni-tool suddenly materialized on his wrist, a brightly flashing indicator notifying him of an incoming message. Flicking the button with his index finger, the image of Junior Agent Wilkes' disembodied head appeared on a screen above his forearm.
"What is it now, Wilkes?" Morris questioned, mildly put-off to have his trivial brooding interrupted.
"The Director got a hold of the Normandy ground team debriefings from the Naval Intelligence Service." The analyst reported, tapping at the controls of the console he was working at. "We've got access to all of them, but I went ahead and forwarded the ones from Lieutenant Commander Shepard, the ground team leader, and Gunnery Chief Williams—I think you'll find those two the most interesting."
As Wilkes said this, the files appeared beside his head as small orange icons that Morris plucked from the air and dragged to the side where they expanded into small screens of scrolling text.
Inspecting the documents for a few moments, the greying agent gave an affirmative grumble before turning his attention back to the call. "Anything else?"
"Hawthorne says Krebber's team is done with Vandas. He's got a couple men bringing him to you now."
"Good. Forward the other debriefs to my terminal. I'll review them later."
Dismissing the image, Collin began to review the two reports in greater detail.
In both, entire lines and paragraphs concerning the mission and the attack had been redacted, leaving the documents a mess of censorship marks and meaningless fragments of sentences.
Williams' debrief—or at least what remained of it—proved largely uninformative, and it was clear that she'd been questioned primarily about the nature of the geth attack, with only a passing mention of encountering Vandas.
Even so, the details of the attack, though irrelevant to the matter at hand, were too chilling to ignore. Geth disrupting the entire colony's communication network and cutting through half an Alliance rifle company with ease, a spectre found having apparently been executed, and vague descriptions of some massive…ship…
Despite himself, a seed of ominous dread found its way into the pit of his stomach. If even a portion of what the report said was accurate, the implications would be immense.
Lieutenant Commander Shepard's report was of a bit more use. In a few brief statements, it described the young soldier now in the DDI's custody as quiet and collected. Wearing a battered set of fatigues in an unfamiliar pattern of camouflage, he had apparently demonstrated some familiarity with combat. Aside from a few interesting tidbits, it was more or less what Morris had expected.
As he browsed a section detailing the damage done to the beacon the Normandy had been tasked with recovering, the door to the interview room swung open.
Vandas was ushered in by one of Hawthorne's marines while another lingered in the hall. Watching as the young man walked to the table, the armor-clad guard stood against the wall beside the door with folded hands, and the only sound was the chair scraping across the floor as Nick sat down. The medic folded his arms across his chest, careful not to disturb the white medical tape holding a small square of gauze in place on the inside of his elbow.
"Thank you, gentlemen." Morris said, looking past the man seated opposite of him to address the two soldiers by the entrance. "That'll be all."
With a last glance at the seated enlisted man, the soldier at the door left without a word, and Collin took a moment to clear his throat as the door clicked shut.
"We dug up your records." The agent began, laying his folded hands on the table. He gave a slight shrug. "Good cutting scores, a few medals—fascinating stuff, really. Though, there is the minor oversight where you were declared killed in action a century and a half ago."
The enlisted man was silent for a long moment as he seemed to digest this news, a look of disbelief crossing his face. He met the agent's eye with an expression of uncertainty. "Killed in action?"
Morris nodded as he read a line from the document. "Private First Class Nickeli Vandas. Killed by indirect fire, 16th of June."
There was a second, longer pause as Nick collapsed back into his chair, his face falling into an expression of abject shock and for a few long seconds, he struggled to arrange his thoughts into a coherent sentence. Giving up, he sank deeper into his seat and finally settled on a word.
"Fuck."
Collin couldn't help but nod slightly, his own feelings on the whole situation not far off. Spinning the report around and pushing it across the table to Nick, the old spy folded his hands.
"I understand that this is going to be difficult to come to terms with," He said slowly, his tone measured as he addressed the younger man sitting opposite to him. "But everything that seems like it was yesterday—the people you were with, the things you were doing—it was all a hundred and seventy years ago. It's all gone. It's all been gone, for a very long time.
"If I could, I'd send you back to where you came from and we could all go back to leading full, happy lives. Unfortunately, the reality of the situation is that we can't even account for how you got here in the first place, so we're going to have to figure something out.
"I could have you aboard a shuttle headed to the American Midwest by tomorrow morning and you'd probably never hear about this whole ordeal again." Morris stated plainly, though there was remorse in the way he shook his head after he spoke. "But it wouldn't be anything like you remember. Family, friends, hell, your country—all gone. But you'd be free of," The agent vaguely gestured to the empty room around them, "all of this. If that's what you want."
