"Captain Latonus, we have you on our sensors. We'll be starting our approach shortly."
"Understood, commander." The turian officer's voice was rumbling and uneven over the comm link. "I'll have a team prepared to meet you."
The connection closed and Shepard found herself peering out the cockpit window, surveying the vast, star-studded expanse beyond. Trying vainly to rub the sleep out of her eyes, she fought back a yawn with a long sip of coffee.
En route to the Artemis Tau cluster to chase down a lead on Matriarch Benezia, she'd been woken halfway through midwatch by a message from Fifth Fleet, relaying a request from the Turian Hierarchy concerning a merchant marine freighter transporting evacuees that had put out a distress call in a nearby system.
A Hierarchy cruisier would arrive in only a few days' time, but the Alliance—more than happy to garner a bit of goodwill with the turians at no real expense to their own operations—had eagerly volunteered the frigate as a first responder.
Shepard grunted into her coffee as she went to down another large gulp, still groggy and more than a little irritated. Finding the white ceramic mug was now empty, her frown deepened.
Jane, of course, hadn't been consulted on any of this. The deck officer had woken her and requested permission to set a new course, but it was a formality at best.
While the ship was formally independent of the Alliance chain of command for the duration of her mission against Saren, that hadn't stopped them from contacting her through Admiral Hackett and asking the Normandy to look into a number of things, and no sane lieutenant commander—spectre or not—was about to refuse a "request" from an Alliance flag officer.
For the most part, Jane didn't mind putting a few more things on the to-do list, but this time she'd been detoured her from mission to make a courtesy call. Not that she had any recourse—despite all the pomp and circumstance surrounding her being made a spectre, the Alliance was quite apparent in their sentiments regarding who she owed her allegiance to, and after submitting her report on the mission of Feros, she'd been given the distinct impression the Council didn't actually like her all that much besides.
Jane sighed, feeling a headache building. So far, her newfound spectre status had been good for skipping a little bit of paperwork and maybe a discount at the Citadel's gift shop, but that was about it.
"You know, why does it have to be turians?" Joker questioned without looking up from the controls, not really addressing her even though the bridge was otherwise empty. "Why couldn't we rescue a bunch of asari with an overheating drive core, all sweaty and grateful..."
Despite her foul mood, Jane smirked at the remark, concealing it behind her empty coffee mug. If she didn't know any better, she may've thought the helmsman was trying to cheer her up.
"What's our ETA?" She asked, deciding that it probably wasn't appropriate to acknowledge such comments.
"About forty minutes, Commander." Joker answered, his tone still light. "The transport's in a stable orbit around a gas giant and there's no sign of external damage, but their engines are cold and I'm seeing a steady thermal bleed. Seems like they've got propulsion issues."
"Understood, take us in." Shepard ordered, turning on her heel and starting for the lower decks. She had a ground team to assemble, marines to brief, and gear to put on. Fingers wrapped tightly around her empty mug as she walked, the redhead groaned quietly.
This was going to require more coffee.
…
"Now, a baton isn't ideal for crowd control amongst turians, so you'll have to be selective with your target areas." Garrus lectured, toying with the black nightstick in his grasp as he addressed the assembled marines.
While Shepard would be arriving shortly to formally brief them, Ouder had brought them up to speed on the situation and the detective had taken to opportunity to offer a bit of supplemental instruction.
"Joints and major muscle groups are covered in overlapping plates, so your preferred targets will be an overhead strike here," he brought the baton downward at an angle into the side of his neck, just above the rim of his armor's circular neck guard. "Or, if they're not wearing armor, a front jab or sidearm strike here." The turian demonstrated a sweeping blow into his armored side, a few inches above his waist.
Nick nodded along with the others, but couldn't help but feel a tinge of wry amusement. Ten thousand years of human technological advancement, and he was being shown how to hit a space alien with a stick.
Still, he supposed it was useful information. Crowd control was a topic that hadn't been given much attention during the run-up to his unit's deployment to Afghanistan—for the most part, it had just been a couple of hot, humid afternoons spent shuffling around in musty old pads and helmets while the senior NCOs threw things at their shield wall.
Eventually, someone in charge had hit upon the idea of pitting one platoon against another—one with the shields and batons, the other playing the part of the unruly crowd—and things had quickly descended into typical marine roughhousing. The corpsman didn't remember much of the training material, but he did recall having a good time.
As Garrus concluded his lesson, Ouder stepped forward to address the marines, thumbs hooked in his belt. "Alright, listen up. Fireteams will be deployed separately, and of one of the NSTs is going to be tagging along. Hussar," he nodded towards Brice, "You'll be paired with Red team to keep the airlock area secure. Scarpasky, you'll take Grenado and the rest of Cossack to escort the engineering team." The sergeant major glanced around. "Any questions?"
Tolo raised a hand. "Will we be deploying gas launchers?"
"No," Ouder answered, shooting a glance to Garrus, who nodded slightly. Apparently, the two had reached some consensus before the start of the briefing. "The only riot control agents on hand are intended for planet-side use, and they're too concentrated to safely be deployed aboard the freighter against turians. Detective Vakarian will speak to the hauler's security chief to see if they have something we can use instead, but for now we'll do without."
Even with less than a dozen people gathered, a few concerned murmurs could be heard.
Generally speaking, turians were a bad race to find yourself up close and personal with—they were physical imposing compared to the typical human and their militaristic nature meant they were well-organized and highly-disciplined, even their "civilians". While the prospect of boarding an overcrowded ship full of potentially agitated refugees was precarious in its own right, the news that if the situation got out of hand they'd be sorting things out with nothing more than batons and flashbombs was downright worrying.
