Wow, writing this took a while.
Mostly because it's not just this chapter that I was working on, but almost all the chapters pertaining to the First Contact War arc. I've finished seven whole chapters, totaling to around 98,000 words! Really, I'm rather baffled by just how much I had to say about the war, especially when all I had to work with were maybe half-a-dozen paragraphs in the canonical codex! Still, pretty proud of it.
But I'm a little burnt out. Pushing yourself does that, even though I still didn't manage the very last chapter outlined for this arc, let alone start the next arc, which will finish off this fic and set up the sequel. I really wanted to finish it all before August, because I'm going for my masters, and it promises to be an intensive course. Unfortunately, I'm only human. So I won't be able to keep up to my earlier promise of finishing and publishing this whole thing by October.
Not sure when I'll be able to get back to Fire and Ice. But we still have those seven chapters. Those will probably be updated in rapid succession. They're un-betaed, so any mistakes are on me.
Thanks, in advance, for reading. Let me know what you think.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night; Dylan Thomas
On the Subject of Extraterrestrial Influence
By a Concerned Human
October, 2027
Manifesto of Terra Firma
I remember a time when I used to look at the stars and wonder if we were alone in the universe. Whether the silence indicated that our presence, our evolution into thinking beings was a cosmic stroke of luck. Or if the darkness held something more… sinister.
Never would I have imagined that I'd know the answers to those questions in my lifetime. Nor that the lesson would come at such a great cost.
Ladies and gentlemen, the past two decades have shown us quite definitively that we share our universe with a great many other beings.
And yet, humanity is on its own. It always has been, and it always will be.
There's a question I pose to those who inquire about my cause. Can you think of a single positive consequence of first contact? Most of them immediately respond with the obvious - Prince Thor and the Asgardians. A rare few, however, hesitate… because they realized that even those encounters were rife with conflict and resulted in an unimaginable toll on humanity.
The New York Invasion. The Dark Elves' attempted Conquest. The Infinity War. We never initiated the conflict. We weren't even the intended target. We were a pushover species, and Earth a staging ground. An arena for alien gladiators to air their grievances. So what if there was collateral damage? It's just humans after all.
It is true that the Asgardians have been powerful allies in the past, and the contribution of Prince Thor to protect a world that wasn't his own cannot be understated. And yet, wasn't it his brother who created a situation from which Earth had to be protected? Twice? For the chaos that Loki unleashed, a weregild was promised - an offering of gold and valuable stones. It would've been poor comfort for the families of those who lost their lives to the many invasions. But we received none of it.
Then the salt to the wound. On the brink of destruction from a partial genocide, we were forced to host a species that had allowed their own homeworld to be destroyed. Can we truly expect them to do better by ours?
Of course not. Instead, they take more. An entire solar system, to be precise.
My fellow Terrans, it is a blessing that the Asgardians left when they did. Our species has been influenced by extraterrestrials for far too long. Alien languages are being taught in our schools. Our children grow up fascinated with tales of galactic heroes and interstellar wars. Humanity's individuality, the thing that makes us unique, is being diluted, getting lost by integration into alien cultures.
How much more can we stand to lose? Are we losing our humanity itself? The answer is yes… because we already lost it long ago. Aliens have infected our genetic heritage. Played god with our DNA, creating powerful warriors with our faces, equipped with abilities that could shatter the very world.
We cannot allow this to continue, fellow Terrans. More importantly, we must not. Humanity needs to stand alone if we are to survive, if we are to remain strong.
Terra Firma is Latin for 'solid earth.' The ground that is firm beneath your feet. Feel it. Know it. Love it.
And when the time comes - and it will come - stand by it.
January 2nd, 2030
Shanxi
Thaddeus Ross responds to inquiries with as much patience as he can muster, resisting the urge to gesture to the FAQ leaflets being sold at the entrance counter. For all that he is willing and able to do the legwork, he's still not entirely comfortable being the face of Terra Firma.
But then, if not for an organization with such a loose hierarchical structure than what he's used to, he wouldn't have been able to request his own choice of second-in-command, way overqualified though she might be.
Even now, Thaddeus considers it some sort of a miracle that she'd agreed to do it at all.
As the crowd thins just enough to guarantee some privacy for a whispered conversation, the woman in question appears at his elbow, datapad in hand. "We've got an unscheduled arrival," she says. "An MSV Worthington; mixed cargo-passenger hauler."
"Why am I being told? Isn't Shanxi Flight Control supposed to be handling it?"
"They did. Shuttle docking request was granted because the Worthington proved their registry with the Morrison Company."
Something about the way she says that makes him want to hurl the device onto the wall. He reigns in the impulse and settles for a displeased grunt.
Morrison was the front corporation funding Terra Firma's activities in this sector, maintained by the party's mysterious and elusive… benefactor. Thaddeus hadn't wanted to dig too deep into their inner workings to find out just how they define above-board legality.
Brushing it out of his mind, he pockets the datapad and locks eyes with his second-in-command. "So? Did the speech finally meet your exacting standards?"
Dr. Betty Ross' plastic smile turns genuine for a brief moment when she crouches to greet a toddler. "It's not exacting if all I'm asking for is a little tolerance."
Thaddeus snorts. "If it were up to you, you'd have us all dancing the Kumbaya with the Chitauri."
That finally punctures the impassive expression she'd mastered while still in pigtails. "While you managed to make some surprisingly humane points in that manifesto," she grits out. "I didn't think you were capable of reining in your natural sadism. Lawson must have you on a tighter leash than I'd assumed."
Something ugly roils inside him, but he waits until the hall is clear and empty but for the two of them to round on her. "One would think you'd have more appreciation for the man who saved your father from ruin," he snaps. "But you never could find the time of day for anyone who didn't fit in with your limited worldview!"
"Wonder who I got that from!" She glares at him, then whirls around and stomps away, the echo of her angry footsteps echoing throughout the hall.
He curses under his breath, then follows her backstage. "Betty…," he calls out. "I don't want to fight."
"Then why am I here, Thaddeus?" She demands, folding her arms. He winces; he hadn't managed to make her call him 'Dad' since 2010. "I could've been running experiments and taking classes at Culver this morning. But here I am, in a different solar system, stroking your massive ego!"
"Because you were right all those years ago. About the bigotry. It's what got me kicked out of the White House." It had taken him more than a year to accept that bitter pill, and even now, he struggles with it. "But if it hadn't been for that, I wouldn't be here, in service to a cause I believe in more than anything else."
All that he's experienced in the past three decades has been leading here - to this one shining moment, surrounded by fellow men and women who feel the very same. For once, he doesn't have to climb uphill to convince his audience of the danger that is even now closing in.
"That's nothing new," Betty is saying. "I might've been ghosting you, but the news followed me around anyway! The Sokovia Accords, the Spider-Scandal, the Transhuman Conspiracy. The same cause - oppression - just with distinct names for you to hide behind! The only difference with Terra Firma is that you've progressed into using Latin!"
"No, the only difference is that, for the first time, you're here," he shoots back. "You think I don't know what a snake Lawson is? I might appreciate what he's done for me, but don't think for a minute I don't recognize when I've made a deal with the devil! I knew I needed someone to keep me honest and grounded; prevent me from making the same mistakes as before! That's what you are - a touchstone!"
Betty recoils.
Something in him shatters at that surprise.
How thoroughly had he sabotaged his relationship with his only child for her to feel bewildered by the fact that he welcomes her opinion?
Betty clears her throat, and fixes him with a grim smile. "I wonder if that'll hold true even after you find out about the Worthington's haul."
He stares at her, uncomprehending for a moment before he remembers the datapad, and the reason she'd arrived in the first place. "Lots of ships are registered with the Morrison. What makes this one special?"
"Because they had a priority delivery… for you."
Bridge, PSV Triskelion
The mass relay drops them unceremoniously into a deafening silence.
In the distance, orbiting a star that's smaller and cooler than Sol, are several planets - only one of which appears habitable.
