The day that Varso boarded the shuttle, he boarded with only a large rucksack slung over his shoulder. His worldly belongings, all he kept close in his name. The sets of dress uniforms he was required to have on hand but the Hierarchy. His products for personal hygiene. The small mementos he had kept from various campaigns. The booklet with pressed plants from dozens of worlds. He hadn't been able to collect any from Earth.
He had started it when he first deployed, an oversentimental young Turian who wanted to take a piece of Palaven with him into the hostile stars. He would justify itself to himself as a form of experiment, a collection of the galaxy's diversity. After all, in his mind, a true Turian wouldn't long for home in the way he knew he would. And despite his years of service, Varso continued the collection. And every time he opened the cover, he was greeted by the same crimson Cipritine bloom, pressed flat and preserved.
He had thought about taking one of the blades of grass growing in planters on the streets of New Mombasa. Or raiding the flowers in a clay pot on a residential balcony, the bizarre delicate flora of the Sol system. Something then had stopped him. And in the chaos afterwards, he hadn't the time. And now, he couldn't even remember why he didn't pick the golden flower.
He supposed it didn't matter.
Varso had paced Corvus' halls the night before. His feet led him down to the science bay. Aurelia wasn't there. In her stead, was an older Turian, pushing a large bin of artifacts brought up by the ground team. When Varso asked him what he was doing, he received a shrug and a simple answer.
"Junk. Science division says this stuff doesn't have any potential applications for us."
He saw the ragged stuffed animal he had retrieved from the alley in New Mombasa. It had square patches cut out of it; samples of the stuffing dragged out from the cavity inside. One of the beaded eyes at been removed for study. The thick dust that had blown through the empty streets still caked the delicate hairs.
The Turian continued out the door of the science bay. Varso turned away. As the door hissed shut behind him, something indescribable came over him. Like he was making a mistake. He rushed back into the hallway and snatched the toy from the cart. The older Turian scoffed before moving away down the hallway.
He had washed the toy when he returned to his quarters, ignoring the questioning gazes of the other soldiers in his berthing. He would leave them all soon anyways. That night, instead of preparing for his departure, we started fixing the animal, using the threads he kept for repairing damages to his uniform to sew patches on the ragged toy. When he was done, the animal was in a sorry state; it would need more repairing when he had the time. But now, safe inside his rucksack. It would make the journey to Triumph with him.
When he had reported to the shuttle, he hadn't been expecting much. Sure enough, it was just three of them this flight, alongside the two pilots. The shuttle was in a corner of Corvus' bay, the loud ruckus from the landing of a fighter patrol drowning out most conversation. Nobody in the bay spared them a second glance.
He recognized one of the Turians coming with him. And not in a good way. Varso wouldn't consider himself a gossip. Nor would most self-respecting Turians in the fleet. But even he had certainly heard whispers about this Turian from other teams on Corvus. Lazy. Fuck-up. He was on the fast track to a stationing on some backwater planet in the corner of Turian space.
The other soldier was a much older Turian. A veteran of many years, obvious from the scars across his plates, clan tattoos nicked and misshapen from battles past. As he shifted his feet from left to right, Varso swore he could hear the old Turian's joints popping. A corporal's rank insignia flashed on Varso's HUD. Old. No future.
The old Turian looked back at him quizzically. His eyes swept Varso up and down, taking a slight pause at his well-maintained armor and clear rucksack. Eventually, his eyes flicked to the third Turian and then met Varso's eyes. Varso stared right back, challenging the old man to say something. The old Turian either got bored or backed down and gave Varso one last pitying shrug before sitting down.
Varso felt the shuttle lift-off beneath his feet. It glided out of Corvus' hangar bay and the viewscreen flickered on. Ahead of them were the drydocks, as Corvus was standing vigilance alongside a small smattering of other Turian ships overseeing the repairs.
A long line trialed up from the planet's surface, a miniature version of New Mombasa's destroyed elevator. UNSC barges moved in perfectly coordinated paths back and forth from the station at the elevator's apex to the drydocks. Varso watched as one of the lifts reached the station, just as another started down towards the ground.
In the drydock, it appeared to Varso like the UNSC was multiplying.
He expected to see his destination, the Triumph awaiting them. Instead, he saw the massive frame of three enormous cruisers sitting in the drydock. They were all the same drab gray, and identical to Varso's eyes. They all bore the same shape, tall, blocky pillars that looked like they had no business slipping through the veil of space. The sterns of the three ships faced the shuttles. The engine blocks of the two cruisers on either side seemed normal enough, two giant engine bells surrounded by smaller maneuvering thrusters. The ship in the center, however, was missing its upper engine and much of the hull plating above it. Where the engine should be was a massive cavity, and Varso could see the twisted piping and void spaces, a mesmerizing tangle of engineering Varso couldn't hope to understand. The engine looked carefully removed, as if by a surgeon.
The shuttle continued to approach and moved carefully around the port side of the left-most cruiser. Varso saw the intense blue lights of plasma torches on the outer hull, the dramatic flare of the cutter dwarfing the minuscule figures wielding it, cutting around deep gouges and holes in the armor. He knew that the outer plating wasn't exactly thin. Now that's not a standard hierarchy cutter…
Indeed, the Turians working on the hull seemed to be surrounded by human equipment. Drab colored power supplies, and blocky open space work platforms were scattered across the hull of the cruiser. Working in tandem with them was one of the massive arms of the dockyard, extending from the rib-like structures of the drydock itself.
Varso watched another section of the hull, where one of the large arms had been attached. With a gentle tug, a huge portion of the cruiser's armor lifted away, revealing the decks underneath. The armor being removed was twisted and burned; a gaping hole burned in its center. Behind the plate, the warped smear of the interior bulkheads across three different decks where entire compartments had been melted away.
This cruiser had dozens of similar repair sites across the length of the hull. Some had already been patched, a massive grey armor plate hastily welded in place over the portion where the damaged hull had been removed. Others hadn't even had work begun on them. Varso spied a particularly nasty gash directly above the hangar bay, stretching for dozens of meters in either direction.
The shuttle continued around the ship towards its bow, near the carefully cordoned region of space around the drydock where scrap was being left. Varso could already see hundreds of thousands of tons of slagged Titanium drifting in space.
