It had taken a little while to get settled in, but Nickeli had finally gotten comfortable in his berth and had been gradually lulled to sleep by the ambient thrum of the ship's systems.
The confines of the narrow bunk felt familiar—the coolness of the wall to his back, the muted sounds of the rest of the crew as they tossed in their sleep. His detention at the Irin Center was the first time he'd had a room to himself for the better part of two years, and had been an almost alien experience. It had been too still. Too lifeless.
A sharp whisper roused him. "Nick, wake up."
The medic stirred and mumbled something unintelligible, sounding decidedly displeased to be disturbed. Lifting himself from his pillow, Vandas peered at the unwelcome intruder, confusion in his bleary eyes. " 'mander?"
"Grab your boots," Shepard instructed, only the faintest outline of her face visible in the darkness of the crew quarters. "And meet me in the galley. I need your help."
She departed as Nick mumbled an acknowledgement, granting him a private moment to collect himself. Struggling briefly to clamber out of the unfamiliar bunk, he fumbled for a moment to active his omni-tool and stifled a curse when he saw the time.
Nobody had any business dragging him out of bed at this hour, not even Shepard. By her tone, it wasn't an emergency and Chakwas was a more capable medic than him anyway, so he could only assume this about was something else. Still, it had better be important.
His boots in his left hand, he used the other to adjust the adhesive pad on his shoulder, flattening a corner that was beginning to peel. Thinking for a moment, he quickly retrieved his sheathed utility knife from the small storage drawer beneath his mattress and stuffed it in the back of his waistband.
He emerged slowly from the crew quarters, squinting in the light of the empty galley. Shepard was close by, sitting on the edge of a table.
Catching sight of him, she spoke, sounding a bit regretful. "Nick, I, uh, wow. Sorry I had to wake you."
"Yeah," Vandas agreed in a sullen voice, tugging at his hopelessly wrinkled shirt. Settling heavily in a booth, he began to pull on his boots. "Well, 'm up. What'd ya' need, ma'am?"
"You remember Detective Vakarian," Jane said, indicating to where the turian stood towards the elevators. He said nothing, a neutral expression on his face as he returned the sleepy-eyed marine's gaze with a nod. "I need you to help him track down the quarian from the alleyway and recover the evidence she has against Saren.
"I'd go, but the Alliance put the Normandy on high readiness status at the request of the embassy, which means either myself or Captain Anderson have to be aboard at all times—Udina isn't keen on letting me go after this evidence after we shot-up Chora's Den."
"Why me, ma'am?" Nickeli asked, tying his boots and getting to his feet. Despite looking as though he was still half-asleep, he at least beginning to sound a bit more alert. "I'm just a corpsman, why not Lieutenant Alenko or Chief Williams? They seem better suited."
He wasn't trying to sound insubordinate, but he did hope that he'd been pulled out of bed for a reason besides poor luck. Fortunately, the commander didn't seem to take offense at the question.
"Because Detective Vakarian asked for your help." Shepard explained, nodding toward the C-Sec officer. "And because you've still got a few hours until your liberty officially expires. I can cover for you returning late, but I can't cover it up if I disobey orders. I'm sorry to put you in this position, but if we're going to have any shot at catching Saren, we need that evidence—and that means bending some regulations to get it."
Bending. There was a word for it. Nick had been dragged out of bed by his commanding officer for the express purpose of violating regulations because she couldn't, to assist a detective with an investigation he knew next to nothing about, all to try to recover some evidence he'd already been stabbed in the pursuit of. Yeah, there was some 'bending' being done, alright, mostly him being bent over the table and—
"Aye, ma'am." Vandas responded finally, sounding equal parts sleepy and unenthusiastic.
It wasn't that the marine lacked a sense of duty, but in fairness, he was exhausted. He'd been blown up, shot at, stabbed, and had otherwise had a pretty full day. He wasn't sure he could be of any help to the turian investigator and, frankly, was fairly certain he wasn't the right man for the job, but, he had his orders. It was amazing really, the sort of insane logic you grew jaded to after a few years in the military.