"Coast is clear," Barnes murmurs after a long, tense minute. "Status check."
"Still alive," Peter groans over the comms, " - though the engine room is uncomfortably hot. I'm evacuating the crew to higher decks, but we're gonna need to vent soon."
"Where are we?" Collins croaks, eyeing the expanse before her wildly.
Monica's fingers don't seem to want to let go of the death grip on her terminal. Thankfully, she doesn't need to pull up a galaxy map - she's familiar with her surroundings. "Pax System in the Horsehead." She jerks her head towards the garden world in the distance - its surface tinted a sparkling blue, broken only by small patches of pistachio-green landmasses. "That's Shanxi, one of our frontier outposts."
Collins rounds on her, eyes wide with rage and grief. Monica feels it mirrored inside of her. Oh god, Erik. "Using a primary relay without knowing where it leads to was risky. We could've landed anywhere! Why didn't you FTL to Erebus, then relay to Sol?"
"What, and lead the enemy straight to the homeworld? We have no idea who they are or what they can do! For all we know, they might just be able to track our relay trajectory!"
"Earth can take care of itself," Barnes cuts in. "It's the colony I'm worried about. We're at the very edge of Alliance-controlled space. The garrison needs to be informed that the enemy might have direct access to their system."
Gritting her teeth, Monica turns towards Shanxi.
Wispy masses of clouds swirl far above the surface of the garden world, obscuring their breach into the atmosphere. It's midmorning, according to local standard, and the outpost appears little more than a scatter of white blocks on green.
Overhead, the speaker crackles as they're hailed. "Unknown vessel, identify yourself or you will be fired upon."
"Approach Control, this is the PSV Triskelion, requesting an emergency landing. We've suffered extensive damage to our systems."
There's a pause. "Triskelion, we didn't detect any traffic from our existing relay connections. Where the hell did you come from?"
Monica curses under her breath. "Through a new primary relay from the Styx Theta cluster, after being attacked by an unknown enemy! Now, I'd like a vector and a berth - preferably before the hull cooks my crew!"
Another pause, longer this time. "Alright, Triskelion, settle down. Proceed to the coordinates sent to your nav system - it's an empty field suitable for core discharge. Also providing you shuttle clearance for your crew." The operator's voice lowers in warning. "Be advised: since your arrival was not scheduled, we will be impounding your vessel until your report can be confirmed."
"Acknowledged, Control." Shutting off the comms, Monica turns to the others. "Get out."
Collins shoves away from the CIC and stalks towards the elevator. Barnes rises almost gingerly, flexing his metallic arm. He hesitates next to her chair, then squeezes her shoulder briefly, before walking away.
Shanxi Garrison
Thaddeus' fingers leave smudges on the glass doors.
The shaft is carved into the cliffside, its outer walls camouflaged with cloaking tech. From the outside, it appears as though there's no disturbance in the rock, but his view of the outpost beyond is unimpeded as the elevator climbs to the garrison above.
Despite being a colony stretching the definition of 'frontier', Shanxi was chosen for its abundance of water. A world of shallow seas and coral reef islands, it was immediately appealing to those desperate for tropical retirement. Moreover, New Taiyuan, the capital, hosted a perfect audience for Terra Firma - veterans of the various alien wars that had plagued Earth.
Built on the shores of a mountainous island in the middle of a natural reservoir, Shanxi's first and largest outpost boasts state-of-the-art modular designs. Long platforms stretch out into the water, bolstered by robust stilts sunk deep into the lakebed. Multi-storied buildings spread out across the structures, their off-white surfaces numbered in bold red.
The garrison, however, had favored higher ground. Military forward stations had anchored themselves on the ledges jutting out of the cliffside. They don't allow shuttle landings from the colony - the only way to get up there is through the elevator.
The base comes into view and the doors slide open. Thaddeus marches out, nodding sharply to the soldiers saluting him. Exiting the building, he makes his way over to the hangar.
Despite being guarded by only a token force, the large garrison requires its own utility, with electricity generation, water and sewage treatment plants built into the mountain. Near the rim of the ledge is the hangar with an overhead landing pad. Adjoining the barracks in the west is a training area, an armory and a med bay. A large dish and several towers are erected above the central command station, connecting with the satellites scattered around the planet.
By the time he enters the hangar, several crates have already been unsealed. They're marked with a familiar logo - a jagged, serpentine shape rendered in gray. Jormungand Technologies, he thinks grimly - a subsidiary of Haribon Military Industries, based in Terra Nova. Infamous for their aggressive integration of alien technologies.
Only then does Thaddeus see the lieutenant.
He's stalking determinedly towards a sealed crate, hoisting a crowbar, his expression grim. But then he notices Thaddeus and freezes, eyes wide, the lines in his face disappearing to reveal a young man.
Thaddeus approaches him. The soldier's armor is a patchwork of various modular pieces, singed in many places. Abruptly transferred from hostile terrain, most probably. "I know every single member of the garrison, Lieutenant, by name or by face. Doesn't matter what rank they are. You aren't one of them."
He swallows and salutes. "Second Lieutenant Alec Ryder, sir. I landed just a few hours ago. I've been tracking the MSV Worthington - we believed that they were smuggling weapons to colonial forces."
"'We?'"
"I'm part of an ICT squad, General."
Thaddeus stares at him long enough for Ryder to drop his gaze, then grabs the crowbar from him and with a forceful motion, pries apart a crate's lid.
He struggles to contain his fury as the contents come to light.
Mass accelerator weapons of all categories - brand new and absolutely laden with state-of-the-art features. Ostensibly designed by the Alliance.
But Thaddeus can pick out the Asgardian influences. They're subtle, but they're there, providing enough of a kick to leave conventional, human weaponry in the dust.
He tosses an assault rifle to Ryder - a modified M-8 Valkyrie if he isn't mistaken; a variation of the Avenger design. Lawson's sense of humor leaves much to be desired. "Check for the serial number."
Chagrin mars Ryder's features as his omni-scanner finds them affixed to the barrel and confirms it with Alliance official registry. "General…"
"Wonder if all that training is worth our tax dollars if it's churning out only halfway-competent soldiers." He dismisses Ryder, turns to a quartermaster. "How many?"
"Several dozen crates, sir," is the reply. "We've got mod kits, as well as some… heavy duty armaments."
Thaddeus raises an eyebrow.
"Nuclear payloads, General. But every weapon has an identifier, and the shipment itself is part of a legitimate arms contract, I checked."
"Of course it is." Thaddeus had meant to sound assertive, but it comes out sardonic instead. "Pack it all up," he snaps out loud. "We don't need them!"
Under his breath, he mutters, " - we've never needed them."
—-
The words are barely out of his mouth before red washes down the walls.
A klaxon screams through the hangar, but doesn't quite manage to muffle the vibrations of a shuttle lowering to the landing pad.
Soldiers immediately grab their weapons and rush towards the ladders. Thaddeus himself reaches for an unmodified pistol, climbs up through a hatch and into the open, just in time to see the shuttle doors opening.
Three figures stumble out, looking worse for wear. Their armor is singed, the exposed skin streaked with dried blood and grime. Beside him, Ryder inhales sharply.
Suddenly everything makes a whole lot of sense. "Looks like you've brought trouble to my doorstep yet again, Collins."
"Ross," Isabelle Collins sighs. Beside her, disheveled, silent and wary, stand Peter Parker and Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. "You could try being grateful we were close enough to respond to the attack at all."
Distantly, in the empty fields, Thaddeus can just make out the silhouette of a ship with her weapons retracted and replaced with grounded radiation gear. A shimmer passes over the hull, and sheets of lightning jump away into the field, unleashing dancing auroras into the sky. "Attack?"
Barnes meets his gaze for the first time, and what he sees in those icy blue eyes makes his stomach drop. "An unknown enemy," the former assassin says quietly. "Ship signatures didn't find a match in any of the known databases."
The klaxon is still blaring, Thaddeus notes absently. From this height, he can see the hall where he'd held the conference. Where, only half an hour ago, he'd been forced to abandon his disoriented, vulnerable daughter. "Command center. Now."