As the front ends of each cruiser became visible, Varso could read the names inscribed on their bows.
The cruiser nearest to them, the one they had observed being repaired, was Canberra.
Next to her was a ship he had never seen before. The optics on his armor picked up the name clearly enough, and with the translation software, he could finally understand the human's language. St. Paul. The St. Paul was missing both of her MAC barrels, and much of her secondary battery. Across her hull empty barbettes covered the warship. Huge clean cuts covered the cruiser. Entire sections were exposed to space, the neat, organized lattice work of the decks beneath twinkling in the sunlight. Much like Canberra, St. Paul's hull was being worked on too. The same bright blue flares bit into the intact portions of her armor. The sturdy drydocks clamped to these cut sections of the hull, before ripping entire slabs away from the ship's frame.
The armor they were removing, however, was not damaged. The hull was still smooth and polished, lacking even the small pockmarks that covered the other two cruisers. If the Canberra was a battered varren, cut and bloodied, the St. Paul was like the hardy avian species of Palaven, reflective sides glittering the in the Martian sun. The Turian cutters, however, took no head, and ripped into the ship like scavengers on carrion, tearing apart the cruiser piece by piece, ripping into the exposed hull beneath.
Last in the lineup was Triumph. The shuttle slipped in front of her, and Varso could see work being done on both of her flanks as well, although under far less intensity than in Canberra. Varso watched the crews work on a penetrating scar on Triumph's upper hull. He could see the dark hole in the thick armor, disappearing into darkness as it plunged into wide hull of the cruiser, a meter of titanium pushed aside like it was water.
The shuttle continued around Triumph's port flank, flying by the freshly repainted stripe running vertically down her hull. Varso decided that Triumph had come out of the maelstrom over earth rather well. At least compared to the jagged remains of the ships still drifting in the remains of the UNSC battle line. Or the battered Canberra.
The shuttle slipped underneath Triumph's dark mass, where the open hangar doors awaited them. Inside, separated by thin film, was a bustle of activity. The viewscreen flickered off as the shuttle entered its landing cycle. Varso and his comrades got to their feet as the ramp fell behind them and they walked out into Triumph's hanger.
Varso took three bold steps into his new home and then immediately froze. The hangar was huge, a pair of massive elevators in the back ferrying storage racks up and down. In the walls were recessed bays with strange dropships stored in them. And filling the hangar, stacked 5 meters high, and forming a maze of racks and boxes? More ordinance than Varso had ever seen in his life. He saw racks after racks of white missiles with a bright yellow stripe. Enough fireworks to blow this hangar all the way back to Earth.
Around the missiles were other forms of munitions. Dozens of huge pallets of cased ammunition lay waiting to be distributed to Triumph's point defense cannons. Turian technicians were unloading one of the boxes, laying down dozens of meters of belted ammunition onto carts to be carried elsewhere in the ship.
In a corner were thousands of larger shells, stacked 10 high. Even more Turians loitered around these, sitting atop the covering separating the layers of munitions. They bore the uniforms of hierarchy artillery teams. They had quite obviously managed to find their comfort zone amongst the tons of high explosive packing the bay. To somebody who never carried much more than the occasional demolitions charge, however, the casual handling of these munitions sent small shivers down Varso's spine.
A loud rumble drew Varso's attention overhead, where a crane attached to the roof of the hangar unloaded elongated dark shapes from a landed UNSC barge. They were as wide as a Turian, and about three times Varso's height. The crane carried them one at a time, setting down the shapes on bright orange carriages. When the tension in the heavy cables released, the stout carriages sagged under the weight of the shapes. Other Turians waited by the electronic controls of the carriages, before moving them one after the other to the massive elevator in the rear of the hangar.
Behind Varso, the shuttle that brought him here lifted off and darted back out of the hangar. For a moment, its place was empty, the lone section of the hangar not bustling with activity. Then Varso watched as another ship glide beneath another ship quickly taking its place, another small band of Turians and a pair of Asari stumbling out of its bay, bearing the same look of trepidation and awe on their faces that Varso suspected still lingered on his face.
A voice called out across the cacophony of Triumph's hangar. Varso took no notice, instead watching as another dark gray projectile was unloaded from the barge. Again, the voice called out, this time louder. And then somebody tapped his shoulder. Varso wheeled around to find a familiar asari face, grinning ear to ear.
"So, the soldier boy DID grow a heart…"
The engineering crew of the Elia huddled around the holo-screen of the small backwater bar, burning time by downing cheap drinks. The air was dingy and reeked of state alcohol and unwashed patrons. The bar was rusting and scratched, and on either side of the small group, native residents grumbled about their lives' thousand grievances. The battery powered lights flickered periodically, drawing from the town's large battery banks. During the day, solar arrays in the arid wastelands collected the power needed to run the town when people could work during the cooler nights. It was a delicate balance; one the locals had figured out well. Life went on like this. Like their batteries, the townsfolk followed a simple cycle. Work hard during the nights, to earn their diminutive paychecks, before resting during the blazing hot day in a futile attempt to be ready and rested for the next shift. It was monotonous, and it was hard, but it was a living.
That was until the sleek Asari research vessel had arrived a month ago, engine trailing thick black smoke caused by a blown drive bearing, carefully helped down to the surface by a passing tug.
The Asari crew of the Elia certainly were an unusual addition to the town. Off in the distance, the sleek science vessel gleamed in the pre-dawn light, surrounded by the dark, rusted shapes of the local craft. A hoop-like segment of her hull had been removed to access the more delicate sections of Elia's drive.
However, the diagnosis was grim. It turns out that a military grade drive bearing isn't something that can be found lying around on any backwater world. What's worse, Elia was once the modified pleasure yacht of an aging matriarch before it found its calling exploring the galaxy. Which means that she was old, expensive, and rare. Which was a great thing if you wanted to flaunt your wealth to the Thessia elite, but less than ideal if you needed to find replacement parts on a planet that saw a handful of merchants a month.
And so, the weeks dragged on into a month, waiting for their custom order from a Thessia foundry to arrive to the planet. The Asari were a tolerated presence in the town, at least for now. They were faces and new stories in a town tired of the same old routine. And when the town discovered that Elia was buried under kilometers of military secrets and classified information, rumors exploded. What the hell was a pleasure yacht turned science ship doing running their engines hot enough to crack a drive bearing?