"What's my alternative?" Nickeli asked quietly, folding his arms across his chest.
"In 2149 the United North American States, the conglomerate nation formed by what had been Canada, the United States, and Mexico, became a charter member of the Systems Alliance." Collin explained in a somewhat scholarly tone. "While I won't delve into the politics of it all, the UNAS contributed a great deal of economic and military assets, including their marine corps."
The veteran spy paused to a take a sip from his coffee. "It was a mostly symbolic move—the Corps had been greatly reduced following the Second American Civil War and it didn't find its niche as spaceborne infantry until it was inducted into the Alliance Navy, but it is significant in your case."
"On August 31, 2149 all active and reserve Marine Corps personnel were transferred into the Systems Alliance Navy, maintaining grade, commendations, and benefits." He said, then gave a slight shrug. "Technically, the same would apply if you returned to active duty, though some revisions would have to be made to your paperwork."
Nickeli was silent for a moment as realization slowly dawned on his face. "You're offering to make me a Marine again."
"An Alliance Marine." Collin clarified sternly, careful not to let the distinction be overlooked. "In the past fifty years mankind has advanced more culturally and technologically than it did in the three centuries prior. I'm not going to lie to you and say it'll be the same,"
"But it's my best option." The corpsman finished, sinking into his chair a bit.
"They're your options. I never said better or worse."
Nick considered what the agent said for a few long moments before shaking his head faintly. "Can I have some time? To just, think about it?"
Stealing a glance at his omni-tool, Morris nodded. "I'll speak with you this evening."
"Thank you." The young man replied as the door opened and the two soldiers posted outside entered. Rising from his seat, he allowed the pair to escort him out of the room.
As they exited, the door on the opposite side of the room, the one to the observation room, swung open. The Director entered, her charcoal jacket a light grey under the room's white light.
"So," She said, her arms folded leisurely behind her back. "He's a time traveler, then?"
She concealed a hint of curiosity behind her mirthful tone as she stood beside the table swaying a bit.
"Having eliminated the impossible, what remains—no matter how improbable—is the truth." Collin cited in a lofty voice, a thin smile drawing across his face.
In truth, it mattered very little to the greying intelligence agent—he didn't deal in supposition and he had no special recourse besides. What he had was a young, military aged man who had—by all accounts—appeared out of nowhere during the most significant attack on human space in recent memory and a few old pieces of paper of suspect authenticity. Had it occurred to him that the strange young soldier might have been sent by someone—maybe even the geth?
It had, but baseless suspicions seemed a lot like paranoia in a case report.
The Director chuckled. "Alright, Conan Doyle, but what if, despite everything we've seen, he is working for someone? Is it a good idea to induct him into the Navy?"
"Maybe," Morris grunted, rising stiffly from his chair and tucking his datapad under his arm. Recovering his coffee, he gave a shrug. "But you and I both know the Alliance already has too many infiltrators in its ranks for him to be more than a drop in the bucket. Besides," The spy paused to down the rest of his mug. "It might be the best option if he is—put him on a ship somewhere and you can keep track of him and what sort of intelligence he has access to. If he goes back into civilian life who knows where he could turn up."
"Better the devil you know, huh?"
"Seems the order of the day."
The Director seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding agreeably. "I'll make some calls—our guy'll need paperwork if we ship him off to the fleet."
A short while after his escort had shown him back to his cell, Nick found himself seated on the side of the bed staring blankly at the floor between his boots.
He took a deep breath and gave a groan, the countless aches he'd momentarily forgotten returning as he settled. A restless night and the busy morning that followed had done him no favors, and sleep might've been a tempting proposition if he could've clear his mind enough to rest.
At the moment, however, he was far too preoccupied reflecting upon the significance of what Agent Morris' had proposed.
He had the opportunity to walk away from the last four years of his life—to walk away from the military with its rigid dogma and its perils.
He'd been given a second chance.
So why was he considering throwing it away to reenlist?
After everything the young corpsman's choices had cost him, why did he feel compelled to return?
Maybe it was the same reason he'd fought so hard to avoid a medical discharge after he'd been wounded. Maybe, in a way, it all seemed too much like giving up.
Nickeli's hand found the scars on his forearm and he drew a shuddering breath as he traced the subtle white bumps with his fingertips.