Hours later…
Communications Room
"The Triskelion's records corroborate Collins' briefing," Thaddeus says, pacing. "The ships are definitely alien. We've got a war on our hands."
The ICT squad had ducked into spare cabins in the barracks to freshen up. Their ship is out of commission for the time being, but Thaddeus had ordered the fleet stationed near the Shanxi relay to mobilize. When the captains had protested, he'd forwarded the Triskelion's data and given them a dressing down they're not likely to forget anytime soon.
"And just when I'm trying to convince my followers that humanity needs to be independent," he thunders, " - I get a personal shipment full of alien weaponry!"
Before him, on a large holographic screen, is Henry Lawson. "I'd expected gratitude, General. Looks like Shanxi is gonna need all the help it can get." An omni-tool brandishes on his arm. "The MSV Worthington is still in orbit. They'll ferry you back to Earth."
"You want me to leave the colony defenseless? I've just promised these people a way forward without the constant threat of aliens!"
"There's a bigger picture here, Ross."
"And I'm thinking of it! We need to learn to fight our own battles!" Thaddeus recalls Terra Firma's manifesto, and resolutely refuses to think about transhumans willingly assisting a human-led Alliance expedition. "Speeches are all very well, but I need to show them that I'm..!"
"… humanity's true protector?" Lawson says snidely. "Bold political move. Think of the headlines: 'Army General leads Humanity to Victory in Space War!' That would certainly increase your prestige with Terra Firma, maybe even get you that Alliance Parliamentary Seat you've been eyeing!"
Thaddeus grows cold.
"If you think I still care about status or power anymore, you've got a lot to learn about me, Lawson."
The general who advances without coveting fame and retreats without fearing disgrace, whose only thought is to protect his country and do good service for his sovereign, is the jewel of the kingdom.
"Here's a tip: my daughter's in Shanxi. And as long as I command this garrison, those weapons will never see the light of day."
January 3rd, 2030
Command Center, Shanxi Garrison
The command center is shaped somewhat like a long, reclining cylinder, its sides flattened to form the floor and ceiling. Circular corridors cobbled together from habitation centers open into a vast intelligence room lined with glowing consoles. Scores of soldiers and analysts are gathered around a large, circular platform affixed to the floor, which displays a world map of Shanxi.
Isabelle's boots clatter against the ladder rungs. Barnes and Ryder are close behind her.
On the landing, in front of the magnificent porthole-like window is Thaddeus Ross. His hands are tucked behind him in parade rest, his back almost painfully straight. "You and your cohort are sitting this one out, Collins."
"What? You wouldn't even have known about this if we hadn't told you!"
Ross turns around, steel in his eyes. "And I'm grateful for your service, but that service? Ends here. You can lay low until your ship discharges. But afterwards? Take your people and clear out. Humanity will handle it from here on out."
"Even disregarding our experience with alien invasions, we've had extensive training that most of your soldiers can't even comprehend!"
"True. But I won't sacrifice my humanity," he almost sneers the last word, " - for an edge on the battlefield; not now, not ever."
Isabelle goes to argue, but feels a vibranium grip around her bicep.
"Situational awareness, Collins," Barnes warns.
She shakes him off roughly, then bites her tongue as she notices the large throng of armed soldiers below the balcony, glaring at her. No wonder Ross had chosen this particular garden world to preach his sermon. His flock would've been mostly veterans of various alien wars, who would have dragged their own suggestible progeny to the Terra Firma conference.
And the events of the last twenty four hours had confirmed everything the manifesto had claimed.
There's no gleam of triumph in Ross' gaze - just a deep unfathomable darkness crawling across his cheeks, deepening the age lines of his face, giving him a sunken, haunted look.
Ryder steps forward. "I'm human, sir." As though he's daring Ross to lump him in with Isabelle's lot.
The hesitation lasts only a moment. "Fine. Report to Dock 3B at the far end of the outpost. You're with the 15th Fighter Squadron."
"Aye, General."
Isabelle says nothing as they leave, grinding her bitterness under her boots.
Hours later…
Personal Quarters, Shanxi Outpost
Thaddeus presses the passenger card into Betty's hands. "I bought a dozen seats on the Worthington. My men will accompany you back to Earth."
Betty takes it with slightly shaking fingers, and to his immense surprise, doesn't immediately turn it down. Instead, her fingers twisted in her crumpled bedspread. "So it's true, then. The rumors."
Gossip travels fast when commanding a garrison whose soldiers have local families. Thaddeus shifts a little, trying to ease the incessant jabbing of the desk into his hip. It's been carelessly shoved against the wall, its surface strewn about with both paper and screens. The mess has unrolled throughout the cabin - for a scientist, his daughter can be incredibly disorganized.
She tosses the pad onto her bed and buries her face in her hands. It takes him a second to parse her muffled response. "We shouldn't have fired. Earth has protocols for this - the governments are leaning towards passivity. We could've negotiated!"
There's a pause.
"They fired on us, Elizabeth. It wasn't even a military vessel - just a scientific expedition, with not even a torpedo aboard to defend themselves from being shot down by cowards." He struggles briefly, then gives in. "You could've been aboard it."
She shoots him a look, but the only thing she says is, " - can't alert the Alliance; the comm buoy network in this sector hasn't been set up. And Shanxi isn't important enough to be outfitted with a QEC. A distress transmission to Sol or Arcturus could take weeks."
"I don't see a need to bother them with this," he says quietly.
"Asgard System's just next door: we could…"
"No." Thaddeus works his jaw, reminds himself that the Decimation had shattered even his daughter's bravery and faith. "It's not as if we're in uncharted waters - from all the reports, the opposition isn't gonna be a match for our retaliation fleet. But if it bothers you so much," he nods towards the card, " - the Worthington will get you wherever you need to go."
She says nothing.
He nods sharply, pushes himself away and turns to leave. "Safe travels," he says sincerely.
Ten paces away, she calls out," - Thaddeus."
He turns only partly, offering her an ear. He can't offer anything else, not now.
"I hope you're going to be able to reverse your credit transfer." Despite the strength behind her words, her voice is flat, emotionless.
"Betty…"
"If this thing becomes local, you're gonna need medical personnel. Shanxi's clinics aren't equipped for war. And if it doesn't - you're still gonna need someone to manage the minutiae."
He sighs, turns to face her fully. "Fine. But you're under my command now, Doctor Ross. You do exactly what I tell you to, when I tell you to. If I say fight, you pick up a gun and hunker down. If I say run… you don't argue, you don't wait for me, you don't look back. Are we clear?"
It's a long moment before she nods decisively. "Aye, General."
January 4th, 2030
SSV Geneva, Acheron System, Styx Theta
"Hostiles don't seem to be retreating, Captain."
Tadius Ahern's grip tightens on the CIC console. The Geneva's targeting sensors had called it earlier, but he'd always preferred to place his bets on human intuition. "Dial back. Hopefully at least one ship will turn tail and FTL outta here - give us a trail to follow."
The fighters and frigates obligingly fall back into a tight, spherical formation. After a few minutes, though, it becomes frustratingly clear that the aliens aren't getting the memo. Tadius curses, as his fleet is forced to retaliate.
Shanxi's retaliatory attack is overkill, in his opinion. The alien cowards had only deployed forces to eliminate civilian vessels. They're no match for Alliance-trained warships.
"What are our orders, Captain?" Commander Ballard, CO of the SSVHastings, asks.
"To clear this end of the relay and maintain position, shore up defenses and gather whatever data we can about ET's motivations."
"'Just because they could' isn't good enough any more?"
Tadius Ahern side-eyes the SSV Williwaw hovering beyond the viewscreen, only just making out Alec Ryder's alert figure through the fighter's own. So far, Ryder hadn't displayed any of the warning signs that General Ross had ordered him to look out for. Besides that mouth of his, of course. "Brutal savages though they might be, Lieutenant, but they've managed to create eezo drives and spaceships. That in itself tells us we're no longer dealing with mindless Chitauri."