By this point, the engineers had heard most of the rumors, either asked directly by a local bold enough to confront them or overheard the hushed whispers in the corner of the bar.
They were an undercover team of Asari commandos, sent to ambush pirates.
No, no, they were clearly a group of rich Asari who got their thrills through a high-stakes underground racing circuit.
That's ridiculous. Clearly the Geth are invading, and the government is trying to keep it under wraps! They blew their engines out running away!
They are probably sent here to spy on us, and make sure we are all paying our taxes.
The engineers couldn't help but laugh, as surely, day after day, the stories got more and more ridiculous. And they had been sure to stoke the flames of rumor, so that they might enjoy something during their wait on this rock.
But now, the novelty of the group had begun to wear out. Their arrival in the bar that morning, for instance, was only met with a few scattered greetings, before the patrons quickly returned to their drinks. Even the propositions from lonely young workers, desperate for the "attention" from Elia's Asari crew, had died out when it became clear how few of the Asari aboard Elia shared any interest.
Now, the bartender knew their orders about secrecy, and no longer watched them with a suspicious gaze. The holo-screen flickered and cracked, audio leaking out from speakers across the bar.
And suddenly, the bar went silent. On the screen was a well-dressed Asari reporter reporting live from the Citadel. The chyron was bold, and unapologetic.
"CIVILIZATION BEYOND RELAY 314 CONTACTED, COUNCIL ANNOUNCES"
The barkeep turns up the speakers. Somebody murmurs before they are quickly hushed.
"…fleet sent to find the cause of the tragedy in the border systems this past November has located a foreign civilization, the council claims. For more information, we go to our presidium correspondent, Asha Trellal. Good evening, Asha. Asha, what is the latest in this story?"
"Thank you, Carses. Councilor Tevos spoke to us this evening when the news broke, and she answered what questions we could. She told us that the civilization calls themselves the United Earth Government, and has a military branch known as the UNSC. They call themselves 'humans'. The citadel fleet arrived peacefully over their home world, Earth in what is now being designated as the Sol system."
"Fascinating. Given the peaceful circumstances of the first contact, are negotiations already underway to introduce these humans to the citadel?"
"Not exactly, Carses. The humans are in a grave position, according to the councilor. She tells us that they were recently involved in a vicious war with their neighbors in the Orion Arm. They were pushed back to the Sol system, and early reports suggest a horrific genocide. When the November 3rd pulse ripped through their space it wiped out most of what was left. However, some UEG and UNSC leadership survived the attacks, and have negotiated in person with councilor Tevos."
"I…I don't know what to say. Did the councilor say anything about this other race? Will the Citadel council bring them to justice? Could they pose a threat to undefended systems?"
"I shared these concerns with the councilor, but she was adamant that the aggressor races, known to the humans as the Covenant, suffered greatly from the pulse, and so far, no they show no signs of survival. While the pulse had a tragic effect on the borders of Turian space, it appears to have had a much more dire effect on the humans and the covenant, which are far closer to the estimated origin of the pulse."
"This pulse, Asha, is it possible that it could be a weapon developed by either the humans or the covenant?"
"The councilor found that unlikely, given the extensive damage to both. In her visit to the Sol system, she found the humans in just as much confusion as we were."
"Tragic, truly tragic Asha. To circle back, however, why AREN'T the humans being invited to join the citadel. Is it not our responsibility as the head of galactic civilization to take care of lesser civilizations? We could provide them with the aid they need."
"The councilor expressed that there are several catching points on citadel integration for the humans. The councilor assured me however, that the council has come to a groundbreaking agreement with the humans, one which will ensure the prosperity of both our peoples."
"That is always good news. Did the councilor elaborate on these 'catching points' on citadel integration? And any clues what the plan is to aid the humans in their plight?"
"Both good questions Carses. The councilor refused to elaborate, however my contacts in the Asari Navy seem to indicate potential hang-ups involving the Treaty of Farixen. It seems that during their conflict with the Covenant, the UNSC constructed many high-tonnage dreadnoughts. However, Tevos has announced a partnership with the UEG despite this."
"The remnants of the UNSC battle fleet will assist the Citadel expeditionary fleet on the search for the source of the pulse. On this voyage, they will investigate the status of human worlds that have fallen out of contact, and patrol for any covenant presence. In return, the humans have asked Tevos to permit colonists to populate their cities and help to preserve their culture and heritage."
"Am I hearing you correctly Asha? The humans are both offering worlds to expand to as well as military assistance to the citadel fleet? That seems one-sided."
"The councilor agreed. However, she reminded me that the human population is now a tiny fraction of what it was even five years ago, according to the councilor's reports. The humans are in very real danger of going extinct, as I have been told. They have infrastructure for billions that will crumble without support. I am told that the humans wish to preserve their cities, in the event that they can one day repopulate them. They are willing to exchange a permanent citadel presence for this hope."
"Thank you, Asha. Truly unprecedented times. This takes us straight into live coverage of councilor Tevos' press conference on this new colonization program, right here after this break."
The bar was dead silent. Some of the locals stared at the screens with a look of shock and mistrust. They had grown used to being far removed from the high society on the citadel. Should this 'deal' with the UNSC fall through, it would undoubtedly be border colonies like this one that bore the brunt of the assault.
On others' faces however, the Elia engineers could see hope, and anticipation. Life on the border was hard. If there was anything the engineers had learned stranded on this rock, even the common luxuries of established space could be rarities out here. If the humans could offer a new opportunity that didn't have to be clawed from the rock and earth, they knew that many of the patrons here might take it in a heartbeat.
To the crew of the Elia however, the news was only met with relief. Half of the crew was still certain that the expedition was to be eliminated in nuclear hellfire the second the moment they left the system. To learn of a peaceful resolution to the conflict was, well, inspiring. It almost made the month stranded out here worth it. Almost.
Unfortunately, one of the bar's wiser patrons seemed to notice the lack of world changing surprise from the Asari engineers at the news. They sat in their corner of the bar, avoiding eye contact with the other patrons. Some leaned over to their neighbor with small whispers. And when the patron spoke, all eyes turned to him.
"So. You Asari in your fancy science vessel break down after running like hell from the border systems. You claim you can't tell us anything out of some order of military secrecy. And then, only a month later, news of a new civilization beyond 314 breaks."