"Is there anything else?" The sergeant major asked sharply over the whispers, glaring at those responsible. The chatter promptly ceased and a few heads shook. "Good. If you've got complaints, I don't want to fuckin' hear 'em. Get geared up."
As the squad trooped to the locker area along the far wall and began to ready themselves, the shuffling of equipment and the hum of low conversation started once again. Nickeli half-listened as he pulled off his boots and tossed aside his navy blouse, a small, contented smile on his face.
The sound of marines readying themselves was pleasantly familiar—after spending so long with a rifle company, the bustle and din of a crowded squadbay or busy outpost was almost soothing. It brought back memories of small, fond spaces that smelled of gun oil and the lingering stink of sweat.
When he'd been transferred, the corpsman had found himself working in an office, and Nick had found it to be an unexpectedly difficult adjustment. Even the muted, ambient hum of the Normandy's systems felt like uneasy silence at times.
The corpsman pulled on the snug, black undersuit that went under his armor, adjusting the seal along its high collar. While the soft lining and flexible construction meant the garment was surprisingly comfortable, he'd yet to master the art of smoothly pulling it on like the other marines could—the first time he'd tried it on while familiarizing himself with his gear, he'd gotten one arm hopeless stuck and had to sheepishly ask Williams for a helping hand.
Along with some limited protection against shrapnel, the skintight undersuit, paired with his armor's gloves and boots, provided counterpressure that kept him from suffering the nasty effects of vacuum exposure. The massive web of sensors, wires, and tubes woven into the fabric also had a number of other helpful purposes, such as regulating his body temperature and dispensing medi-gel to keep him from bleeding to death if he was wounded. So, while it was a bit too snug through the groin for his tastes, the medic could understand the necessity of it.
By the time he'd gotten the last pieces of his armor pulled on and snapped into place, the rest of squad was already making final checks of their gear. Most were relatively lightly equipped, forgoing chest rigs and webbing belts weighed down with equipment that would be of little use handling a crowd. The decision had been made to leave behind their carbines, and while the marines generally agreed the bulk and firepower of an assault rifle would be a liability in the freighter's crowded corridors, it was easy to see the detachment was uneasy about carrying only their sidearms.
Pulling on his chest rig on over his head and securing the clasps of his medical bag on either hip, he made a quick check of his pistol, pulling back the slide a bit to reveal the glimmer of a chambered cartridge before letting it snap shut. Aside from his rifle and grenades, Vandas would be taking his full loadout—as a medic, there wasn't much he could justify leaving behind.
Nick moved to rejoin his squadmates congregating near a pair of large metal crates that a few members of the crew had pulled from storage and hastily deposited there before the briefing began. If the faded white lettering and collection of scratches and small dents were anything to judge by, the containers had probably been sitting in a supply depot long before the Normandy was even a blueprint.
Clipping his helmet to his belt, the corpsman gave a nod to Scarpasky and leaned against a nearby locker, watching Tolo investigate one of the crates.
When the rifleman snapped open the latches and raised the lid, Nickeli was hit by the overwhelming odor of musty plastic, a mix of disgust and curiosity prompting him to investigate.
Stacked in a neat row inside the crate were half a dozen polycarbonate riot shields, each with a baton stowed in a slot on the rear. Vandas gave a thoughtful hum, carefully pulling out on of the shields and inspecting it. Despite the changing technology over the last century and a half, it seemed a few things had remained mostly the same. Not everyone seemed to approve, however.
"Christ, this stuff is older than I am." Tolo groused, running a hand over the assortment of scratches and scuff marks across its surface. "Seriously, what are we—"
His complaint was interrupted by the sudden crack of something solid against ballistic ceramic, and the rifleman yelped in surprise.
"Seems to work fine to me." Amy remarked, making a show of inspecting the baton in her hands as Tolo rubbed at his shoulder. The Ukranian jerked her head in the direction of the lockers. "Now quit your bitching and finishing getting your gear on."
The enlisted man begrudgingly obeyed, taking the shield and moving to collect his helmet, careful to remain beyond the sapper's reach.
Looping his left arm through the strap, Nickeli tested the shield's unfamiliar weight. Though swapping his rifle out was change, the mission was otherwise business as usual for the medic. Even so, it was odd seeing the rest of the squad with shields and batons instead of their usual equipment.
"Attention on deck!" Ouder barked as the elevator door opened behind them, and there was the hurried shuffle of equipment being pulled on before the hangar went silent.
Shepard stepped out of the lift with a coffee cup raised to her lips, still looking mostly sleep as she read from the datapad in her other hand. Glancing up from the tablet, the sight of the ship's marine detachment standing at attention made her eyes widen.
"As you were." The redhead instructed somewhat sheepishly, quickly wiping away a bit of coffee from her upper lip as she made her way over.
"The squad is assembled, ma'am." Patrick stated crisply. Glancing at the steaming cup of coffee in her hand, the man raised a brow slightly in question, appearing a touch displeased to have been kept waiting for the sake of the redhead's caffeine addiction.
Shepard simply shrugged as she took another sip of coffee, and Nickeli was amused to note the look of resignation that washed across the sergeant major's face as he turned on his heel and fell in with the rest of the squad. Rank had its privileges, after all.
A few moments later, the rest of the ground team began to appear. Williams and Alenko were both already in their armor, though the medic was surprised to see both were carrying their rifles, along with the rest of their usual combat loadout. Vandas wasn't sure what Shepard had in mind for her team, but it seemed the grunt work of controlling the crowd was being left to... well, the grunts.