"Yes, sir." There's a pause. Then, in a half-chagrined, half-conciliatory tone, he says, " - there might be a way to track them, though, even without the aliens' cooperation. Permission to seize the Sokovia's black box, Captain?"
Tadius straightens, intrigued in spite of himself. "Go ahead. Typhoon, Squall, Greenwich - give the man some cover."
The Williwaw and its escort break off from the battlefield and carefully make their way to the debris field which is all that remains of the ill-fated expedition. It then extends a long robotic claw from its bowels, painstakingly rooting around for something tiny before grabbing on with a sharp, abrupt motion.
"Downloading the data now," Ryder says, and his voice takes an odd cadence - as though he's lecturing to a class. "Thing about FTL is - sensors can't keep up with it. That's why observers can never detect the exact position of a target vessel. Only when the light bearing their image left them - which could be anywhere from minutes to days ago."
"There a point to this, soldier?"
"Yes, sir. Onboard computers take that limited sensor data - such as where the object was, how fast it was flying, and where it was heading to predict where it will be at any given moment. It's not an exact science, and the Alliance is still fine-tuning the tech. But with a few tweaks, I can use the Sokovia's passive sensor data to backtrack the alien fleet's movements along its light-lagged wake to its starting point."
It hits like a lightning bolt. "The mass relay which the aliens used to enter the Styx Theta."
Ryder forwards a galaxy map zeroing down on the possible alien routes to every ship on the fleet. The targeting crosshairs dart across the spiral, data scrolling down on an adjacent hologram as it analyzes and discards likely culprits before finally slamming into place.
Tadius stares disbelievingly at the results.
"Captain… they came in from the Caleston Rift."
A deafening silence ripples across the fleet.
The Rift is one of theirs. Colonization efforts have been few, but the systems within are rich in mineral resources. The Alliance had deployed forces to the Rift on a pirate suppression campaign just a few months prior.
And all this time, the aliens had been in their backyard.
Tadius' head snaps towards the remnants of an alien fleet, whittled down to just a few frigates. There's little comfort in the fact that even a terrifying enemy that emerges from the void breaks between the teeth of a superior force.
How long had they been watching humanity scuttle around the systems? How long had they been cataloging the Alliance's strengths and weaknesses? Because if there was one thing he'd learned in a post-Chitauri world, it's that they're always being watched.
It's only because he's watching them does he even see it. A faint, barely-there gleam of something long and cylindrical, closer than a star. No one else would've noticed it, not from their positions. The Geneva beeps as it plots the trajectory, making him start. "Williwaw and escort, be advised," he says urgently, a bad feeling in his gut. "Stray shell on intercept course."
Greenwich immediately retreats, while Typhoon and Squall lay down covering fire against the remaining alien ships. Williwaw is still among the debris field, carefully withdrawing the claw arm. The things are more expensive than they look - typically a ship discharges minute mass effect fields to clear debris - so Tadius understands why Ryder wouldn't want to lose it.
So the fighter - stuck in an unmaneuverable position - does the only thing she can, especially when the threat can be so easily muffled by kinetic barriers: she turns her underside towards the oncoming slug, as though taunting it.
The fighter had just made its last mistake.
Flames lick across the Williwaw's shields as the shell makes contact, before finding something much tastier to feed on.
The initial split-second flash of brilliance shorts out every viewscreen in the fleet.
It's only the hull cameras and short-range sensors that manage to capture the true extent of the impossible.
Later, when professional astrophysicists would analyze the highly classified footage in slow motion, it would look something like this: a white core of what looks like a fat candle flame coalescing into a perfect sphere, fringed by a blue glow. But the initial attachment doesn't last.
The blue ring begins to expand, while the flame shrinks and darkens into the kind of red that shines through a hand raised to the sun. Not long after, the core of the explosion breaks apart into individual ember-like fragments, which are actually the remnants of what had once been SSV Sokovia.
In the here and now, the shields of those ships closest to ground zero of the explosion crackle and shatter under the fiery impact of the debris. Hull melts with a dull glow, and the molten metal consumes its inhabitants whole, before coming in contact with fuel cells and eezo drives.
It's this second round of explosions that finally shocks Tadius Ahern into action. He yells at the rest of the fleet to scram as Geneva puts on a burst of speed.
Even then, it's only when they hit FTL are they finally able to escape the greedy grasp of that inferno.
SSV Williwaw
The Williwaw screams as it tumbles through the stratosphere.
Harsh winds pelt the viewscreen with alien, ocher sand, scouring thin, yet visible lines across the transparent glass-like compound. The groaning of the hull reverberates through the deck as varying opposite forces try to shear it apart, like a fisherman impatiently prying open a shell to scoop up the pearl within. Complete manual guidance in favor of failing automated systems has done little to slow down the craft.
Warning: sublight drive failure. Descending at 200% of recommended suborbital velocity.
Within the cockpit, Alec's teeth shudder in his skull hard enough that he's unable to utter another, ultimately futile Mayday. His fingers are frantically trying to level his ship long enough to attempt a landing that won't leave him a smear on the surface. He's pressed against his seat, the muscles in his arms burning as he strains them towards the holographic controls; the inertial dampeners must've been knocked loose in the blast. It's a miracle it hadn't taken him along with it.
Or maybe his grave is meant to be an alien planet, instead of the vacuum he'd always suspected.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a motion. Beyond the valence windows, flaming balls of fire and metal streak through the gauzy essence of this world's atmosphere, plunging into the dark, hidden surface below. A number of similar meteorites follow the first - ship debris from the battle above, or, if they were lucky, escape pods.
No pods aboard a fighter. They probably wouldn't have helped much, but anything is better than crash-landing inside a ship that isn't designed for uncontrollable suborbital descent.
Warning: Decelerating at 315% of recommended approach velocity.
But maybe crash-landing isn't the way to go.
Through the smoke billowing from the engines, he gets his first glimpse of the surface. Barren and cracked earth, only broken up by the dark peaks that thrust out of the ground.
No cushion. He will never survive the impact.
With that, all hesitation falls away. Alec flicks away the holographic controls. His seatbelt is tight, pressing him against the backrest. His hardsuit seals shut as he grips the armrests of his seat.
His fingers press hard against the small panel on the underside that he'd always hoped he'd never have to use.
With a harsh squeal, the top part of the hull wrenches away, and Alec is shoved into the air.
SSV Geneva
The void is still burning.
Tadius stirs from his stupor, pushes back from where he'd been leaning on the CIC. His pilots are still spellbound by the view, visible even from hundreds of thousands of kilometers away.
He activates the fleet comms. "Status report!"
A little more than half of them respond. He breathes through the ache in his chest. At least it had also taken out the aliens with it.
He splits the fleet into three groups and gives his orders. The ones needing desperate repairs will head back to Shanxi pronto, and a single flotilla - including him - will remain in the Acheron System to search for survivors.
"You all heard Ryder," he addresses the largest group, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief second. The Williwaw had gone up in a sea of flames. "There's only one other relay in Styx Theta that could possibly connect to the Rift. The secondary in the Erebus System, the one the Triskelion came through from Eden Prime, before they answered the Sokovia's distress call. Track the light lag and confirm it. And when the aliens come through, give them a welcome they'll remember."
A chorus of affirmations resound throughout the CIC. He watches his ships peel off, then stalks off towards engineering.
He wants to know exactly what the hell that firestorm was, and he wants to know it yesterday.
Altahe
Alec tags along helplessly as the near-gale force winds seize his parachutes, knocking him way off-course.
Around him is a desolate world, its hues alternating between a dusky, desert-yellow and gray ash. The surface seems to swell beneath the ever-present sand, broken only by jagged peaks of black rock. On the horizon is a red-orange sun - much closer than he's comfortable with, but not nearly as alarming as the positively gigantic planet directly above.