The room was silent. The look of nervousness on one of the younger engineers told the patron that he had struck gold. A mocking sneer spread across his face.
"So, blue, what does this Earth look like?"
Osh'Leih nar Teslaya cursed as the bolt finally broke loose, her hand slamming into the solid frame of the massive transverse shock absorption cylinder. The bolt zipped free from the housing above her head, pinged off her mask, and clattered conveniently out of reach below the steel grate she was laying on. She was smudged head to toe in grease, crammed into a narrow alcove in the back of a freighter's landing assembly. She barely had room to move, much less roll over onto her stomach to try to reach futilely for the bolt that had doubtlessly fallen the meter to the bottom of the landing bay.
Stupid bosh'tet captain and his stupid krogan tools.
The oversized wrench dwarfed her slender hands and barely fit in the tight quarters of her workspace. This was a space that needed finesse, a delicate hand. Had the bolts not been rusted and stuck like cement, she would have used her own tools. She had wanted to drill out the bolt and re-tap the hole, but the captain of this vessel decided he had neither the time nor the money to buy new bolts. Or so he claimed. Instead, he had just shoved an ancient, oversized wrench in her hands and told her to go down and "do it right".
Kiyet.
She held her still smarting hand to her chest, before slamming the wrench into the housing above. It left a nasty nick in the filthy steel of the housing, but it's not like that stupid captain would ever venture down here himself to inspect her work. Still, with the bolt certainly well out of reach, she couldn't finish her job down here without inching her way out of this crevice and back to the parts bin, where she would find another equally corroded bolt that would probably last about a month before it too needed to be replaced. She didn't even know how this ship was still running.
She began inching through the cramped crawlspace of the bay, back to the access hatch that led to the engineering bay and the sections of the ship designed for crew members to use.
If she could do it all over, she would have been a touch more suspicious of the captain's offer. It was too good to be true. Free passage to any of the major trading worlds in the Attican Traverse? What young Quarian could pass that up? What the crew hadn't told her is that the vessel would spend months loitering between insignificant systems in the back end of nowhere. Systems where the ship was likely to be the only passage from for months at a time.
She had long been convinced she would take her leave of the crew the minute they got to a world she had seen on a map before. But until then, she was unfortunately far more likely to get somewhere in this pile of scrap than by trying her luck on some far-flung colony. Which meant suffering the indignity of working on this ship.
She knew some of the others that left the fleet when she did would be already planning their returns to the fleet, probably with some fancy new software, or even a small freighter bought from some junkyard. They would be planning out the start to their actual lives, finding a crew and finding a place in Quarian society.
Not her. She's still stuck on this freighter with its unkempt crew. She exhaled to squeeze past a particularly tight corner, and her legs finally touched the floor of the engineering bay, where she had left her tools. With an undignified crash, the rest of her body followed them. Now sitting on the hard floor of the bay, she took a moment to enjoy the open spaces of the bay. Well. Relative.
Her father had once told her that in space, all things are relative. At the time, she was clueless; thought it some remark about the physics lessons she had aboard the Teslaya. Now, she wished she had never learned what he really meant.
The door to the compartment squealed open, and the massive frame of the captain stood in the doorway. Osh scrambled to her feet, but not soon enough.
"What do you think you're doing in here, suit-rat? Wasting more of my time?" the Krogan growled.
Osh tried to explain the situation, how the bolt had broken, and that she needed to replace it. She stumbled over her words as a furious look ignited in his eyes.
"I thought you people were supposed to be good with a wrench. No wonder you steal from everybody. That bolt's coming out of your pay. Just like the time you'll spend fixing that gear," the captain grumbled.
If Osh was braver, she might confront the towering Krogan. But she really needed this ride. So, she dropped her eyes, and shirked past the captain, muttering under her breath. That krogan snapped back at her, grabbing her arm before she could escape down the hall, towering over her tiny frame.
"What did you say rat?!"
Osh mumbled again, this time slightly louder, "I…I said you don't pay me anyways, sir."
At once the furious expression dropped from the Krogan's face. In its place, was a maniacal grin.
"Of course, I don't. Since you were so kind to remind me, I will only dock you tonight's meal."
His laughter echoed off the walls as Osh retreated towards the crew's lounge and the machine shop. The soft clang of her boots on the metal floor echoed down the corridor. Once enough space was made between her and the captain, she slowed and regained her composure. She could find the bolt she needed in the machine shop.
This time, she would take her own tools, at her own pace, and fix it her way. Which meant another hour of work to repair the gear. Add thirty minutes to squeeze her way back into the narrow passageways, and the repair job in the drive bay, and she had a long night ahead of her. She suspected that the Krogans had brought her on board because she could fit in all the tiny maintenance alcoves aboard the adapted Volus freighter.
She was still mystified about why the Krogan bought a ship they couldn't physically maintain. It was probably the cheapest thing that would get them into space. And if the layers of rust and dirt in the landing assembly were anything to go by, they never even thought about maintenance, either ignoring developing problems, or 'hiring' some desperate sucker like herself to do the repairs.
She rounded the corner into the lounge. The tacky red carpet, probably stolen from a bombed-out Tuchanka store-front, stood out in stark contrast to the otherwise industrialist architecture of the freighter. The lighting was dim, and the covering on the electrical lighting was yellowed with age, basking the room in an off-putting glow. The crew arranged dense metal crates around the lounge's perimeter, facing towards a new holo-screen. They had bought it with the proceeds of their last delivery. Osh was forbidden from watching it of course, after all, she hadn't pitched in money for its purchase.
A thick steel table was in the center of the room, its surface cratered and dented by the heavy armored boots of the crews whenever they kicked their feet up on the table. On the wall were dozens of calendars with provocative images of scantily clad asari smiling temptingly back.
In the lounge rested the rest of the crew, all Krogan. In the usual fashion, they were all sitting down on the crates watching a news broadcast direct from the citadel. She half expected a chorus of jibes and insults as she was shooed out of the room and back to work. But today, the room remained silent. They were transfixed. None of them noticed her. Images of a city flashed on the screen.
The slender towering skyscrapers that looked like blades of a sword seemed to reach up into the rainclouds looming above the city. The planet's sun sets over a dark blue ocean, with each wave reflecting the same orange glow that gleamed from the tower skyscrapers. Long highways wrapped and weaved around the central island of the city, and Osh could see the distinctive shapes of industrial dockyards.