It was just going to be one of those nights, Nick realized glumly, fighting back a wide yawn. Taking a moment to come to grips with the fact he likely wouldn't be getting back to bed any time soon, Nick turned and flashed Garrus a thin smile. "I'll follow you."
"This way," The turian said, throwing Shepard a slight wave as he headed for the elevator. The marine was a few steps behind him, situating himself on one side of the lift as the C-Sec officer tapped at the controls and they began to slowly climb to the second deck.
"We've got about a hundred biometric profiles to go through and I want to pull a shipping schedule for any quarian vessels docking tomorrow." Garrus said without preamble, pulling up his omni-tool. "If she's looking for a way off the station, I'd expect she'll try to get back to her people."
Nick gave a thoughtful murmur, quietly amused they had become a 'we' in the past two minutes. Still, it was just as well that the had a plan, because he certainly didn't.
"Tell me something, detective." The medic began, turning to his new partner.
"Actually, just 'Garrus', if you don't mind." The investigator remarked, "But go ahead."
"Right, Garrus. What do you think our odds are? Of finding her alive, that is."
The turian had no immediate reply, his hinged mandibles clutched tightly against his jaw in an expression that stuck Vandas as particularly grim. After a long moment, he slowly shook his head, finally speaking. "Not good. The Citadel's a big place with lots of places to hide, but if this evidence against Saren is a big as we've been led to believe, then she hasn't got much time until he finds her." Noticing the corpsman's look of concern, Garrus shrugged. "Sorry. I wish I had better news."
Nickeli returned a helpless shrug, all too familiar with the fact that there wasn't always good news to be had.
The elevator came to a halt and the turian quickly stepped out as the door rose. Despite his size, the marine was surprised to find that the detective's footsteps were barely audible as he climbed the steps to the CIC, compared to the heavy fall of Vandas' combat boots as he sleepily trudging after him.
Emerging from the staircase, the pair found the command deck occupied by only a single junior officer and a pair of crewmen that chatted idly at they sat at their stations, the Normandy's middle watch little more than a skeleton crew while they were in port. The officer, a young lieutenant that Nickeli didn't recognize, paid them little mind, briefly glancing up at the pair before going back to his datapad.
"So, where are we going?" The medic chanced as they entered the airlock.
"The Station Security Administration in Kithoi Ward." Garrus answered as the decontamination cycle began. "We'll be able to get the biometric data we need, and from there, the station's automated surveillance system should be able to track her down."
Vandas gave a nod, though the grim look on his face betrayed his doubt. He suspected that if it were as straightforward as the detective made it seem that he'd still be soundly asleep in his bunk.
The airlock opened and the turian marched down the gangway, leading the way with long, purposeful strides. The medic followed, squinting in the bright lights of the docking bay.
An aircar waited on the pier, tucked in a narrow gap between a pair of cargo pallets. The craft was the same shade of royal blue as Detective Vakarian's armor, adorned with a set of emergency lights and CSEC etched across the door in white paint. The car was the same model as the rest Nick had seen around the station, a sleek canopy that enclosed most of the passenger compartment with an array of thrusters arranged on the back.
As the pair got close, the vehicle sprang to life, the darkened glass canopy beginning to rise and the whine of the turbine engine audible as the power plant began to spin up.
Garrus quickly settled himself at the controls, nodding for the medic to take the passenger's seat. Clambering aboard, Nick surveyed the array of instrument panels and equipment that covered almost every imaginable surface inside the patrol vehicle as the doors closed and the canopy fell back into place.
Near his elbow, a compacted marksman rifle was secured in a rack beside the detective's combat helmet, an angular-looking piece of equipment with a narrow, Y-shaped visor. A pair of datapads had been hastily jammed into the gap beside the center console and another slid around by the medic's feet, occasionally disappearing under the seat as Garrus lifted the craft from the platform and banked toward the hangar entrance.
Getting clear of the docking bay, the detective maneuvered the aircar upwards and they joined the steady line of traffic that snaked along the Citadel's skyline.