The wind finally encounters resistance, and drops its load. The ground seems to rush forward, but it's not the relatively flat plain that he'd intended as his smear point that awaits him. Instead, he plummets towards what appears to be a rotted, black canine jutting out of the sand, ending in a thick spike pointed straight at him.
Alec tries to wriggle in place, but the pressure of the tethers holding him up is almost unbearable as his parachutes attempt to yank him straight back into the stratosphere.
In the end, he barely manages to redirect so he's not the one getting staked through the heart. Two of his parachutes catch on the rock, tearing sharply, yanking at him hard enough that it almost breaks him in two. A few of the tethers snaps, and he's thrown the last few feet down the rocky slope before landing to a stop face-down on the sand.
When first learning to swim, Alec had learned that panic kills people more than any disaster.
It's a lesson he's had to learn more than once in his life. He's realized that while he can't prevent himself from panicking, he can pack it into a box and place it aside until logic and/or training makes it redundant.
So that's what he does, breathing through the painful thudding of his heart, on all fours on alien soil. The drag of the parachute, tangled as it is on the rock stake, is grueling, and the only thing that seems to be keeping him from being yanked away is his grip on the loose sand and sheer willpower.
A faint rumble is his only warning, just before a huge explosion lights up his visor. The boom almost smacks him backward, and he gapes as the landscape before him is painted in flame. If this had been Earth, the sound would've shattered his eardrums.
The fire disappears almost immediately, violently quelled by an atmosphere that definitely doesn't support combustion of any kind. The Williwaw, he thinks despairingly. He'd been inside her for less than a day, but he'd already fallen half in love.
The world around him seems little different from his very first impressions while plummeting through atmo. Barren, sand-strewn land, interrupted by dark rocky structures jutting out of the ground. A glowing, unbroken horizon where the sun is setting, and heavy winds that paint the atmosphere a murky ocher.
Nothing moves that shouldn't. His helmet visor isn't recognizing any life signs, human or otherwise.
Bringing up his omni-scanner, he waves it over his body. Nothing broken, quite a lot bruised. There's a long, shallow tear on his non-dominant arm, which he treats with first-aid. Other than a few scratches and scuffs, his armor - a patchwork of modular pieces from various sources - has survived intact.
His comms are completely nonfunctional, while shields are gonna take a while to regenerate. Checking his oxygen, he has to brutally tamp down his panic again when the levels read low. Too low. He's not entirely successful. Scrabbling for the straps securing him to his ejector seat, he frees himself, and unzips the seat rest.
There. Standardized cache of emergency supplies. Two days worth of pureed field rations, which manage to taste even worse than MREs. A small upgrade kit with an OSD.
And a spare oxygen canister with a hole in it.
He squeezes his eyes shut, allows himself just one deep breath to clear his spinning head, then brings down the output from his canister. Alec spent his childhood climbing the Sierra Nevada frontiers; he can deal with the decreased airflow. It should buy him a day, at least.
Rising slowly, he activates his jump jets and springs over to the rock formation. This close, he recognizes it as basalt, a common rock in almost every solar system the Alliance has explored. When he sweeps his hands across the torn fabric, his fingers come away coated with yellow, tenacious grains. In the few minutes since the crash, the parachute is almost already submerged by the sand blowing across the desert. With a series of careful motions, he manages to tug free one out of three canopies from the tangle of fabric and lines.
All of them are completely unsalvageable, but maybe he can use the most intact one as a makeshift tent in case he doesn't find shelter nearby. The planet will provide camouflage all on its own.
Stowing his folded-up parachute into his ejector-seat-turned-backpack, he looks up at the sky. Is it just the glow of the sunset, or is the sky still burning?
Something had exploded out there - something that couldn't possibly be a catastrophic meltdown of his ship's eezo core. He's seen that happen when an ICT mission had gone horribly wrong, and this wasn't it. Besides, the Williwaw's shields had been fully active; even if they'd shattered from the impact, the stray torpedo could never have breached the armor plating.
And yet, the explosion had been massive enough to take out nearly all the nearby ships. His own survival can be attributed to sheer luck, and not any great skill on his part. Even if the Williwaw had managed to deploy the distress beacon, he doubts anyone would've received it.
He recalls the burning balls of fire that had streaked into the planet. Meteorites? Or escape pods, maybe even ships like his own that might have had a more successful crash-landing?
Alec pulls up his omni-tool again. Learning from the disaster that was the Circle mission in Niganda, Peak standard procedures dictate that pilot's 'tools be linked up with the flight recorders, just in case. Suddenly glad for that redundancy, he pulls up the records of the Williwaw's final moments.
The short-range, passive scanners had picked up the trajectory of the meteorites. If he combines that with the topology and the radius of the planet that his LADAR sensors had passively analyzed even when he'd been crashing, he can reliably predict where they'd landed.
A topographical map blooms across the holographic screen, overlaid with a rectangular grid. Blue dots - five of them, scattered across the rocky landscape. The closest one is northwest - assuming this world rotates west to east like a normal planet - about fifteen miles away. But the one immediately after is the only one that's blinking.
Clicking it reveals a data column with a waveform, pulsing at irregular beats. He cocks his head, keeping time as he watches the pulses, then squeezes the waveform.
Not irregular. A pattern, repeating over time. A signal, he thinks with sudden excitement, set to repeat ad infinitum until its mission is fulfilled.
So close to a crash site, it can only be one thing - a distress beacon.
The frequencies aren't anything the Alliance or even the Peak use, which could only indicate an extraterrestrial origin. The aliens had been caught off-guard just as much by the explosion. Where, then, had the torpedo come from? And what could've caused such a discharge?
Alec has been around for long enough to recognize when certain questions aren't supposed to be answered by him. Right now, the only thing that matters is that, with her last breath, the Williwaw had chosen to give him just the thing he needed to survive.
He jumps up and down in place. Gravity seems only slightly above Earth's, and he's trained in much worse. Hoping that he'd be able to thank Talos' sadism in person, Alec hoists up his backpack, takes one last look at his surroundings, and sets off northwest.
Alien Shipwreck, Altahe
Despite the map, Alec stumbles upon the wreck almost by accident.
His knees are still bent, frozen in the jump he'd have made had the dust storm not cleared to reveal the path falling away into the canyon. Sharp rock walls are interrupted by scattered ledges. Leaning against the base of a basaltic incline is the distress beacon, emitting a cylinder of light into the murky, ocher sky. The alien device is precariously balanced on a tripod base, with legs that resemble long, segmented claws.
And, deep below, sprawled across the valley floor are the remains of an alien starship - the flame-blackened hull standing out sharply against the yellow overlay of this world.
At this height, he can see little movement but for the wind, which swirls and surges angrily at being trapped by the cliffs. Using his jet boots, he slowly makes his way down the ledges, pausing every so often to scrutinize the ruins for any life signs or mechanical activity. He doesn't let his guard down even when he finds none. The beacon can wait - he'd rather ensure nothing's gonna jump out at him from within the bowels of the ship.
So he allows the engineer part of his mind to reconstruct the wreckage into a plausible whole.
There - the part of the ship that looks like a hammerhead shark - that would be the bow. Judging by the angle of its impact and the specific shape of the visible hole, it probably sheared off the side of a cliff, sending the two halves hurtling away from each other.
Another piece of debris is jutting out of the sand at an angle. Beneath the smears of sand, he spots a splash of red. The wing, then. There's no sign of the other one.
He hesitates before that final jump that will land him on the valley floor, and casts his gaze to the rise of cliffs on either side. Plenty of blind spots, further aided by the violent sandstorm scorching through the planet. Just because investigation is necessary doesn't mean he has to be a fool about it.
Alec repositions himself, then with great reluctance, makes a wide jump that sees him alight on the hull of the ship a dozen meters above the valley floor. Crouching low, he switches on his flashlights and sweeps them down below.
There are bumps, disruptions in the sand, charred and twisted beyond identification. Corpses. They've been laid out in a careful arrangement, picked clean of anything useful at first glance. Even his omni-tool doesn't pick much besides the usual organic compounds. After a moment, he turns away to examine the wreckage.