Tali joined them soon after. The quarian had a rugged, black satchel full of tools, the largest of which was an enormous pipe wrench the protruded from both ends of the bag and looked to be about the size of his forearm. Noticing Nick staring, the engineer laughed, giving the bag a pat. "A lot of these turian freighters haven't seen a proper servicing since they day they were launched."
Surprisingly, Lieutenant Adams appeared as well, suited up to join them. The chief engineer wore only light armor similar to Caroline's, with armor plate covering only a few vital areas like his torso and upper legs. His helmet was also light, with a clear, bubble-like visor that wrapped most of the way around and obviously hadn't been designed with combat in mind. Vandas noted the engineer would occasionally pat the pistol stowed at his hip, wondering if he was doing it to nervously reassure himself, or just to confirm that he hadn't misplaced it.
"Alright, pretty straightforward—we'll be assisting a turian refugee freighter." Shepard began, a few keystrokes on the datapad she was holding creating a large, holographic projection of the ship for the others to see. "The ship has a crew of around thirty plus a security force, and there are a little over nine-hundred refugees aboard being accommodated in the main hold. Roughrider, you'll be split between securing our point of entry and escorting the engineering team. I'll leave assignments to you, Ouder. Garrus, Ash, Kadian—you'll be with me, we'll be making contact with the ship's captain." Shutting off the hologram, she tucked the tablet back under her arm. "Everyone clear on the plan?"
"Do we know anything about the layout of the hold?" Brice asked in a rumbling tone.
Jane shook her head. "I'm afraid not. These Sustainment-classhaulers have half a dozen different configurations and the captain didn't provide any details, so we won't know until we're aboard. Just expect a big chamber with a lot of people in it."
"Sustainment-class?" Tolo snorted incredulously, earning him a silent but displeased look from the sergeant major.
"Turians are terribly dull about naming things," Garrus admitted with a casual shrug. "In fact, most ships smaller than a cruiser aren't even named." The sharpshooter glanced to Jane. "Do we have any idea where these refugees are from? Or where they're bound for, for that matter?"
"I'm not sure where they're headed, but they're being evacuated from Taetrus." Shepard answered, glancing at her datapad to ensure she pronounced the word correctly. "There was a 'civil disorder' evacuation, apparently."
"Taetrus?" The detective repeated, his plated brow rising slightly. "That's not good."
All present turned their attention his way. "What do you mean?"
"Taetrus has been a hotbed for separatist activity since the Unification War. The Hierarchy sends in troops for a police action every couple of decades, and from what I hear things have been heating up for a while now." The turian explained, his tone stern and certain. "If these people are being evacuated, there's a good chance some of them are insurrectionists."
Jane frowned. "What should we expect?"
"Hard to say for sure. It's doubtful anyone managed to smuggle anything serious aboard, but knives and firebombs aren't out of the question."
The squad fell into an uneasy silence at the detective's revelation. Despite the unusual circumstances, they still had a job to do, but it was a sobering reminder that there was no such thing as a mission too routine to get hurt, or even killed on. Even so, if there was any sense of doubt or worry, no one voiced it.
"Finish getting the rest of your gear on." Ouder instructed, taking his helmet from under his arm and pulling it on. His voice took on a tinny, synthesized tone. "Main airlock in ten."
…
The turian freighter was massive hulk against the backdrop of a blue, Class III gas giant, roughly the size of an Alliance light cruiser and easily dwarfing the Normandy.
It was also pretty ugly, Shepard thought—not that anyone had asked her opinion on starship aesthetics recently.
As a spacer, ships had been one of the few constants in her life. As a child following her mother between postings, she'd spent hours on the observation deck, watching as the rest of the flotilla cut silently through the void. Even as an adult, the silhouette of an Alliance cruiser against the backdrop of the stars was a familiar, even fond sight. Slender and well-armored, they resembled the shining skyscrapers of Earth or the Citadel.
Turian warships were less common, but she'd still seen a few growing up. Powerful, angular craft that reminded her of swooping birds of prey, they may not have possessed the sleek lines of human warships in her opinion, but their focus on power and functionality had its own appeal. Unfortunately, the cargo hauler they were preparing to dock with lacked even that. If someone had told Jane the ship was a converted garbage scow, she would've believed them.
Painted an ugly shade of dark green where the hull wasn't stained black from decades of enduring the stresses of stellar travel, the ship looked as though someone had strapped a pair of oversized rocket engines to a run-down tenement building and blasted the entire thing into orbit to be rid of it. Given its condition, Jane would've guessed it was on its way to a breaking yard if she hadn't known otherwise.
The ship rocked slightly as the freighter's gangway locked in place, and the murmur of quiet conversation behind her died.
"We've got a seal." Joker announced, glancing back over his shoulder. "I'm gonna' throw a mat down, so make sure wipe your feet when you get back, alright?"
"That's our cue." Shepard called, ignoring the pilot as she turned to the marines and other personnel crowding the narrow walkway that led back towards the CIC. The ground team began to push through the pressed of bodies toward the airlock, the twenty-odd marines, engineers, and security personnel crammed into the cockpit slightly complicating the matter.
Ouder was front and center as per usual and was doing his best to marshal the oversized boarding party, a concussion launcher on his back and his helmet already securely in place. Glancing up briefly from organizing the marines, the sergeant major saw her looking and gave a nod, his tone respectful even as he gave her a quick once over. "Ma'am, you should wear a helmet."
"Thank you, sergeant major." Shepard replied drolly, heading for the airlock herself. Ouder was far too professional to roll his eyes and simply went back to what he was doing, understanding well enough that he'd been dismissed.