For most of the station, there was little distinction between day and night.
On the Presidium, the enormous system of lights across the artificial parklands dimmed and the temperature dropped slightly on a twenty-two hour cycle, a design by the salarians who had been the first to crack the Citadel's systems after its discovery.
Elsewhere, there was no such change. Day and night were defined by the different races as they obeyed their biological impulses. In Wards and districts where one species was dominant, the shops closed and the streets emptied at appointed times, but in more mixed areas, the bustle continued unceasingly. Shops opened and closed, and people slept and awoke, the clamor of the city outside never fading. Thirteen-million souls from a hundred worlds called the Citadel home, and even when the station slept, it slept lightly.
"Here."
Nick turned from where he had been starting absently out at the sea of towers and dancing lights of the station below, and suddenly found an enormous foam cup being thrust his direction.
"It's coffee." The turian explained when the medic hesitated. "It was the largest size they had."
"Oh, right." Vandas managed, carefully accepting the drink. "Thanks."
The cup was large, almost outlandishly so, and Nick found it necessary to use both hands to bring it to his lips.
It was coffee, alright. Black, lukewarm, and strong enough that he wondered if it might eat a hole in the foam cup. Not that he was complaining. It was still far, far better than what he had in the field most of the time, and he gladly downed another gulp.
"So," The marine began, shifting a datapad to place his enormous drink in a cup holder. "What do you need me to do?"
"Review the evidence. See if there's anything I overlooked." Garrus instructed, indicating the collection of datapads that Nickeli was sitting in the midst of.
The marine nodded, selecting one at random and beginning to read.
"I'm still not sure I like the sound of this."
Anderson's voice was slightly garbled, and Shepard cast a frown toward the aging mobile workstation that sat on the desk opposite her bed.
The tiny room, just big enough to hold a bed and combination desk-dresser with a barely enough room between them to turn around, were her personal quarters. Squeezed between the crew barracks and the cargo hold on deck three, the executive officer's quarters may've passed for a cleaning closet aboard a cruiser or carrier, but on the Normandy it made Jane the only one aboard besides Anderson with a room to themselves.
The commander, sending the captain a status report before going to bed, had shed her boots and t-shirt, leaving her in utility pants and a sleeveless black undershirt.
"I know it's not ideal, but he was who Detective Vakarian wanted and Udina probably won't be keeping tabs on the entire crew." Shepard called back to the captain on the other end of the comm channel. "You said it yourself, if we don't find something before we get our orders, we'll leave Saren with a free hand."
There came a sigh from the other end of the line.
Anderson had been put up at a hotel near the embassy at Udina's insistence, something Shepard expected he'd done to prevent the officer from doing anything more to the detriment of humanity's diplomatic standing. Apparently, there had been something of a shouting match after Udina found out he'd quietly authorized members of his crew to storm Chora's Den.
The captain, a decorated combat leader and a man of action, had been quietly straining against the tangled web of politics and backroom negotiating that had mired the Normandy since it had made port on the Citadel, and it was beginning to show.
Admittedly, Jane was starting to feel it, too. Even if she wasn't as convinced as Anderson that Saren was behind the attack, she had to a duty to do everything in her power to ensure the events on Eden Prime weren't repeated. The week had been a series of days spent running herself ragged chasing leads followed by long nights poring over what Detective Vakarian's investigation had turned up.
They'd been dismissed from the Council Chambers the first time they'd made their allegations against Saren, and the Council wasn't about to recall one of their top agents over circumstantial evidence. If they were going to have any chance of pleading their case to the Council a second time, they needed damning proof.
"Any idea when you'll get back to the ship?"
"By tomorrow afternoon, at the latest." Anderson assured. The man gave a deep chuckle. "If Udina tries to keep me here any longer I'm liable to do something dramatic." There was a moment's pause, giving Jane a moment to wonder just how serious her commander was being. "I'll let you get some sleep. Keep me informed."
"I'll update you if I hear anything, sir."
"Good. Anderson out."
Shepard's console beep then deactivated as the comm channel closed and she gave a deep yawn. Turning off the lights with a wave of her omni-tool, she fell face-first into her bed with a groan.