This close, he can appreciate the true size of the ship. His mind spits out some numbers that make his eyebrows climb to his hairline.
This is a beast, bigger than his fighter, bigger even than Alliance frigates. There's a significant gap between the weight class of a frigate and a cruiser, one that humanity had never bothered to fill. If his calculations are correct, then this thing would fit in snugly between those. A destroyer, he muses. Fast and maneuverable, but more heavily armored than a frigate.
Mag-boots make their way stiffly across the hull, pausing only when something of interest peers through the char, like when he came upon strange, spiky symbols painted across the side in large font. The name of the ship? He shrugs, scans it, then moves along.
Finally, he comes upon a slight depression, which the omni-tool reveals to be a skylight. A large, square pane that was once pseudo-glass before the heat of re-entry had alloyed it with the metal of the shutters, rendering it almost completely opaque. It's still fragile, though - indeed, it's only the semi-intact frame that's holding it upright.
Alec doesn't allow himself to think too much about it before withdrawing his pistol and firing between his feet.
His fall into the dark pit below ends almost as abruptly as it begins. He lands in a half-crouch, and the surface below sinks alarmingly under the impact, forcing him to brace himself with a hand. Shards of scorched debris rain down, buffeted away by the sudden screech of wind that followed him in. A few scrape against the surface beneath him, which results in a sharp, abrupt sound like fabric tearing.
So much for stealth.
But nothing leaps out at him. There's no tell-tale sound of gunfire, and nothing to indicate lasers or other silent forms of ammunition either. No bodies.
Light pouring in from the skylight has painted the floor into a grid of brightness and shadow. Everything is highlighted in sharp relief, from the strange but still easily identifiable wall cabinets to the thin mattress-type material he'd landed on. Someone's personal quarters, he thinks instantly - judging by the amount of elbow room - probably the captain's. The layout is eerily similar to a human warship, if smaller - with one jarring difference being the sheer number of sharp angles dominating the interior. These people are not soft, he thinks, wincing at the dizzying, contradictory ergonomics of that chair.
The whistling of the wind through the broken skylight is relentless, creeping in through his helmet and wriggling into his subconsciousness like a particularly obstinate earworm. He can't afford to shut off his audio - apart from the dangers involved, he'll go insane if forced to listen to only his own labored breathing.
Alec takes out the OSD from his supply cache and inserts it into his omni-tool. The storage is empty, specifically meant to record any observations or personal log-entries of crash-survivors for posterity. The implication - and reality - suggests that more crash-survivors die than are rescued, which is why the OSDs have developed an ill, almost superstitious reputation.
With a few finger-swipes, he programs it to obtain data directly from his visor and scanner. The Alliance and S.W.O.R.D. could make use of whatever he comes across, if they ever manage to find his body buried beneath all that sand.
Med-Bay, Alien Shipwreck
Despite the theoretical knowledge of possible crash-landed aliens on the planet, Alec hadn't exactly been expecting company.
He comforts himself with the fact that neither had the company.
He stands stock-still just beyond the doors of the med-bay of the alien ship. They keep sliding in and out of their grooves at irregular patterns, and Alec absently catalogs the list of possible defects in his mind, even as he stares at the squad of equally stupefied aliens on the other side.
Later, he wouldn't be able to tell who got off the first shot. All he knew was, he went from being a stupidly gaping target to crouching behind the nearest suitable cover as rounds scream over him. They left smoking mini-craters on the walls and the bulkheads.
He glances at his readout. Yeah, he's blaming the lack of oxygen.
Seven aliens, he thinks, mentally mapping their positions and movements from the ammo trails. They're not letting him get in a shot-in edgewise; coordinating their fire almost perfectly. At least four are heating up their weapons at any single moment, before switching with those who have vented. And if their weapons are anything like the Alliance's, they have an infinite amount of ammo while he has maybe two minutes.
The numb autopilot he was running on cracks, and breath trickles out like water leaking out of a hole in a reservoir.
Lashing out with a vicious Sabotage, Alec grabs the opportunity of exploding alien weaponry to return fire. His pistol whittles down the shield on one, before his cryo ammo freezes him solid. A combat drone pops out of his 'tool to harass them for a brief few seconds, which he capitalizes on to take down another alien.
Five more to go.
The careful arrangement of the bodies on the valley floor, he recalls dizzily. The methodical, almost mechanical efficiency with which they'd been stripped clean of anything useful. He should've guessed that survivors of other wrecks would come, perhaps facing similar supply issues.
The others double down on the offensive. A grenade explodes him out of cover, and his armor starts taking hits it wasn't meant to in the precious few moments it takes for him to duck into relative safety.
Dark shapes dance out of the sleeper pod area. They dart forward, growing larger and larger in his vision, but strangely, no more distinct.
Utterly exposed, adrenaline shocks him into firing before he realizes that they were just black spots in his vision - the products of a mind starved of oxygen.
Without meaning to, he has started heaving, desperate to suck in what just wasn't there anymore. Instinct makes him claw at the clasp of the helmet seal, fighting against the reasoning that claims a lungful of sand, nitrogen and ethane would just kill him faster.
The aliens are getting bolder, coming closer, bolstered by their companions and his obvious distress. A few more steps, and he'd be resembling Swiss cheese a little too much to worry about suffocation.
Wide, desperate eyes suddenly fall on the omni-scanner. It's still up, but frozen on the view of the med-bay from the doors, much like he'd been. There are alien-shaped med-beds, strange medical paraphernalia scattered around, a desk and one of those uncomfortable-looking chairs.
But his 'tool had highlighted just one significant item, automatically scanning its interior and bringing up the results.
Oxygen tanks, hanging from a rack on the wall, much like a fire extinguisher. Only a few steps behind the alien squad.
When your back's against the wall…
With one last burst of strength, Alec dives out of cover, his omni-tool raised and slashing in the air. The overload is weak, little more powerful than static - but its trajectory is true.
The shock rips through the unshielded tanks. The trapped oxygen attempts to rush out in a stream of white, but gets snagged by the single spark that lingers at the scorched ends of the metal.
Hellfire screams out, washing over the aliens whose screams he hears even through the thin atmosphere. The flames are a strange combination of red and blue, even flickering purple in places. So mesmerizing are they in their utter alienness that it takes him the sharp wave of heat before he realizes he's walked right into it.
He doesn't feel the blisters. Automatically steps over the charred bodies on the ground - the meat unrecognizable within cracked armor. His body slides along the wall, fueled only by an impossible hope and crushing desperation.
The fire goes out abruptly, having run out of oxygen. The glow that had taken over his vision is run over by the black shapes of earlier. His foot catches on something small and long, and he tumbles forward, his helmet slamming hard against the floor. Completely blind now, he weakly grapples for the object that had tripped him. Gloved fingers run over the smooth surface, finding no holes - only a nozzle that's far too large.
An intact oxygen tank. Must've been thrown clear by the explosion.
There is a God after all.
With the last vestiges of consciousness, he manages to hook it into his suit.
January 5th, 2030
An incessant beeping pierces the veil of oblivion.
Alec wheezes into panicked wakefulness, mouth opening and closing like a fish as his lungs expand with rich, sweet oxygen. Wriggling his fingers and toes, he finds that nothing is broken, though he can feel a sizable gash on his left shoulder and minor blisters on his arms. With thick, padded fingers, he activates a familiar sequence on his omni-tool and directs the first-aid to his injuries, sighing in relief as the anesthetic kicks in.
He looks around, taking in the destruction of the med-bay. A frisson of thrill runs through his spine, jolting him upright. He's on an alien ship. His first, and he's also possibly the first to step on a ship belonging to these specific aliens.
If there's anything to be found about these creatures, this is where he'll find them.
CIC, Alien Shipwreck
In stark contrast to the Alliance's CIC, the aliens have positioned their commanding officer's station at the very back of the deck - and slightly above it - rather than in the midst of the subordinates. Strewn across the steps leading up to the CO's platform is a six-feet tall, armored corpse, painting the deck with dark blue blood. Connected to the navigation panel is a central, holographic galaxy map, flickering wildly.