Shepard was gradually coming to an understanding with the Normandy's senior NCO—as the clean-cut infantry sergeant, it was Ouder's job to advise his commandering officer and ensure his marines toed the line, and as the cavalier special forces officer, it was her job to charge in anyway. They were both dedicated professionals who were good at their jobs, but ultimately the two were products of radically different facets of the Alliance military that had never really been intended to work alongside one another, so a bit of friction now and again was to be expected.
With Tali accompanying Adams and a couple of other engineers aboard the freighter, it was all hands on deck for the ground team, save for Wrex.
Given that they were preparing to board a ship packed full of turian refugees who had already endured a week-long journey from a planet on the brink of open rebellion, bringing a krogan aboard had seemed inadvisable. As much of an asset as the krogan would've been dealing with an unruly crowd, the mission didn't need the added complication of a millennia of bad blood.
Shepard had been concerned about how the warlord might react when she explained he wouldn't be joining the rest of the team this mission, but Wrex had simply snorted, grumbling that it was "probably for the best" and trudging back to the stack of supply crates he'd arranged into a sort of recliner. Whether the krogan agreed with her reasoning or simply didn't care, she couldn't be sure, but it had been a tremendous relief.
With luck, it would be the unremarkable start to an unremarkable mission. If her engineers could make the necessary repairs in a few hours' time and they could resume their course for Therum without causing some sort of diplomatic incident, she would be absolutely ecstatic.
However, given that, historically, she couldn't even take an unremarkable shore leave, Jane knew it was probably a lot to ask for.
The exterior door opened when the airlock finished cycling, and as Shepard took her first steps onto to the freighter, she was met by a trio of turians wearing the burgundy of the Hierarchy Naval Auxiliary. Their leader, bearing the insignia of a junior lieutenant, offered a salute, her balled first thumping against the chest plate of her light armor. "Commander Shepard?"
Jane nodded. "That's me."
"If you'll follow me, Captain Latonus is waiting for you on the bridge."
"Lead the way."
…
"Doc?"
Nick was thankful that his visor meant he hadn't been caught daydreaming. "Huh?"
The corpsman had been scanning the crowd, searching for any military-age males that seemed to be lingering or anything else suspicious—one of the many tendencies he'd acquired during his first tour. Unfortunately, he had no idea of what qualified as "military-age" amongst turians… and, honestly, he was having some difficulty with the second part as well—in the end, he'd just been scanning a sea of alien faces without any real idea of what he was looking for. Eventually, he'd zoned out, oblivious to the conversation Tolo was apparently trying to have with him over the fireteam channel.
While the squad hadn't exactly stepped aboard the freighter expecting to be met by an ongoing riot, so far things had been almost startlingly uneventful, though this was likely for the best. As the squad had piled into the airlock, Ouder had emphasized restraint, stating emphatically that he didn't want to be "the motherfucker that restarted the First Contact War."
Fortunately, things had gone well so far—the greeting they'd received had been more inquisitive than warm, but at least the team hadn't been met with outright hostility. Shepard had taken the ground team to meet with the ship's commander, and the marines had been left near the airlock with the engineering team to await "further orders." This, as per usual, meant they had been left standing around without any real idea of what was going on.
They'd entered from a cargo airlock that led directly into the main hold, the broad doors obviously intended to accommodate cargos far larger than the Normandy's small boarding party. With a crowd gathering perhaps a dozen meters away, Nick and the other marines had been instructed to set up security. Standing spread out across the wide gangway with gaps between them and the bottom edge of their shields resting at their feet, they didn't exactly make for an impressive shield wall.
Still, the downtime did give them the opportunity to access the situation aboard the ship. They'd known from the onset that the size of transport and the number of civilians aboard would be problematic, but the layout of the ship only compounded the issue.
In order to accommodate the hundreds of refugees aboard, the hold had been arranged into what could only been described as a sort of massive skid row; cargo containers had been stacked six high until they nearly touched the ceiling to form enormous housing blocks that stretched into the distance, a honeycomb of crude apartments connected by a latticework of improvised catwalks and ladders that ran along the front face.
At ground level, wide avenues for cargo-handling vehicles were flanked by areas the refugees were using as common areas and gathering spaces, separated by long lines of cargo crates that had been stacked to create ad hoc crowd barriers.
When they'd first come aboard, Vandas had overhead the sergeant major remark to Brice that getting the engineering team back to the Normandy would be "a bitch and a half" if things got out of control, earning a low chuckle from the fireteam leader. Though Ouder's pessimism wasn't particularly inspiring, the corpsman couldn't help but agree with the man.
While they had one of the Normandy's dozen-strong security teams standing guard closer to the ship, they were responsible for protecting strictly the airlock itself and, moreover, they lacked formal training for crowd control. As a result, the marines were, for all intents and purposes, on their own aside from the freighter's small security team. Faced with the prospect of an entire ship of refugees in a full-blown riot, Vandas privately wondered what good half a dozen marines would be if things spiraled out of control.
Still, in spite of their unimpressive numbers, their arrival seemed to be something of a spectacle in of itself.
A decent-sized crowd had gathered on the far side of the thoroughfare, a few turian security officers on hand to keep them from crossing the barricade or spilling into the road. Fortunately, they were curious rather than hostile, milling and conversing with one another. The marine could only hope it stayed that way.
"Doc." Tolo called again.
Shit, had he been talking this entire time? "Huh?"
"Look sharp."
Vandas' gaze snapped upward attentively, expecting to see that the commander had returned and caught him daydreaming. To his surprise, he found himself confronted with something else entirely.
A child had pulled away from its mother as the pair walked by and now stood a few feet away, staring up at the line of strange, armored figures with wide eyes. Hardly rising past the medic's knee, Nickeli assumed it was a toddler, or whatever the turian equivalent was; the young turian's crest didn't yet reach the back of its head and its two mandibles were little more than rounded stubs on either side of its mouth.