In a few hours, she'd have to get up, pull her boots on, and get back to sorting out this whole mess.
"I've got it."
Nick looked up as Garrus climbed back into the squad car, realizing suddenly that he'd been staring blankly at a datapad for the past half hour. While Garrus had gone inside the security agency's building to retrieve the information they needed, the medic had continued to review the sea of datapads that had been amassed in the passenger's seat. The one he'd been reading contained the length criminal record of the turian thug he'd killed in the alleyway.
…Or, had that been the datapad just before this one?
Vandas grumbled, tossing aside the tablet and scrubbing at his eyes with the side of a balled fist.
He was exhausted. The coffee was keeping him on his feet, but he could hardly concentrate. He'd been stealing a few moments of shuteye here and there to make up for the fact he hadn't had a proper night's sleep since the attack on Paladin, but it was catching up to him.
He didn't even need a bunk at this point. Any reasonably flat surface that could support his weight seemed like a suitable place to rack out.
The medic gave a sigh as the detective turned on the engine. There was still a lot of night ahead of them.
In the all-encompassing darkness of the service tunnel, the only light in the faintest glow of her eyes behind her mask, two violet-white dots in the blackness. Even with the displays on the inside of her visor dimmed as far as they would go, they cast just enough light on the young quarian's face that it was unavoidable.
She knew it might be enough to get her spotted if someone was searching the keeper tunnels, but she couldn't bear the idea of turning them all the way off. The only thing worse than being discovered was surrendering to the utter blackness that surrounded her. It was the kind of merciless, consuming darkness that might thrust forth and swallow her if she let it, and she'd become all too familiar with it as of late.
Tali didn't want to stay here, but for now she was too exhausted to go any farther.
After she'd only narrowly escaped the trap Fist had set for her, she'd bolted into the markets and found her way into a keeper tunnel. From there, Tali had followed the winding passageways until her legs were too tired to walk and then she'd tucked herself into a tiny recess to get a bit of rest. The radiant heat off a nearby pipe was just barely enough to keep her from freezing, but the damp, chilly air still nipped at her as she sat with her arms tucked around her knees.
She was a fool. A fool for trusting Fist. A fool for coming to the Citadel. A fool for going after the geth.
The engineer had only seen the chance to gather data on the geth. It had been an opportunity to bring something back to the Fleet worthy of her family's name and she'd been blinded by thoughts of the praise it would win her from her father.
And now a lot of good people were dead because of her. Keenah'Breizh. The crew of the Honorata. The list went on.
The thought still sat like a weight in her stomach, but if she survived all this she'd have the chance to mourn later. She'd spent her tears during the dark hours stowed away aboard the merchant freighter that had brought her to the Citadel, and for now the cold and her hunger occupied her senses. For now, nothing else mattered but finding a way out of this mess.
With one hand, she massaged her side, trying to soothe the wounded flesh beneath her suit. Her fever was fading, but the injury was still fresh. Tali had been carefully nursing her tiny supply of painkillers and antibiotics, but she'd gone through a few precious doses of each when the confrontation in the alleyway had reopened her wound.
One of the few blessings of the suit was that it had quickly staunched the bleeding, but the painkillers were beginning to wear off, making her uncomfortable hidey-hole all that less pleasant.
Activating her omni-tool, Tali tried to secure a remote connection to the extranet, not an easy task within the winding and deeply nestled keeper tunnels.
Quarians were an endlessly resourceful people, and their pilgrims to the Citadel were no exception. Over the centuries, a private extranet network had been created, quietly piggybacking off of computer systems scattered across the station. Quarians were shunned by many of the other races as thieves and vagrants, so the network was a lifeline to pilgrims who would find little in the way of goodwill on the Citadel. It served as a line of communication back to the Fleet and directed those on the station to help when they needed it—safe places to spend a night, clinics and shelters that wouldn't turn them away. Sometimes it was enough just to monitor the system, to watch the nodes deactivate and relocate themselves to avoid detection, to watch the network ping as a quarian somewhere else on the station keyed their omni-tool in. Sometimes it was enough just to know you weren't alone.