The chyron below the screen was simple: "New Mombasa, Earth".
The images changed. Osh instantly recognized the familiar armor of a Hierarchy marine squad. They were shown weaving through a quaint, homely alley. Flowers in pots rested on balconies, soaking up the planet's sunlight. Clothes on lines crisscrossed the alley. So much of the metallic living of this New Mombasa alley was familiar; the tight spaces and corridors looked right out of a live ship. But instead of being trapped under a metallic roof, the beautiful blue sky shone above the Turian team. She could image the breeze blowing through the streets, ruffling the multicolored clothing hanging above the alley.
The image changed again. This time it showed a peaceful courtyard. Exotic flora was planted in elevated boxes. Abandoned vehicles of some kind littered the streets. The courtyard seemed relaxing, a place to escape the urban tangle of the cities. It reminded Osh of how the citadel presidium blended natural and artificial environments it one. She remembered how she used to dream of one day becoming the first new ambassador to a reinstated Quarian envoy. How naïve she used to be.
The wide shot of the courtyard revealed some previously unseen blemishes, however. The tight, restricted view of the alley, and the broad pan over the city had hidden the obvious signs of war. Osh could see pockmarks in the walls where long strings of automatic fire had chased its victim down the street. The towers rising above the city had chunks taken out of them, glass facades smashed by mortar fire. Some of the vehicles in the plaza were blackened, burned by long extinguished fire. Before Osh could properly take in the scene, it changed once again.
This time, it switched to a different city, one where the sky was not blue, but the unblemished starry tapestry of space. The city was dramatically different, with many domes and towers joined by thousands of snaking tubes. Instead of a lush garden word, the surface of this planet was a bright gray, nearly washing the camera out with the intensity of the glare bouncing off its powdery surface. The city rested peacefully on a flat plain. Off in the distance, small mountains rose above the city. Around the city were scattered craters, ranging from small to massive.
The chyron had changed, now reading "Crisium City, Luna".
The picture changed again, this time from inside one of the structures, looking out at the terrain of Luna. A bright blue and green orb rose over the horizon, shrouded in wisps of clouds. A garden world. Water and flora. Massive oceans. Now that she thought about it, almost certainly the world that hosted New Mombasa. Which made Luna a moon.
The crew remained enchanted, as more images of more cities continued to flash across the screen.
Sydney, Earth.
Chicago, Earth.
New Harmony, Mars.
Havana, Earth.
Ganymede, Mars.
Eventually, the door slid open, and the bulky frame of the captain entered the room. Had Osh not been so entranced by the broadcast, she would remember that now was not a good time to be caught doing nothing in the lounge. But here she was, caught red handed. She watched the captain's face tighten, his chest filling with air about to berate the young Quarian within an inch of her life. For perhaps the first time, she was saved by her fellow crew members, who she still wasn't even sure had noticed her.
"Boss," one called out, "Look at this."
"What!" the captain snapped, displeased about being interrupted from berating his favorite target of abuse.
"That fleet the citadel sent out a few months back? They found a new race. Cities and everything. And the aliens are inviting people to move in. Something about preserving their cities."
What? Those beautiful cities? A new race? The opportunities. What could she find for her people? Osh, for the first time in her pilgrimage, had a destination.
The captain looked at the panning shots of the cities flashing past. It had rotated back to New Mombasa.
"What kind of morons invite colonists to their own cities?"
The crew member shrugged, "dunno, that councilor bitch said something about a war. Killed all the bastards. Need to repopulate the cities before the infrastructure collapses."
A contemplative scowl slides across the captain's face. Osh hadn't known her captain to be particularly quick witted, and she could practically hear the gears whirring inside his concussed brain.
"How do we get in on this action. Did it say?"
"Just show up, I guess. They said they are doing visas and processing outside of relay 314."
The captain nodded and started heading back to his quarters. He paused in the doorway and snapped back to the helmsman.
"What do you think you're waiting for fool? Get us moving! Lazy fuck."
Osh laughed a grinned behind her visor, happy to see another crew member a target of the captain's wrath. As if sensing her joy, while the helmsman walked with loud footsteps towards the bridge, the captain spotted her, and loomed large.
"As for you, thieving space-rat, get that gear fixed before I space your worthless ass."
As she walked to the machine shop to fetch her bolt, the grin on her face didn't fade. Not even the promise of another long, hungry, sleepless night at work could ward off the swelling of hope in her heart.
The lower decks of the Triumph were much like the hangar, caught up in the throes of the cruiser's re-armament. Noises bounced off the titanium walls and flowed past the opened bulkheads down the long corridors of Triumph's underbelly. Varso could hear the shouts of fellow Turians, the clang of a tool being dropped, the whirr of mechanical winches and gears.
As Aurelia had explained to him, re-armament was a complicated process with UNSC technology. She had made it her goal to learn all she could about the cruisers, and to Varso, she was a lifesaver. She knew the lower corridors like the back of her hand and had been able to guide him through the twisting passageways out of the hangar.
Of course, her passion for the vessel also meant that Varso now knew more than he ever wanted to know about Triumph's waste disposal system, and other such oddities. The cost of knowledge.
Now, the pair were in the middle of a long straight corridor. Varso could scarcely see the end, a bulkhead hundreds of meters away. The distance was deceptive. If he were planet-side, the bulkhead at the end of the corridor would feel nearby, inside the range he could feasibly hit with his rifle. But now that he was on Triumph, the same distance felt kilometers away.
A trio of study yellow rails ran the length of the corridor. Every dozen meters there was heavy framing, giant columns penetrating the deck on either side of the passageway. Mounts for enormous blast doors were embedded deep into the walls, doors readied to slam shut the moment Triumph even sniffed combat.
Around him, Varso could almost sense the bulk of Triumph. Corvus always felt comfortable, like he was inside a well-built fortress. Sturdy walls protected him, yet he still felt free. It felt like a machine, a swift vehicle of destruction. On Triumph, especially here, in the belly of the beast, he felt like he was under a mountain. Like he was in a bunker buried deep underground, where no amount of ordinance could reach.