From the avenue, the child's guardian watched patiently as it carefully teetered over to the corpsman, eventually getting close enough to brace itself against his shield.
The toddler slapped the shield, producing a hollow thunk that it apparently found endlessly amusing.Making a series of rapid clicks that Nick could only assume was pleased laughter, the small turian continued to batter the shield, the odd sound turning a few heads their direction.
When the medic chuckled, the toddler retreated half a step at the sound and gazed upward at the enormous stranger with obvious surprise, as if suddenly grasping that the enormous figure was in fact a living being. The medic thumbed one of the small buttons along the underside of his jaw, manually toggling his visor's sun shield, and snorted at the surprised squeak the sight of his face garnered, giving a small wave.
The child, alarmed by the human's appearance and multitude of waggling digits, gave a squawk and hurriedly toddled the short distance back to its mother, who chuckled along with Nickeli at the sight. Finally, the child clasped at her hand the and medic offered a parting wave as the pair continued on their way, the young turian craning its head to watch the medic as they walked, gnawing on two pointed fingers.
Finally losing sight of them, Vandas smiled faintly.
Somehow, adjusting to the existence of alien life had been one of the easier aspects of the corpsman's new set of circumstances. In a strange way, separated by millions of miles and hundreds of years from anything he recognized as home, their presence had sort of been just a footnote.
In a sense, they were no more foreign to him than the Afghans had been when he'd first arrived, with their own customs and a language he spoke only haltingly. The corpsman had realized early that the key was maintaining an open mind and keeping his head on a swivel. It was simpler to accept alien life as just another thing that he didn't completely understand and carry on, rather than sitting around fretting about it until he had a nervous breakdown.
Unfortunately, his teammate seemed intent on torpedoing his positive mood.
"You know, I don't think I could bang a turian." Tolo remarked, apropos of nothing. The man brought up some truly strange topics if left to his own devices for any period of time. "Figure it'd probably feel like fucking a belt sander, you know?"
The statement hung in the air for a long moment as the medic slowly turned toward his companion, bewilderment and disapproval on his face.
"What?" The rifleman asked quickly, as Nick simply shook his head, pointedly thumbing the button to darken his visor and going back to watching the crowd.
Chris was a good marine—it was something that probably needed to be said, because it certainly wasn't the passing impression one got of the young private. The rifleman's lackadaisical attitude belied the fact he was actually quite intelligent, but Vandas still got the sense he was a guy that had done a hell of a lot of extra calisthenics during his time in basic training. He simply had no filter between his brain and mouth, and it gave him an almost uncanny ability to land himself in trouble; since the day the squad had been officially transferred to the dry-docked Normandy, Tolo had scrubbed more floors, stood more late watches, and generally been more of a pain in the sergeant major's ass than the rest of the detachment combined.
In the distance, Nickeli was relieved to see Tali and the other engineers moving purposefully in their direction, likely meaning that "further orders" had finally come down and he'd been rescued from keeping Tolo company all day. Unfortunately, the young assault trooper had spotted them too.
A mischievous smile in his tone as his gaze fell on the quarian, eyes tracing the snug curves of the engineer's environmental suit. "But, speaking of..."
Vandas intercepted his squadmate's train of thought just as the engineer entered earshot, the resounding crack of his baton against the back of Tolo's helmet turning a few heads in their direction.
Tali, who had been buried in her omni-tool as she walked, looked up in surprise, confused gaze snapping first to the helmeted rifleman clutching at the back of his head and then falling on Nickeli, who shrugged.
"Ignore him." The medic answered evenly, deciding it was simpler not to explain. "Sounds like we've finally got orders?"
The quarian nodded slowly, still glancing uncertainly at Tolo. "Adams went back to the Normandy to grab some more tools, but the rest of the engineering team is going to start making repairs."
Finally, something other to do than stand around while Chris drove him crazy.
Amy was still busy conferring with Ouder and Brice on the other side of the airlock, but he manages to catch her attention, tilting his head slightly in question. The sapper gives a quick nod, confirming his suspicions that they're moving out. Collecting his shield and pulling it onto his left arm, he turned back to Tali. "Lead the way."
…
Tali found herself thankful for the heavy tint of her visor, the dark glass making it easier to pretend she didn't notice the handful of sneers and suspicious looks she got as the team made their way to the freighter's engine room. It seemed that even amongst a crowd of aliens, many of the turian refugees still found a quarian singularly untrustworthy.
The widespread contempt for her people was one of many things that pilgrims had been cautioned about before leaving the Fleet, but in hindsight she hadn't truly been prepared for it. Even when Raan, worried for her adoptive niece's bubbly optimism as the young engineer prepared for her first taste of the wider galaxy, had pulled her aside just before she boarded the shuttle to depart the Neema, she'd simply been too naive to fully grasp what her aunt's advice truly meant.
She'd foolishly believed it meant just having to work harder to prove yourself to others and that she had to be careful who she trusted, but it was so much beyond that she'd never anticipated; it meant being denied a place to sleep, being dismissed out of hand not just by passersby in the street, but by C-Sec officers and public officials as well. It meant cold, fearful nights hiding in keeper tunnels.
At first, when confusion had given way to indignation, her first instinct had to fight, to kick back against the injustice of it, but all that had won her was a day in a C-Sec holding cell when she'd arrived on the Citadel. She'd been left to stew for a while then thrown back into the streets after being told in no uncertain terms that she was to leave the station at once. Anger soon faded into frustrated resignation, and she liked to think she now lingered somewhere on the cusp of acceptance. By now, she was past trying to make sense of it.