Stepping over the corpse, he climbs up to the platform. The panel is still active, covered in strange, spiky symbols that refuse to respond to his ministrations, and easily evading his attempts to hack it. He hesitates, then arches an eyebrow down at the dead bird at his feet. If this had been an Alliance vessel, command would've made damn sure only the CO could access the galaxy map to finalize their route.
His scanner had confirmed that the body had still been warm, snug in the trapped heat of its hardsuit. If the panel checks for the equivalent of a pulse rate or other life signs from the bird, he's going to be shit out of luck, but no harm in trying, is there?
Alec reaches down, tugs off a glove, grabs a three-taloned hand none-too gently and slams it onto the navigation panel. An overlay of red settles over the flickering, damaged galaxy map, dividing it into five sections. The symbols stabilize, reconfiguring into a semblance of order, even though they remain illegible.
He hesitates, then presses the talon's hand against the bottom-right section. It turns yellow, zooming in to reveal star clusters, connected by thin lines that he assumes are mass relay routes. There are more of them than Alec has ever seen; certainly a lot more than the Alliance has ever found.
Only one of them is highlighted with a unique insignia. Their military's emblem, perhaps?
He checks his own Alliance-issued maps. If his suspicions regarding that cluster are correct - and yes, they are - then the only juxtaposition of human-alien civilizations is Caleston Rift, which is where the birds had presumably relayed onwards to Styx Theta. Which means that symbol indicates a colonized or militarized star cluster.
It takes him a moment to return to the overlay mode. One by one, he clicks on each of the divisions, updating his own maps as he goes along. The damage to the galaxy map is extensive enough to prevent him from getting everything, but every little bit helps.
Unlike the closely-grouped colonies of the Alliance, the birds are thinly spread across the other divisions of the map.
But Alec has fought with them - both in orbit as well as on ground. Judging from the range of their map alone, they've had a lot longer to make their mark on the galaxy - centuries, perhaps. While the majority of the Alliance Space consists of exposed colonies, with little in the way of security.
If all the birds are as efficient as the ones he'd fought, humanity has a tough war on its hands.
Just as the thought crosses his mind, his omni-tool lights up, vibrating madly around his wrist, throwing up sharp red highlights across the walls.
Alec stiffens. Something triggered the proximity alarms he'd scattered around the perimeter. Pulling up parallel screens, he watches as multiple alien squads approach his location. They're armored, but a quick glance at the corpse at his feet confirms that it's the same species.
Bridge, cut-off. Shuttle-bay, cut off.
He jumps down from the galaxy map and takes off for engineering, where he'd noted a gigantic hole jammed against the canyon's rockface.
Shipwreck Valley
The sandstorm obscures Alec's figure as he shifts his position on the craggy cliff-face. The tether hooked onto his utility belt is taking a beating, but he's hoping the aliens surrounding their crashed ship won't think to look up.
His visor is lighting up with thermal signatures of what looks like an entire platoon breaching the hull. Maybe some system he'd accessed within the downed vessel had sent up an alert in all the wrong places, but he doesn't think so. They're ready, and - from what little he knows of their body language - tense; their movements abrupt and snappish, but still completely in control.
Most likely the squad he'd fought before had called for reinforcements who had arrived too late.
Something in him screams to leap onto his enemies and cut them down, but another, more insistent part recognizes that it's even more necessary that he survive now.
Because now he has intel that just might give humanity an edge.
There's no guarantee the birds don't have motion-sensors or IR scanners on their helmets, so if he doesn't want to get caught, he needs to move. He scans for a nearby ledge, finds one just a few meters above him. In a swift, practiced move, he unhooks himself, and fires a burst from his jump jets, easily grabbing hold of the support. With increasingly risky maneuvers, he makes for the clifftop, relying upon the blinding storm to cover his tracks.
He's almost all the way there, when a spiky silhouette shifts above him, calling out in an unfamiliar language. Alec freezes, pressing himself to the cliff face, hardly even daring to breathe.
There's no way he could've responded, but it still stings when the slugs start flying. His shields flicker, and Alec lets himself drop a few meters before the jets kick back in. Scrabbling for purchase on the sheer rock walls, reveals a narrow groove he can jam his fingers into. The bird's shots are too wide, spraying into the sand and dust, but that won't last.
Alec leaps sideways, blindly reaching for leverage that more often than not isn't there, his visor unable to compensate for such rapid shifts in motion. More trails of weapons discharge cut through the storm, both from the clifftop and the ground. They're surrounding him, cutting him off. The jet boot flares are no longer camouflaged by the storm - not when his enemy knows where to look and what to look for. And the kinetic barriers might be protecting him, but they're also giving away his position.
Alec leans with his back to the wall, his feet tenuously balanced on a ledge, and switches off his shields. They're forcefields, they don't block sound, but somehow the sounds of battle seem louder now, almost deafening in their intensity.
He needs to get out of here.
Ahern, Ross - they need the data on his omni-tool. He doesn't know if it's gonna be useful, but that's not for him to decide. If he fails here, then they might never get another chance like this again.
But how is he supposed to escape this barrage of enemies and weapons, never mind get off this planet?
If he could get out some sort of a signal….
The beacon!
Alec's gaze snaps to somewhere below him. Almost immediately, his visor brings up an outline of the strangely shaped alien beacon, still shooting blindingly blue light into the sky.
With a swipe of his fingers, he unleashes Synapse from his omni-tool. In the same motion, he leaps from the ledge to the ground twenty-feel below him.
Something crumples beneath him, breaking his fall. He slashes down with an omni-blade, burying it deep in the spine of an alien. A quick look reveals a few enemies nearby, none of which have noticed him - too occupied by the Sentry Turret unleashing a storm of arc lightning into their ranks.
Alec grins. Good old Synapse. With another swipe, he transfers the rest of his shields to the little guy. It'll stay put, buying him as much time as it can.
With that, he turns and sprints across the sand towards the beacon. Crouching beneath a nearby shade, he unleashes his info drone.
There's a fine line between artificial Intelligence and virtual intelligence, one that's been growing far too slowly to combat humanity's continuing, crippling terror and the scar that Earth bears where Novi Grad once used to be.
He'd been working on drones since high school, refining and shackling them in equal measures, and discovered a nice balance by the time the Second Civil War had rolled around. The Freedoms First hadn't known what had hit them, but the UNAS hadn't been pleased either, for all that the state-of-the-art technology had saved their soldiers' lives.
But he hadn't dared to let even Maria Hill know just how far he'd advanced with this particular drone.
Wavy, amorphous tendrils of code dart out of the omni-tool towards the column of light, where it proceeds to change its hue from orange to an identical blue. From a distance, and with the sandstorm raging across the planet's surface, the drone will blend in easily with the beacon.
A few holographic spirals reach out towards the machinery, like a spherical oceanic beast letting their tentacles fly out to capture its prey. They seep in through the seams and burrow into the circuitry.
Almost immediately, information begins to flow across the omni-scanner - strings of code with gibberish symbols, some identical to the text he'd seen on the side of the ship. Unlike the human top-down scrolling, the alien programming language is meant to be interpreted by scrolling inwards, almost as though the birds had added depth to their algorithms.
Definitely a general distress beacon. A flickering holo with flickering, indistinguishable features is mouthing what he presumes is an automated, predetermined message. A simple VI, from the looks of it.
Alec's plan is simple; hack into the beacon's transmitter and force it to broadcast Alliance frequencies. Maybe even replace the distress SOS with a message of his own. The anomaly would force his people to investigate, and he'd be able to get off this planet.
But the info drone is taking too long.
It's not even that he's overestimated his own creation's abilities - it's more that he'd underestimated the birds' encryption skills.