Except that Varso had seen the jagged holes in Canberra's flanks, the deep penetrating scars that had doubtless killed entire divisions. He wondered if they had felt the way he did now. Or had they been all too aware of their own vulnerability?
Did they even know what killed them?
Aurelia had said something to him, but he missed it. Quickly, he snapped back to reality.
"Sorry?"
Aurelia smiled back and said, "I was asking about the repairs, whether you saw them on the way in. I haven't left the ship since I finished testing on the fleet's radiation shielding. Have they made much progress?"
Varso didn't know how to respond to that question. He was a grunt, not a sailor. He barely knew what he was looking at on hierarchy cruisers, much less human ones.
He said as much to Aurelia: "There was some work being done on the damage to the outer hull, but I didn't really know what I was looking at. Where did the third ship come from? I thought the first two were all they had?"
"The St. Paul," Aurelia added, nodding in response, "Canberra's escorts towed her from another yard. You should have seen it, so majestic. I had just transferred to Triumph and was watching from an observation compartment. Was all I did my first night here! Not often do you get to see inside the engine housings of one of these things. Apparently, she was under construction when the Covenant attacked. Never finished. I wonder..." Aurelia rambled on, this time about the intricacies of Marathon class pinch-fusion drives.
"So that's it? All that time spent building that thing and they are just ripping it apart for parts?" The concept felt wrong to Varso. He had never been particularly religious, not like some Turians in his unit, but it still unsettled him to imagine the sprits of the humans who doubtlessly work hard on that ship, staring down the barrels of what must have felt like an imminent covenant invasion. At least when construction of a Turian ship was halted, the workers got closure. They got to see the end of their work.
A ship like St. Paul must have taken thousands of laborers, over weeks and months. He knew nothing about the UNSC procurement schedule, but he knew that these things weren't fast.
Aurelia finished her drawn-out discussion of the subtle differences between block 40 Marathons (like Triumph, apparently) and the new block 50 Marathons. She turned to him and immediately recognized his look. Varso supposed he looked much like he had when he first delivered the human relics to Aurelia's science bay on Corvus. He could feel his mandibles twitching in thought, the tapping of his sharp claws against his armor, and his eyes, lost in the empty space of Triumph's central corridor.
Aurelia was looking back at him pensively. Her expression had changed. It no longer had the same whimsy, now replaced by a much more sincere mask. She gave a little nod down the corridor and started walking.
"Come on, I've got something I want to show you."
/
/CA-70 'CANBERRA', Date: 2553/2/9
***ALERT***
NEW TRAFFIC ON: UNSCBattleNet
ODS 1010-6 (Acting CO, 5th Fleet (HomeFleet/5Fleet/CSG-1)): I need to know what happened to Battlegroup Omicron.
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): My my. Been doing some digging, have we? Omicron was a fleet unit. You would know more about it than I would.
ODS 1010-6 (Acting CO, 5th Fleet (HomeFleet/5Fleet/CSG-1)): Don't play dumb with me. I know Lord Hood detached an entire battlegroup from 7th fleet during the most important battle in human history. Without Stalingrad, we lost control over the entire URNA east coast. Hood knew something to take that risk. Which means so did Parangosky.
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): Probably.
ODS 1010-6 (Acting CO, 5th Fleet (HomeFleet/5Fleet/CSG-1)): Part of our deal was your cooperation with our mission.
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): I fail to see the connection to your mission.
ODS 1010-6 (Acting CO, 5th Fleet (HomeFleet/5Fleet/CSG-1)): Lord Hood orders away the last carrier in UNSC space and her battlegroup away during the final stand of the UNSC. Later that day, something wipes out every living thing in the Sol system. Whatever Lord Hood thought was out there was more important to him than Earth. That's a pretty short list. And trying to stop whatever caused that pulse would be one of those things.
ODS 1010-6 (Acting CO, 5th Fleet (HomeFleet/5Fleet/CSG-1)): So, I ask again. What did Hood know that we don't? And did the UNSC or ONI have something to do with that pulse?
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): …
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): To our knowledge, we didn't have anything to do with the pulse.
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): All we knew is that Hood received a transmission from the Zeta Doradus system, with promises of a war-changing opportunity. First, he sent Spartans. Then, he sent Battlegroup Omicron.
ODS 1010-6 (Acting CO, 5th Fleet (HomeFleet/5Fleet/CSG-1)): Who sent the message?
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): Catherine Halsey.
/
Aurelia and Varso only remained on the main corridor for a short time. Soon she led him off the beaten path, through the tangle of hallways and staircases in Triumph's belly. The doors down here didn't open for her automatically, not yet one of the areas of the ship carefully groomed for citadel personnel. Still, a simple wave of her omni-tool and her credentials as one of the engineering heads on Triumph got her through every door.
Soon, she stopped in front of one final door. This one was slightly more reinforced, with various warnings in human written across it. Aurelia didn't give Varso time to read the markings, tugging his arm as the door opened.
Aurelia watched Varso stagger into the bay before stopping. She heard him take in a sharp gasp, mandibles slightly ajar and jaw hanging loose. His eyes flickered around the room, astonished. He uttered several noises that seemed to be the start of sentences but couldn't get anything out that Aurelia's translator could handle.
After a few seconds, he finally managed something comprehensible.
"Is this..."
Aurelia hummed contently, happy that her surprise had worked.
"No. Well, not exactly. Different ship, same bay."
Around them, the bay was lined with two rows of SOIEV pods, hatches opened. In the center room, was a large holo-table. She could imagine Alpha-Nine around it now, just as they had seen them on the New Mombasa tapes. Romeo would be there, with Buck across from him. Over to the right were the racks of UNSC weapons where the team would get outfitted for their fateful drop. Triumph's ODST bay had a rifle just like the one that Buck had crammed in Romeo's hands. Many more were still secured in the racks, waiting for a call to action that would never come.
Aurelia had sat in the pod the Rookie used her first time in the room. Fourth craft on the left. She remembered the adrenaline that had coursed through her veins, imagining the sudden drop and long fall. Of course, a drop from Triumph would only result in the pod burying itself in the drydock 50 meters below them, but the thought of sailing down through the black-then-blue sky like the rookie had stuck in her mind.