"Big ship." A voice beside her remarked idly, stirring her from her thoughts.
"Not as big as the Neema." Tali replied almost without thinking, a hint of wistfulness in her voice. It seemed like a much more pleasant topic at the moment.
Ships the size of the freighter were hardly rare amongst the Migrant Fleet—in fact, the young engineering was fairly sure there were even a few Sustainment-class cargo ships that the quarians had salvaged years ago. Most were in similar shape, too; deck plates worn down by the tread of countless boots, the lingering smell of rust and old paint. If she closed her eyes and listened carefully, she could even hear the sound of worn ventilation fans rattling in the casings, and it felt like home.
Of course, it was far too roomy—aboard a quarian ship, the hold would've housed at least a thousand people and what little free space remained would've been packed with cargo or spare parts. Growing up aboard the Fleet, by adolescence one developed an almost supernatural ability to navigate crowds and tight spaces, because the alternative was to go around constantly bumping into things.
Vandas made a thoughtful sound at her answer, and out of the corner of her eye Tali could see the medic looking around. She had quickly learned that humans shared a number of mannerisms with her own people, and she could detect the odd contrast in the armored man's demeanor as he walked beside her; the sharp, measured manner in which he scanned the crowd and array of catwalks, interrupted occasionally by the slow, curious way he took in the interior of the ship, surveying the high ceiling and towering stacks of cargo containers.
He seemed a bit... awed by the scale of it all, like a child's first time seeing one of the liveships from the observation deck. The thought of the soldier with wide eyes and his face pressed against the glass made engineer laugh quietly. "First time on a freighter?"
Nick jolted slightly. Glancing at her, he shrugged noncommittally, but a rueful chuckle told her the medic knew he'd been caught gawking.
Tali liked the Alliance crew.
While she was still adjusting to living and working aboard the Normandy and there were still a few cultural barriers with the human crew here and there, Shepard and Adams had gone out of their way to be as accommodating as possible. While the frigate's small complement meant Tali constantly felt like half the crew had vanished, it also meant she'd had her pick of berths, and she'd selected one of the sleeper pods on the second deck. Along with a locker nearby and a footlocker in the hangar, it was probably the most space she'd had to herself before, and she wasn't really sure what to do with it all—even counting her weapons, everything she'd brought with her on her Pilgrimage could be carried neatly on her person. When Shepard had become aware of this, she'd vowed to take her on a shopping trip the next time they were on the Citadel, much to the engineer's mortification.
In addition to the Commander, it seemed a number of the ship's marines had taken a shine to their new engineer as well. Sergeant Nalwitz, the enormous soldier she'd first seen at the ambassador's office, had warmly welcomed her aboard the Normandy while Shepard was giving her a tour, and she'd of course already met Nickeli who seemed conversational with her, at the very least.
After their initial meeting at the human embassy, Captain Anderson had sent Sergeant Scarpasky to accompany Tali on a trip to the docks to retrieve the equipment she had stashed before C-Sec had picked her up. One of the dockworkers had spotted her poking around the entrance to one of the keeper tunnels and started her way with a prybar, screaming all of the usual obscenities.
Fortunately, the burly sapper had swiftly disarmed the worker as he closed on them, reducing him to a groaning heap in a flurry rapid strikes that had caught him by surprise. Tossing aside the prybar with a flourish and a wide grin, she'd wrapped an arm firmly around Tali's shoulder and led her onward, confidently declaring that no one would be giving the young engineer any trouble for as long as she was around.
The quarian, all frayed nerves and still borderline exhausted, had been too stunned to even compose a reply, simply nodding mutely at Amy's prompting as they continued on their way. After losing the closest thing she'd had to a companion days ago and spending so long running for her life, the notion that there suddenly would be somebody—indeed, an entire ship of somebodies—prepared to stand up for her had been enough to pop the seal on a week of bottled up emotions. At the time. she'd only narrowly stopped herself from pulling the unfamiliar soldier into a bone-crushing hug.
Nickeli made a remark she didn't hear, but just as the distracted quarian was looking over to ask what he'd said, she suddenly felt his gloved hand on her chest, pushing at her. She immediately batted at it, moving to retreat a step. "Hey! Watch wher—"
Her protest was interrupted by the loud clang of an object landing a few feet ahead of them, clattering across the deck with a metallic soundand bouncing noisily off the stack of crates that lined one side of the walkway. Feeling heat quickly rising to her face, the engineer recognized it as a heavy section of metal electrical conduit, likely pulled from one of the ship's utility spaces.
Vandas was tucked behind his raised shield, Tali realizing belatedly the medic had been trying to push her behind him, and the corpsman apparently hadn't noticed her embarrassment. The stampede of heavy boots across the deck behind them was a welcome distraction, announcing the arrival of the rest of the fireteam as they quickly closed ranks, hurriedly shepherding Tali and the other members of the engineering team behind their armored bulk. A handful of uniformed turians, members of the ship's security force sent to accompany them, formed a rough circle around them, speaking harshly into their radios as they warily checked their surroundings.
Beside her, Amy scanned the catwalks through the scope of her concussion launcher, a boxy device that replaced the upper assembly of her rifle. Giving a frustrated hiss, the fireteam leader let the weapon fall from her shoulder—it seemed whoever had thrown the pipe had vanished back amongst the honeycomb of cargo containers. The group continued on their way in a closed formation that kept the engineers between the shield-bearing marines.