Until now, Tali had stayed away from the network—too afraid that the mercenaries Saren had sent might use it to track her down. She'd been lucky to stumble into a clinic run by a human doctor who didn't turn her away after she'd been shot, otherwise she'd have succumb to an infection by now.
But being found almost didn't matter now. Whether the people after the young quarian traced her signal and tracked her down before morning or if she stumbled around the station for a few more days being she was found, Tali knew time was against her.
For now, survival hinged upon getting off the station.
Delving into the tangled mess of messages and data that comprised the quarian network, she found what she was looking for—a docking schedule for pilgrimage transports, and it seemed she was in luck.
A long-range shuttle from a Tonbay would be docking in Tayseri Ward in a few hours.
In all likelihood, Saren's men would be watching the ship, but it was a risk she had to take. It was one last gamble to get back to the Fleet alive.
Even so, it would be far from a glamorous homecoming. The data she'd gathered from the geth, including the evidence against Saren, was intriguing, but it was too little to be of any serious value to her people.
The instant she stepped aboard the shuttle empty-handed and told crew who she was, Shala would meet her in the airlock aboard the Tonbay. Worse, the admiral would probably take her to her father, and she'd have to explain how her actions had cost the Fleet half a dozen souls and an entire scout ship with nothing to show for it.
If Shala or Han'Gerrel were in the room, Tali's father, ever the stoic, probably wouldn't say a word.
If the two were alone, Admiral Zorah would probably berate her for what her actions had cost the Migrant Fleet. But he wouldn't yell. In fact, her father probably wouldn't raise his voice in the slightest. He'd just stand there on the other side of his desk, hands resting on its surface as the quiet undertone of disappointment in his voice cut into her like a whip.
There was a soft chime from her omni-tool as it finished downloading the shuttle's docking information, dragging her attention back into the present. She sighed.
She was getting ahead of herself—Rael'Zorah couldn't explain that he expected better of his daughter if she didn't make it off the station intact.
Suddenly, she paused, extinguishing the bright glow of her omni-tool.
From elsewhere in the tunnel, she heard…something.
Tali pushed herself forward, straining her senses to make out the distant sound.
In the winding confines of the service passageways, she could discern little besides the pattern, a slow, steady beat—two weak but distinct sounds, one after the other. It took her a long few moments to be sure it was coming from her left—back the direction she'd come from.
She rose to her feet, her head barely clearing the ceiling as she peered down the black corridor.
Maybe it was nothing.
An old ventilation fan somewhere, rumbling against a worn bearing.
A keeper, mindlessly going about its duties in the darkness.
Listening closely, the young engineer realized the sound had disappeared, and suddenly wasn't certain she'd heard anything at all.
Her ears were invaded by the sound of her own racing heart.
Had she imagined it? Was it just it just the exhaustion and throbbing pain in her side getting to her?
She didn't know.
And for now she couldn't risk it.
She turned, ignoring the protest from her legs, and continued further into the depths of the sprawling web of tunnels beneath the Wards.
There came a loud ringing from the haptic interface to right of the steering wheel, startling the weary-eyed detective in the driver's seat.
Garrus grumbled, collecting himself.
It had been almost two hours since they had departed from the security center, time the turian had spent chasing down a handful of linger leads from his case against Saren. The most recent stop had been a weapon merchant that had supplied the thugs that had attacked Michel's clinic, but it hadn't turned up anything useful. That had been nearly forty-five minutes ago—at this point, he was mostly driving to keep himself awake.
Vandas was slouched in the passenger's seat, a datapad loosely clutched to his chest and his head lulled toward the window as he dozed, occasionally making odd, throaty snorting noises.
The officer, initially somewhat alarmed, had taken a couple of corners more sharply than was strictly necessary. But when the medic had woken up and returned to reviewing datapads for a few minutes before falling back asleep without incident, Garrus shrugged, deciding it was probably just a human thing.