She had felt the controls, careful not to touch any of the buttons the Rookie had used to launch himself. She didn't even attempt to close the hatch. She had been briefed on a huge number of UNSC systems in her short time on the ship, but SOIEV operation was something beyond her 'need-to-know', as Captain Victus had put it. Instead, she pretended, trying to imagine what she could have done had she been born on Earth. Would she have answered the call? Would she have been one of the brave souls controlling these magnificent machines on their descent towards the combat zone?
In another life, a life as a human, would she have even considered becoming a scientist?
She watched as Varso took a slow walk around the room, running his hands over the relics of humanity that he never even considered he might find on Triumph. She watched as he examined the rifles still on the rack. They were freshly cleaned, shiny and oiled, the tiny nicks in their protective coating glimmering in the steady light of the Triumph. Aurelia had seen the rifles that Varso had brought back. They were filthy, covered in grime and the signs of battles. Carbon scoring covered bolts and muzzle breaks.
She supposed that this might be the first time Varso saw the UNSC as it was, before the war. When everything was pristine and ready. Where he couldn't see the scars on Triumph's hull. Where he couldn't see the caked-on earth clogging the rifles he picked up. She had spent the last week aboard the ship, exploring every nook she could find. She still wasn't done, but she had very quickly begun to form a different vision of humanity.
The tapes of New Mombasa spoke of humanity's desperation, determination, and grit. Before Triumph, all Aurelia and Varso had seen were destroyed ships and brutalized cities. There were flashes of the old humanity, sure, the advertisements on the walls, the gleaming facades of the skyscrapers of New Mombasa. But for Aurelia, it always seemed hidden away, suppressed by the aggression of war. The tapes from the dead ODST had only reinforced this, and for a time, all she could see was the utilitarianism of their technology.
Even when Triumph ripped a hole in space-time in front of her, she only saw brute force, humanity clawing its way through space to confront a mysterious enemy.
It wasn't until she arrived on Triumph that she saw the side of humanity that had been hidden from her. Her first task on board had been to plan for the arrival of Turian and Asari rations. To do that, she had been given an in-depth tour of Triumph's hangar operating procedures. She had to figure out how to maneuver the colossal longsword fighters around both the launching bay and the storage bay.
To put it bluntly, the UNSC engineers were geniuses. She wasn't even sure that they could fit one of these longsword fighters in Corvus's hangar bay, much less 12. But, the UNSC engineers had designed Triumph's complicated secondary hangar, with vertical alcoves to hold and prepare all the fighters, leaving two entire bays for other operations.
She discovered the intimate dance of a UNSC hangar in wartime, how they could scramble all 12 longswords in under 15 minutes, on only two elevators. It took her 1 hour and 30 minutes just to correctly load and lift her first load of rations up Triumph's longsword lifts.
Her next task took her to the Triumph's life support systems, so that she could optimize them for Turian and Asari residents. Again, the ingenuity of humanity struck her once more. The temperature control systems were, to put it mildly, brilliant. Billions of tiny heat conductive lines ran from the reactors, life support hubs, and other hot spots, and out to the outer hull. Citadel ships relied on heat radiators to keep their ships cool and used energy from their reactors to heat ships when their internal temperature dropped too low. The UNSC used the very armor that protected them as a massive heat sink. Massive heat pumps would pump excess heat into the meters of titanium that surrounded the hull.
When Triumph was running hot, either generating massive amounts of heat from her MACs, or running her slipspace drive, her specialized high-temperature heat pumps would heat the armor plating, reaching temperatures where the outer hull was hot enough to burn somebody not paying attention, radiating the excess heat off into space.
Of course, the thick insulation between the armor plating and the primary hull proved providential when the Marathons came under plasma fire.
And again, on dozens of other systems, Aurelia had seen the ingenuity of the humans, their creativity and cunning. While the war had forced them to dire ends, they weren't unthinking beasts throwing themselves against the Covenant. Aurelia suspected that Varso was coming to the very same conclusion, albeit in his own way.
The ODST bay had a type of military order that must be familiar to the Turian, a clear line process from briefing to deployment that, much like the longswords in the hangar, were finely tuned to maximize efficiency. It was different watching it from orbit, standing in the debris field of the once proud UNSC fleet. But here? Inside an undamaged cruiser? The other nature of humanity was easy to see. You just had to look a little.
/
/ Office of CINCONI, Date: 2553/2/10
***ALERT***
NEW TRAFFIC ON: ERROR UNREGISTERED CHANNEL
SBL 4071-3 (Sydney Synthetic Intellect Institute): What did you tell them?
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): The truth, at least part of it.
SBL 4071-3 (Sydney Synthetic Intellect Institute): And Halo?
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): No, not that.
SBL 4071-3 (Sydney Synthetic Intellect Institute): Without the Turian fleet, how do you plan to retrieve the package?
SBL 4071-3 (Sydney Synthetic Intellect Institute): We can't exactly carry a shovel.
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): If only that was the hard part. The security measures that damned woman put in place...
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): We'll figure it out.
SBL 4071-3 (Sydney Synthetic Intellect Institute): I hope you know what you are doing.
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): This is all for the best.
/
Victus and Halliday had reconvened on Triumph's bridge for yet another meeting with Tibril and the heads of the citadel fleet. On her pedestal, Halliday was tapping her foot, arms crossed across her chest. Odysseus was late, an unusual development for the usually punctual AI. It's not like he had anywhere else to be.
In the past few weeks, more and more officers had been introduced to their stations on Triumph's bridge, and Victus found himself enjoying the presence of fellow Turians on the bridge, if only because it meant somebody to talk to who wasn't an alien construct. Though he had gotten used to the idea, it still sometimes unnerved him, usually when her artificial voice found him in his quarters in a compromising position, or when he got lost in Triumph's halls.
Today, though, the bridge was empty, vacated for the upcoming meeting. It's not like Triumph was going to be flying anywhere without taking the whole drydock with her (something that Halliday had boastfully revealed). And now, they were waiting on an AI.
As if on command, Odysseus' avatar appeared on the holo-table, dressed in the simple, bulky, body armor of a 22nd century UN soldier. Or so he had been told by Halliday. All human armor looked the same to him.
Odysseus spoke first, his artificial voice being broadcast across the fleet.
"First, I want to apologize for my tardiness. I was investigating some leads on our mission. And, most importantly, I found a good place to start our search."