The old wound bothered him on some days more than others—the occasional deep ache or jolt of pain when the weather was cold. It seemed trivial compared to what he'd endured after it had been inflicted—the surgeries to mend his shattered arm, the long nights when he'd sat awake because the painkillers hadn't set it, leaving him lying silently in the as he waited for the agony to ebb and the formless haze the came as the meds set in. He recalled being half-dazed from morphine when a pair of officers had come to his bed to present him a Purple Heart.
Still, the young corpsman tried to consider himself fortunate. Not all of his former strength had returned yet, be he had departed that hospital with life and limb where many others hadn't.
He had been lucky, there was little denying that.
But if he chose to walk that same path again, he would face all those same perils and there was no assurance his fleeting good fortune would follow.
But what was his alternative? A sudden halt to the structured existence he'd led all his adult life. The challenge of trying to make sense of a world that had forgotten him nearly two centuries ago. If the return to civilian life had seemed daunting before, what chance did he stand of constructing any sort of purpose out of it it now?
Purpose.
The marine chuckled dryly.
It was a peculiar word for a man in his position to be throwing around.
There came a two sharp knocks at the door before it slid open.
One of the grey-clad soldiers entered carrying a tray and his eyes quickly settled on Nickeli as he moved toward the small table in the corner of the room near the door. Another guard watched cautiously from just outside, his arms folded casually across his chest as he leaned against the doorway. A telescoping baton hung from the belt of the first and the medic could make out the form of a pistol on his partner's hip, but despite this neither appeared overly worried he might attempt something.
"So, is it true what they say?" The marine who had entered asked, setting the lunch tray down and turning toward Nick. "You're a time traveler?"
The private gave a small shrug. "I guess it is."
"Must be pretty crazy, huh?" The soldier said, indicating the cityscape outside.
Nickeli gave a slow nod. "Crazy's the word for it."
The man nodded as well and pulled an orange datapad from beneath his arm. "Here, courtesy of Senior Agent Morris." He said, tossing the tablet onto the end of the bed. "He figured you might want to brush up on the past two centuries."
"Wait," Nick spoke, halting the man as he turned for the door. Hesitating, the enlisted man finally found the words after a moment. "Tell him I'll do it. I'll reenlist."
The soldier nodded. "I'll pass the word along."
"I suggested we stick him on a ship somewhere, not on an advanced prototype." Collinstated bluntly, his voice thick with barely restrained ire.
On the display of his office's console, the Director gave an apologetic shrug. "If Udina presses the issue, it might be out of our hands."
The seated intelligence officer cursed under his breath. The ambassador had found out about the DDI's "guest" sometime around lunch and had been adamant that he be turned over to Alliance Naval Intelligence to be thoroughly debriefed. While the diplomat wasn't in a position to directly demand such a thing, he certainly had enough connections to cause the department trouble if they refused, and it had taken nothing short of a full report to placate him.
Morris had expected Udina's prying would eventually bear fruit, but the timing still couldn't have been worse. Collin had been this close to wrapping things up. They'd had the man's answer and in another few hours Vandas would've been on his way to a patrol flotilla as just another enlisted man. The veteran spy could've put a bow on the whole matter and has his case report filed by supper time.
"I know it's not what you had in mind," The Director continued. "But the request came from the Navy we could stand to garner some goodwill. Besides, Anderson's the good sort. After what happened with the Council, I'm sure he's got something in mind, we just need to trust his intentions for now."
Anderson's involvement was another matter altogether. No sooner had Udina been informed of the DDI's plan to induct Vandas into the navy than the captain requested he be assigned to the Normandy, no doubt at the ambassador's behest.
Collin had met Anderson once in passing and even shook his hand, but that had been years ago, when the captain was just a young war hero and he a greenhorn intelligence agent and he doubted the man would remember him.
"It's not Anderson's intentions I'm worried about." He murmured, massaging his temple in a vain attempt to alleviate the growing pressure behind his eyes.
The Director didn't seem to notice, distracted by the arrival of someone out of view who handed her a datapad. Quickly reading a few lines of the document, she glanced up. "Anyway, your analyst from Naval Intelligence should be on the way to your office now. Get your paperwork put together and get Vandas shipped out to Anderson."
"Yes, ma'am." Morris replied dutifully before ending the connection. Slouching into his chair, the agent gave a heavy sigh. To think, only a few hours ago things seemed to be going exactly to plan.
There was a knock at the door.
"Enter." Collin called, rising from his seat.