Not that he blamed him—as exhausted as he was, the turian was pretty sure going over evidence would've bored him to sleep too.
Still, it had been a productive night—he'd finally gotten a name at the SSA office.
Tali'Zorah nar Rayya.
The detective had plugged the data he'd gotten from the visa office into his VI and it matched her to the profile of his "mystery quarian" before he'd left the building. It'd proven a few of his hunches right, too.
Quarian female, twenty-two years of age.
She and another quarian had been discovered stowed away aboard a merchant freighter and taken into custody by the Patrol Division four days ago. Garrus was running a trace on her activity since, and he'd gotten a detention warrant approved an hour and a half ago.
Turning his attention to the interface, he accepted the comm. link.
"Detective Vakarian."
"Vakarian, Bailey." The sergeant greeted curtly. "Well, I've got good news and bad news."
The turian snorted. It was a phrase he'd heard frequently from human C-Sec agents, usually before they told him something that was decidedly bad news.
"Let's hear it."
"The good news is that there's only one quarian ship due on the station in the next few hours. I posted a couple of guys watching the docking bay and they say they picked up someone matching the description you put out."
Garrus could see where this was going. He'd put out a general notice after the they'd lost her in the alleys for officers to be on the lookout, and a dozen dark-clad quarians across the station had briefly detained that evening because they'd "fit the description." Spirits, a few of them had even been male.
"And the bad news?"
"Biometrics don't match." Bailey answered, his tone indicating he knew the detective wasn't impressed. "They can't verify her station visa, and I don't have friends at the SSA to call and ask this time of night."
He frowned, thinking.
For most, biometics were related to a litany of characteristics gathered when they brushed with the Citadel's enormous bureaucracy by acquiring official ID, getting a station visa, or getting arrested. Facial recognition, genetic profiling, and a dozen other things were tracked, and it was one of the most comprehensive systems in the galaxy. Most of the time.
For races confined to environmental suits like quarians and volus, it was a little more difficult. Lacking many physical characteristics that couldn't be changed by a swap of suits, they were essentially assigned a digital identification tag that followed them around the station.
With the right knowhow, someone could mask or alter that tag. A prolific volus conman had done something similar a few years ago, and E-Crimes had tied itself in knots looking for an entire ring of volus fraudsters after he'd gone to a string of banks around the station and sauntered out with several million credits belonging to a number of high-profile investment firms.
"Does she match the description?" The turian inquired, asking the obvious question.
"Haven't seen her. I'll have my guys send a picture. They're detaining her at Substation Eight in Tayseri Ward."
"Alright. Thanks again."
"There was something else." The human officer continued, his voice dropping to a grim mumble. "A workman found two bodies in an incinerator in the Lower Wards earlier today. Techs just identified one of them—a quarian by the name of Keenah'Breizh. He was the one taken into custody with your girl got picked up as stowaways. It was ruled a homicide."
"And the other body?"
"No ID as of yet, they've only confirmed it was another dextro."
There was a long pause, followed by something between a hoarse growl and a sigh.
"Thanks, Bailey." The words were strained.
"Sorry I don't have better news." Came the apologetic reply. "I'll let you know if I hear anything else."
"I appreciate it."
The connection closed, leaving Garrus to stew in the heavy silence of the squad car, the only sounds the thrum of the engine and the occasional squawk from the radio. He sighed and, trusting the automatic controls, briefly rested his forehead rest against the steering wheel.
The detective felt drained. Even more so than he had already, if such a thing was possible.
There had always existed the potential that they wouldn't track down the quarian in time, but he'd felt so close after finding her record at the visa office. But if they were too late and she was their unidentified body, then it meant Saren had the evidence. Their investigation had been pointless and some poor girl had died for nothing.
"Now what?" A hoarse voice asked from beside him.
Garrus looked up abruptly, finding Nick awake in the passenger seat, tired eyes shining faintly in the light from the console on the dash. The turian wondered how much he'd heard.
Vakarian righted himself. A morgue slab or a holding cell. One way or another, he was going to have his answer before morning.
"We go find our quarian."