Vandas was still walking next to her, but didn't say anything, and Tali perhaps was just imagining it, but it seemed as if the medic was giving her a bit of extra space. Whether he was aware of what had transpired or perhaps had simply noticed her odd behavior, she had no idea. Fortunately, the sergeant's urgings left her little time to dwell on it, and the group maintained a brisk pace all the way to engineering.
…
"Commander, we've got a situation at the airlock." Brice was his usual calm self over the radio, but the fact that he didn't sound nearly bored enough for someone guarding a door was enough for Shepard to understand things were quickly getting out of hand down there.
It was with a quiet sigh and a remarkable lack of surprise that Jane stole a glance at her wrist, checking the time. Quickly doing the math, she frowned as she realized they'd been aboard the freighter nearly three hours now.
After the first two hours had passed without serious incident, she'd admittedly been lulled into the false sense of security, daring hope that her desire for a quiet mission had been realized. Unfortunately, listening in to the tactical net, she'd been able to follow along as the situation at their entry point slowly spiraled downward—the marines had started deploying flashbombs fifteen minutes ago.
She'd sent Williams and Alenko back fifteen minutes ago in the hopes they could help the marines posted at the airlock bring the situation back under control, but she hadn't heard from them and could only assume they'd gotten mixed-up in the same mess that fireteam Hussar was involved in.
"Is there a problem, Commander Shepard?" Latonus asked, not unkindly.
When the Alliance team had come aboard, the captain had met them on the bridge and had been quick to thank the Normandy for responding to their distress call. The old turian, with a weathered look about him and white facial markings Jane hadn't seen before, had introduced himself with the stern politeness typical of a career soldier. However, the longer they had talked, the more he had come to resemble an affectionate grandfather that hadn't been visited in a while, leaving the N7 in a rather peculiar position.
After detailing his situation and, oddly, giving her team a brief tour of the ship that ventured neither to the main hold nor to engineering, he'd insisted they remain with him on the bridge while repairs were underway, and had sent a junior officer to the galley for some levo-safe refreshments. What had followed was the almost surreal experience of awkwardly making small talk over light snacks while dressed in full combat gear. When the commander had finally instructed Kaidan and Ash to head back to the airlock, the pair had practically bolted.
The ship's small bridge crew hadn't batted an eye at any of this, making Shepard wonder if perhaps this was all some odd quirk of turian hospitality, but when she'd quietly glanced to Garrus, he'd only returned a helpless expression.
The sharpshooter, too, had been unable to escape the captain's hospitality, and now stood leaning against the wall, offering a tight smile whenever the old turian looked his way. Apparently, the unit he had formerly served with had been assigned to a warship one of Latonus' sons was posted aboard, and the captain had prodded him into uncomfortably retelling a few stories from his posting spent patrolling the Hierarchy's frontier. This, in turn, had led into several strange, rambling stories from Latonus about his adult children.
"I'm afraid so, captain." Shepard began diplomatically, quickly formulating their escape from the bridge. "I need to go regroup with the rest of my team. Thank you again for your hospitality."
The commander turned sharply for the door, glancing to Garrus to see that he required no further encouragement to follow. The captain seemed to insist yet again but, seeing that she was already almost gone, instead offered a farewell that she barely heard over the sound of the door behind them.
Thank goodness that was over.
"Well, that was..." Shepard floundered, unable to think of anything pleasant to say that wasn't gratuitously untrue. "...bizarre."
Garrus grunted in agreement, walking alongside her. "Yeah. The naval auxiliary is full of older officers who weren't promoted to senior command, but didn't want to retire when their service period ended. It tends to attract... eccentrics."
Jane snorted, deciding that was probably a generous word for it. Regardless, she really didn't feel like discussing it any further. "Do you think we're walking into a full-blown riot down there?"
The detective quickly shook his head. "I doubt it. The chances things have gotten that out of hand are—"
The words died on the turian's lips as the final set of doors opened and they were met by chaos in the main hold.
"... remote."
The situation had, in fact,deteriorated into a full-scale riot in their absence. A dense crowd of refugees had formed, jeering and throwing trash at the thin line of security officers trying vainly to create a corridor to reach the surrounded Alliance troops at the airlock.
The turian personnel carried blunt, two-meter staffs they used like pikes and had donned helmets and padded, grey armor that fit over their uniforms with sloping shoulder guards and a high collar. An oversized gauntlet functioned as a sort of shield, covering their off-hand from elbow to wrist with an indentation cut to allow them to grasp the polearm with both hands.
She saw Garrus nosing the air and turned to regard him with a raised eyebrow before realizing there was something strange.
A sickly-sweet odor hung in the hold, and she felt a faint prickle in the back of her throat. A glance at her omni-tool confirmed the systems in her suit had detected something, but it hadn't tripped any alarms.
"Ignoxyn gas." He stated with a frown, unclipping his helmet from his belt and pulling it on.
"Is it dangerous?"
The detective shook his head. "It's a mild pulmonary agent used for crowd control—getting a faceful feels like someone's standing on your chest. Probably harmless to humans, though."
One of the officers, a sergeant, turned as Shepard approached, snapping to rigid attention and thumping the end of his quarterstaff against the deck in salute.
"Commander Shepard, Captain Latonus said to expect you." He indicated a half-dozen security personnel off to one side of the formation who were slowly making headway against the crowd. "If you'll head over there, I have a team trying to reach your men."
Nodding her thanks, she headed off, waving down the corporal in charge of the advancing detachment. Explaining that she needed to reach the airlock, the officer simply nodded, and she suddenly found an armored turian on either side of her, the soldiers offering polite reassurances as the squad marched forward.
The small group of security officers managed to cut a narrow path through the crowd, trading blows with rioters who emerged from the sea of bodies to attack them. Progressing no more than a dozen yards, they found themselves completed surrounded. Just as Shepard started to fear they'd been completely cut off, they managed to reach the friendly line of shields on the far side.