The door swung open and a familiar face entered wearing a smile. Closing the door behind him, the man gave a sharp laugh. "Collin Morris. How the hell are ya', ya' wrinkly old son of a bitch? I'd heard you gone blind."
"I must be Mack, I remember you bein' uglier." The agent grinned as he stepped around his desk and met his friend with an outstretched hand.
Operations Chief George Macklyn shook the offered hand vigorously, a wide grin spread across his round face.
He was a stocky, broad-shouldered man roughly three years Collin's junior. Two decades ago they'd worked alongside each other while he was a field liaison for Naval Intelligence, but the long years spent behind a desk since had noticeably softened him up around the middle. Still, his eyes bore the same warm cheer that they had twenty years ago and behind them a sharp mind still ticked away like a well-crafted timepiece.
After a moment the two parted and Collin returned to the other side of his desk, ushering George to a seat opposite him with a wave.
The man lowered himself into the chair with a quiet groan and once seated he took a moment to massage his left knee.
"It's good to see ya'," Macklyn said sincerely. "Christ, what's it been? Five years? Six?"
"Closer to six and a half, actually."
The chief gave a low chuckle. "I oughta' tell the missus I saw you, but she wouldn't miss the opportunity to remind me what a handsome son of bitch she thinks you are."
The old spy smirked. "And how is Natalya? Still putting up with you by the sound of things?"
"Wants me to retire." His companion bemoaned, reclining slightly into his chair. "Says she's "tired" of the Citadel—can you believe that? I musta' married the most cultured woman on Arcturus for her to be "tired" of the Citadel."
"Married life's treating you well, then."
George gave a hoarse laugh. "Well as can be asked. And how about you? Still womanizing, or have you had the common decency to slow down in your old age?"
"There's a certain finesse to it that I won't begrudge you for never mastering." Collin said, a tone of faux superiority in his voice as a smile pulled at the corners of his lips.
His friend snorted before a thoughtful look crossed his face. After a moment he spoke. "Whatever happened to your sweetheart from back during that whole fiasco with the spectres back in '65? What was her name—Sammy something?"
"Sarah."
"Yeah, that's the one."
"Old dogs and new tricks, as they say." The agent murmured quietly, and after a long pause he turned and opened one of his desk's lower drawers.
Pushing aside dusty folders and deactivated datapads, he pulled out a white crystal decanter filled with amber colored liquor and set it on the top of his desk along with two matching glasses.
"I need your expertise." Morris said plainly as he poured a bit of scotch into each glass and pushed one toward the opposite side of the desk.
George chuckled and took a sip of his drink. "Well, I'd assumed the DDI hadn't hauled me out here to sit in your office day drinking."
"We've got this guy in custody." Collin said, handing him the datapad containing Vandas' records. "Based upon what we found in old Earth military archives, we've confirmed his story. I need you to fabricate an Alliance service file for him."
As the operations chief listened his expression transitioned from a look of mild disinterest to surprise. Reviewing the document in his hand for a few moments Macklyn sunk deeper into his chair, a look of growing concern on his face. Running a hand across his thinning grey hairline, he shook his head.
"If this is some sort of joke…"
"No joke."
"Bullshit." The serviceman said accused. Looking up, he met Collin's eye. "It's got to be."
The agent slowly shook his head. "Based upon the information—"
"A time traveler, Collin?" George punctuated, springing up in his seat and beginning to lean across the desk slightly. Falling back into his chair after a few seconds, he tossed the datapad back onto the desk, nearly knocking over his empty glass.
Morris reacted to none of this, his expression not stirring beyond the faintest twinge of annoyance at his companion's theatrics. When the serviceman he settled back into his chair, the greying agent calmly spoke. "The only validated information we've got on this guy are debriefings from the Alliance ground team that picked him up on Eden Prime. The rest of what we know is what he's told us or what's come out of a North American military archive that hasn't seen the light of day in two centuries. We've made provisions, but for now, we have no choice but to operate under the assumption he's telling us the truth."
"So you want me to fabricate a service record for someone in order to deploy him as a member of the Navy, knowing there's a better than fair chance he's an infiltrator?"
There was no perceptible change in the DDI agent's expression. "Yep."
"Jesus Christ, Collin," The serviceman murmured, rubbing at his forehead with a half-stunned look on his face. After a moment, he sighed heavily. "I'm going to need another glass of that scotch."
His friend obliged, tipping a healthy portion of the amber spirit into his glass.
Swiftly downing his drink, the operations chief reluctantly rose to his feet. "Alright. I suppose I should go talk to this kid."