Synapse does its best but it's stuck, unable to maneuver, so it bursts far too quickly into an explosion of sparks. Alec isn't able to unleash a successor as his omni-tool is otherwise occupied, so he's forced to engage them himself, whittling them down one at a time before quickly moving on. But he can't stray too far from the beacon, and it isn't long before they realize he's attempting to interfere with it.
His heat lurches in his chest as they press their attack, their movements suddenly as anxious and desperate as his. He doesn't need to know their language or their background - his instincts are warning him now, and if N7 has taught him anything, it's to follow his gut when he has nothing else.
He can't let the birds know what he's done with their beacon.
He can't. The Alliance needs this, and the Peak maybe even more so. But his position is about to be overrun, and he's running out of both options and time, right when his drone needs both.
He's crouched behind a large rock beside the beacon. There's a groove in the tech, right beneath the transmitter. About the width of his finger… or the band of his omni-tool.
When your back's against the wall - if you can't run from it, use it.
The blue, wispy tendrils seem to dance in the violent wind.
It needs more time.
Without letting himself think about it, he snaps off his omni tool and jams it into the groove. The sand coats it immediately, and unless the birds try to clean their tech - an ultimately futile gesture on a planet such as this - it'll go unnoticed.
With a throaty yell, he leaps onto a bird's back.
Driving him into the ground with his momentum, he fires point blank with his pistol. Grabbing the alien assault rifle, he sprays shots into the sand, creating an opening the alien formation before him, then sprints for it.
He's almost in the clear. Right on the edge of the canyon, and a few more steps and he'd have been home free.
But along with his shields and omni-tool, he'd gambled away the last of his luck to a cause that he hopes is much greater than himself.
Something pierces his calf, sending fiery pain thrilling through his nerves. He stumbles and slams to the ground, the visor almost shattering by the impact. He grits his teeth and tries to crawl forward, utterly blinded by the sand and the pain, but doesn't manage more than a few inches before a heavy spiked boot presses down unerringly on his calf.
Alec screams, thrashing around. Harsh, taloned greaves yank at his shoulder, roll him onto his back.
Against the darkening sky, three birds loom large and sharp, their weapons pointed at him.
Breathing harshly, Alec realizes he has one more move left.
With the last of his strength, he raises his gun and squeezes the trigger.
But the alien is quicker. There's a sharp, staccato sound.
Alec doesn't see his shot go wide.
January 6th, 2030
SSV Geneva
Tadius finds it very unfair that while he skirts the edge of a nervous breakdown, his lead engineer should be calm and unruffled in the face of his temper. "And I suppose you can't tell me where the hell that shell came from either?"
"No way to tell, boss," the lieutenant shrugs. "Best guess, whoever fired it missed their target. Might've been hours or days or years ago. No resistance in vacuum, so it must've just kept going until it hit the Williwaw." When Tadius' face darkens, she gentles her voice. "It was just a standard mass accelerator, Captain."
"Space was burning, woman! There is nothing standard about that!"
She sighs. "I'll look into it."
"You do that." Tadius turns away in disgust. He only manages a few steps before a loud alarm echoes throughout the deck. "Now what?"
Holo-screens manifest around the engineer, their glow highlighting her furrowed brow. "Signals from the surface of Altahe, on some weird-ass wavebands," she murmurs, referring to one of the two planets that had been in close proximity to the explosion. "Scans have been picking them up for a while now. Computer couldn't make head-or-tails off it."
"Alien in origin?" Tadius stalks over. "Must be a distress beacon."
"That's what I figured. So I set it to record, let the linguistics subroutine take over. But something's changed - listen." She increases the audio volume. Incomprehensible gibberish pours out of the speakers above, with the neutral tone of an automated message, but underlaid with a distinctive flanging effect. "Message is the same," she explains, then points to a large set of waveforms on a parallel screen, " - but now it's pinging every frequency on the Alliance bandwidth."
Tadius stiffens. "And only those frequencies," he mutters. "This was no accident. A trap?"
"If it was, then why would the aliens use their own beacon? Besides, take a look at this," she jabs at several of the waveforms, trying to identify the frequency. But only a logo appears on the screen, etched in silver, declaring his lack of access to certain redacted information.
Tadius exhales. He recognizes the logo - only because General Ross had introduced him to it only hours ago. A sword overlaid across the wireframe of Earth.
The symbol most often associated with the fledgling military program known as Interplanetary Combatives Training.
And there's only one man who could've managed to hijack an alien beacon to broadcast at those specific frequencies.
Ryder is alive.
Triskelion's Shuttle, Shanxi
"Good work with Ross," Fury says through the screen. "Didn't think you had it in you to be subtle."
"His idea," Isabelle nods towards Barnes. "He pointed out that we needed a man on the inside."
Barnes shrugs. "Authority figures tend to be lenient with a smaller favor once they've denied a bigger one - especially if they think they have the upper hand in the negotiations. Ryder will keep us informed, but it wasn't easy being benched, Director. You got something in return?"
"I do, actually," Monica says, stepping forward. "The Sokovia broadcasted a non-priority message on all frequencies half-an-hour before the attack. Apparently they'd sent a one-man boarding party to the mass relay to activate it. It was Erik Selvig."
Hope rises so sharply it hurts. "That relay," Isabelle whispers. "It wasn't active when we first jumped into Acheron, only later. Selvig was the one who got us out of there. He's still alive."
"Shanxi Relay Control registered a small, unregistered vessel using the relay as a jumping point just a few hours ago," Peter says quietly. "Wartime paranoia almost shot it down, but the occupant identified himself, so they let him transit. Refused to say where he was going, though."
"He was there this whole time, probably saw everything. God."
"We might have much bigger problems," Peter grimaces, palming a datapad. "The psychoscopy we encountered in the Prothean ruins? It got me thinking. You specifically used the term 'residual imprints' to describe the aura that got mimicked onto the panels."
"Yeah?"
"So, what if it wasn't just the energy field that got imprinted? What if it was, however faintly, the essence of the artifact itself that was left behind?"
There's a moment of silence. "You mean the Mind Stone," Rambeau says stiffly.
Peter shrugs. "Something compelled Selvig to run. The Mind Stone - any of the Stones - were powerful enough that they don't leave their surroundings unaffected, especially if they've been in an environment for as long as it was on Eden Prime. Even if I'm wrong, the echo of the Scepter would've acted as a sort of… eidetic trigger, prompting memories or unpleasant flashbacks. Or worse-case scenario," he hesitates then, and Isabelle's blood runs cold, " - he may have downloaded information."
There's deadly silence for almost a minute. "You mean he might be a sleeper agent," Barnes finally croaks.
"From the Scepter in Eden Prime…," Fury summarizes grimly, " - straight to a space-time warping machine, on the heels of an alien attack. Could've gone my whole life without those parallels."
He glares at them. "From this moment onwards, we're assuming that every action that Selvig's taking is being influenced by the Mind Stone. I wanna know just what the hell it's up to."
Mass Effect Context:
Shanxi
Canonical clues to its location are limited to its proximity to the infamous Shanxi-Theta mass relay, which kickstarted the war. 'Theta' might refer to Styx Theta, a star cluster which has a primary (point-to-point, long range) mass relay connection to only one other canonical cluster - Horsehead Nebula.
Stands to reason, then, that Shanxi is situated somewhere in the Horsehead. There's only one mass relay in the Nebula - the one in the Pax System. 'Pax' in Latin means peace, which is hilarious in hindsight.
Of course, for the purposes of this fic, I have created another mass relay to Styx Theta - a secondary (short-range, many connections) - in the Erebus System, which connects to Hadex Nexus and the Local Cluster.
Shanxi-Theta Mass Relay
The Shanxi-Theta Mass Relay is the one which was activated by the Sokovia, and through which the Triskelion jumped to escape the alien Ryder's 'info drone' that he uses to hack the beacon on Altahe is, of course, a precursor to SAM. Currently, I don't have plans to use it beyond the First Contact War.
Caleston Rift
Caleston Rift is the only cluster I have discovered so far that has both human and turian occupied/colonized worlds in it.