The marines advanced a couple of paces, driving the mob of turians back a short distance and opening a small gap to allow Shepard's team through, a series of flashbombs passing over them to detonate amongst the rioters.
Now reasonably safe behind her own lines, Shepard took a moment to take stock of the situation.
Brice had brought Red team forward from their original position closer to the Normandy, the dozen figures in bare, grey armor standing in contrast to his own team's dark blue camouflage. Together, they had formed a respectable, if undermanned, shield wall, keeping the refugees back from the gangway. A handful of turian officers assisted, supervising a few troublemakers that sat against a nearby bulkhead in handcuffs and hurling gas canisters into the crowd when they tried to rush the shieldwall.
"Commander," Brice greeted with surprising calm from his spot at the center of the line, the man hardly fitting behind the riot shield he carried. He turned slightly, giving her a slight wave with the baton in her hand. "You should put a helmet on."
Seemed everyone was a critic today. "What's the status of the engineering team?"
"On their way back now—Cossack's running the gauntlet, I think." He paused as a turian launched a leaping kick against his shield, failing to move the enormous man in the slightest. Growling something under his breath in Polish, he landed a blow with his baton that the refugee didn't immediately get up from before glancing back to Shepard. "Ouder could tell you more."
"Alright. Have your team ready; once they've regrouped, I think it's high time we made our exit."
"Aye, ma'am."
As stepped away in search of Ouder, a firebomb was thrown from somewhere in the crowd, arcing through the air to shatter in the midst of the shieldwall, flames racing along the deck. One of the members of the security team panicked, dropping their shield and stumbling backwards as they frantically batted at the flames that engulfed their armor. A pair of uniformed turians behind the line of shields converged on them, dousing the soldier with fire extinguishers.
Discipline held for the others, the gap quickly closing and an order from Nalwitz pulling the formation back a few feet, stomping their boots at the flames as they moved. From the line of rioters, someone rushed forward to grab the dropped shield but was swiftly halted by a series of shots from Sergeant Khang's concussion launcher. Thoroughly dissuaded, the battered insurrectionist vanished back into the mob.
At the center of the wall, Brice lowered his shield momentarily to pull a flashbomb from his belt and lob it into the crowd, the device exploding in a loud, but harmless cloud of white smoke that scattered a few turians and sent their front line retreating a short distance. Almost as an afterthought, the man noticed a few wisps of flame clinging to his pauldron and casually brushed them away.
Turning, Shepard found Ouder conferring the turian lieutenant that had met they at the airlock. "Sergeant major, I need—"
The sentence ended abruptly when something shattered against the commander's left temple, knocking her off balance. She managed fall to her hands and knees rather than toppling unceremoniously to the deck, but her head was throbbing and that roar of the mob was suddenly hard to hear over the sound of bells. Bringing a hand to her temple, it faintly registered the side of her head was wet with what she expected might be blood.
"M'right." She mumbled when she heard someone call her name before she felt a tug, and it took for a moment for her to realize Garrus and Ouder had grabbed her by either arm and were quickly dragging her on her knees towards the gangway that led back to the Normandy.
After a few moments, the muddled feeling in her head began to clear and she spotted the broken remains of a glass bottle where she'd been standing, and annoyance replaced confusion. With a huff, Jane closed her eyes against her growing headache. She was never going to hear the end of this.
Shepard felt herself being leaned up against something solid and opened her eyes to find herself stopped against the wall closer to the airlock. Garrus crouched beside her, and the feeling of gloved fingers running through her hair to remove bits of glass and apply medi-gel to her scalp came as a welcome relief. Still, she didn't need fussing over. "Really, I'm fine."
The detective paused for a moment, fixing Jane with an incredulous look before going back to plucking bits of glass from her hair.
A few moments later, Nickeli appeared at her side, though it didn't escape her notice that he wore a wide splotch of bright yellow paint across the front of his armor. Behind him, she spotted the engineering team, all similarly stained to some degree or another—apparently, the refugees had gotten ahold of a few cans of whatever the freighter crew used to paint lines on the deck. Still, it was good they had made it back, and despite some possible bumps and bruises, nobody seemed seriously hurt.
The corpsman quickly stuffed his gauntlets into the drop pouch on his hip and pulled on a pair of blue exam gloves before beginning to make an inspection of her scalp.
"How bad? She chanced.
"You'll need some stitches, but nothing serious." He answered, pulling a penlight from his rigging and wiping some wet paint off of the lens. "Look straight at me."
Using it to briefly check her eyes, the medic seemed satisfied that she was in no immediate danger, standing and offering her a hand. Accepting it, the commander climbed back to her feet, conscious of the small crowd that had gathered around her in the narrow passageway.
"What's our status?" She asked of no one in particular.
"The captain brought down more security personnel, and I'm told they have the situation in hand." Ouder answered promptly. "Our job here is done."
One of the marines offered her a hand, and she was carefully helped to her feet.
"Well, I'd say that went pretty well." Shepard mused, carefully picking a few errant flecks of broken glass out of her hair.
The remark earned her a few doubtful looks from those present, but nobody argued when she instructed the sergeant major to start pulling the Alliance team back to the Normandy.
Within ten minutes she was standing behind Joker's chair, watching as the last of the security detail filed in, and a few minutes after that, she was watching the freighter shrink in the distance as the helmsman made preparations to an FTL jump that would put them back on course for Therium. The mission hadn't exactly been how she'd wanted to spend the day, but it still felt good to have been successful—even if success felt a lot like a mild concussion.