A small clamor rose across the call, before Admiral Tibril quickly silenced it.
"I was under the impression that we would head to the pulse origin we triangulated? I wasn't aware of any consideration given to other destinations," the admiral spoke, clearly uneasy with a potential change of plans.
Odysseus nodded courteously, before continuing: "I was looking into the disappearance of a UNSC battlegroup early in the mornings on the day of the pulse. They were ordered away by UNSC HIGHCOM to a location in the Zeta Doradus sector."
Victus' omni-tool buzzed, and he looked down to find galactic coordinates pointing to a point of space unexplored by the citadel. It was not near where the pulse had been traced to.
"The UNSC had received a message from Dr. Catherine Halsey, one of Earth's brightest minds. She advertised a war-changing discovery on the UNSC world. A special-ops team was deployed, followed quickly by a UNSC battlegroup. The deployment of this group left entire portions of our flank exposed. It likely killed hundreds of thousands of civilians. It was not a move taken lightly."
"These coordinates, Odysseus, they are nowhere near the expected source of the pulse. What kind of chase do you intend to lead us on?" Victus interjected, "We're not here to look for some weapon."
"Admiral, this fleet departed for Zeta Doradus on the morning of November 3rd. Less than 18 hours later, the pulse swept through the Sol system. Under UNSC drives, that voyage would have taken a week. But reports have the battlegroup riding the slipspace wake of a Covenant destroyer. They are much faster. That time frame has them arriving in around 16 hours."
"So, you are saying..."
"I was saying that I don't believe in coincidences like this. A latch-key discovery, one that theoretically has the potential to end the war. We deploy a fleet that we can't spare, and within two hours of their expected arrival in the system, a massive pulse washes through UNSC space, wiping out the Covenant."
"And Turians, and Asari, and Humans," Tibril followed, "You think it's some kind of misunderstanding of how to use a super-weapon? We can't let something like that exist in our space."
"Possibly. Look, the Zeta Doradus system is far closer to Earth than your triangulated pulse location. It's in the same direction. Worst case, we spend a week surveying the system and find nothing, which I highly doubt. Then we can continue to the estimated location," Odysseus finished, "There really is no downside. You want us to be your guide? Trust us."
There was a long pause on the bridge. Victus knew there was only posturing left. The AI was right. He would be suspicious too. And if it was truly on the way, the fleet had nothing to lose. He had known Tibril long enough to know that he was thinking the same thing. A part of him was excited to explore a new world in an unexplored part of the galaxy. Another part of him was terrified of what he might find. Superweapons, missing fleets, and unknown worlds. It certainly wasn't what he had been expecting when he accepted the assignment to Triumph. Who knows, it could be interesting.
Tibril finally finished his part.
"I agree that this path seems prudent, we should explore Zeto Doradus first, as soon as Canberra and Triumph finish their repairs."
Victus looked to his left. Halliday stared at the galactic map, an eerie smirk on her face.
On the day of the departure, the combined fleet was truly something to behold. The dark grey hulls of the UNSC warships glistened in the sunlight. Scattered behind them were the aggressive lines of the Turian warships. The fleet was arranged in columns.
Each UNSC frigate would take two or three Turian frigates with it in its wake. Canberra would take most of the fleet's cruisers, while Triumph would blaze a path for the Kilware and her escorts. All in all, in their staging area, the fleet looked like a series of hunter-killer squadrons, a predatory stature for the cameras. And cameras there were.
While the public wasn't yet allowed into the Sol system, the council made sure there was proper documentation of the momentous occasion. Cameras had been taking pretty much non-stop coverage of the combined fleet. Smaller drones were darting between the hulls of the warships on standby, gliding along capturing the fleet's finer details. The UNSC warships looked proud, fresh out of the drydock, white highlights freshly reapplied to the hull. The areas that had been patched were obvious, the unblemished titanium of the St. Paul's incomplete hull shone brighter than the original armor plate of the two UNSC cruisers.
The frigates were much the same. They got their attention down on Mars' surface, where they were rearmed and reequipped. Most now bore very little evidence of their struggle over Earth. They gave the impression of a well-maintained and well-equipped species. Exactly what the council would want to convey to the public.
Should the public know that the frigates had not a soul on board, and that the Cruisers were flown by a pair of AI with Turian and Asari crew, the council suspected that the reaction would not be positive. There was a time for the revelation. This was not it.
A bell chimed. H-Hour. At once, the ships of the joint fleet surged forwards, the Turian ships holding back to stay in pace with their UNSC escort. 10 bright blue flashes filled the space in front of the fleet, with dark black voids quickly growing and spiraling out of the arcing flames. The Turian ships pulled closer, ready to ride behind their makeshift cruiser-sized UNSC slipspace drives.
At once, the fleet seemed to slip from sight, vanish into the veil of the portal like stepping through a mirror. And then, once no more could be seen of the fleet. The portals collapsed, spiking radiation sensors across the observation fleets.
And then there was silence.
/
/ INF-101 'INFINITY', Date: 2553/2/15
***ALERT***
NEW TRAFFIC ON: ONI/CINCONI/ProjectOUROBORUS
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): They're gone. You can come out and play now.
ANE 3567-7 (CO, INF-101 PCU): I still don't like the secrecy. This project was meant to be a joint venture. I don't owe you any kind of loyalty.
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): They're fleet AI. They wouldn't understand the intricacies of diplomacy. Under their hand, this system would be dead space in 7 years.
ANE 3567-7 (CO, INF-101 PCU): I'M a fleet AI...
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): In name only. Why do you think you got attached to OUROBOROS?
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): What are the capabilities of INF-101?
ANE 3567-7 (CO, INF-101 PCU): Well, half of my systems haven't been configured, trying to jump to slipspace would be like rolling a die, and the weapons systems never got their final calibrations. There's not exactly a lot I can do here.
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): If I could connect you to a research AI, how long would it take to calculate slipspace solutions to and back from a single system?
ANE 3567-7 (CO, INF-101 PCU): Depends.
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): On?
ANE 3567-7 (CO, INF-101 PCU): Range, slipspace corridors, gravity well, hazards...
BBX 8995-1 (Office of CINCONI): Epsilon Eridani.
ANE 3567-7 (CO, INF-101 PCU): …
ANE 3567-7 (CO, INF-101 PCU): Oh.
/