"Kept this from me. Until our path took us beyond the Gate."
Lantaya paused in the hallway outside Observation, her comfortable pre-war slip-ons making barely a whisper on the metal surface of the floor. Ulysses's voice echoed in the corridor, carrying out from the open hatchway door. It held a complicated mix of emotions.
Rage, joy, desperation, pain…
Maybe something of betrayal.
"Won't try an' hide it. Aye, I were keepin' it from ye 'til we left our own system. Couldn't be takin' the chance that ye might choose to stay on Earth. Men tend to make foolish choices where family are concerned."
The Matriarch softened her steps somewhat, looking left and right up the corridor. It seemed that she was the first one here. Save for Ulysses and the Courier, as it turned out.
"Not your choice to make. Years my feet carried me through the Wastelands, years I sought for remnants of the Twisted Hair through the ranks of the Legion. Never did Caesar send me where I might find them. Now you tell me the Twisted Hair yet lives? Of all those with right to know, my claim was strongest."
There was a long pause from within Observation before Ulysses spoke again.
"Did you know of this, Graham?"
"I did," Joshua's voice confirmed. Lantaya licked her lips and sighed heavily. They finally told him. Even she had almost forgotten their encounter with Benedict and Brown Thomas at Fort Defiance; the message they had wanted delivered. So much had happened since then.
"And?" Ulysses asked.
"And consider my silence repayment for the lives you destroyed at New Canaan. A cheap price, to be sure. Your generations need only wait for the end of our venture to be reunited with you. Mine must wait until Judgement Day cometh and the dead return to walk the Earth."
Ulysses chuckled darkly, "Believe that Judgement Day has not already come and gone, do you? Hope truly does spring eternal. And your reason, Courier? What grudge did you settle with this pretence?"
The Courier laughed, just as unapologetic as he always was after having been caught doing something he arguably shouldn't have. "Call it my insurance that ye'd make good on the debt that ye owe me, Uly. For the Madre, for Big Empty, for Caesar an' the Road from Hopeville to the Temple at the end o' the Divide. Pick one."
Lantaya shook her head slightly in exasperation. He always seemed to have a justification ready.
"Would have come, regardless. No need to bury the truth."
"Then what would tellin' ye have changed?"
"Nothing, save our trust."
"Ohh. Don't even feckin' start with me, Uly. Ye have been draggin' me this way an' that by concealin' or feedin' me truths or lies since before we ever met. Turnabout is fair play. But if ye care to take it, I'll give ye my Oath in front o' the Spirits: This'll be the last time I ever conceal the truth from ya. Does that gain me back a measure o' yer trust?"
Another long pause. During which Lani spied a number of figures enter the hallway from the opposite end, walking towards the Observation room towards her. Butch DeLoria and the Lone Wanderer came at the fore, followed by a number of other figures behind.
There was a meaty thwack of bone against flesh from within the room and the sound of the Courier letting out a pained laugh. Ulysses spoke up again, this time sounding immensely satisfied.
"Consider this my price, taken alongside your Oath."
"Mr. DeLoria!"
Lani called out to the approaching figures in order to alert the Three Unwise Men that they were about to have company intruding upon their obviously personal discussion. Butch looked towards her and grimaced tiredly. He and his Snakes had only finished their PT a short while ago, leaving him in dirty gym gear and carrying a canteen of water, half-drained by his bid to rehydrate after the heavy physical activity.
"Just Butch, Blue. How many times do I gotta tell people?"
"At least once more; at most, for the rest of your life."
Butch grinned, "I hear your getting a bit on the old side, granny. You sure you'll survive that long?"
The Asari Matriarch grinned and dismissed his jibe with genuine laugh, "I have lived for four-thousand years, Mr. DeLoria. Another hundred years just to whisper your given name into your ear while you lie awake on your deathbed, will be just a drop in the bucket for a being as old as I."
Butch, not one to be outdone, replied with all the greaser charm he could muster. His words dripped honey behind his smirk. "Sounds cosy. I'll make sure to whisper a little something back to you, real sweet-like."
"I think I may be too old for you."
"Never too old for love, doll."
Lantaya shook her head and chuckled as she fell in beside them and entered the Observation Room. The room was the same as it had always been. Cluttered with recreational equipment and a few fridges stocked to bursting with snacks and drinks of various descriptions. The animal skin carpets and woven wall decorations still lending their human aesthetic to the distinctly Zetan surroundings.
The Courier leaned casually against the wall, wiping away a small smear of blood from his lip and grinning towards Ulysses, who was kneading the knuckles of his right hand with an inscrutable expression. Joshua's expression was also incomprehensible behind his bandages, but he seemed to be standing at ease.
As far as she could tell the argument, to the extent that it had been one, had already been resolved.
"Consider the Oath made, then," Six pronounced as he grinned at his Tribal friend, his teeth slightly bloody from where Ulysses had obviously struck him across the face. His tongue snaked out and painted his lips a glistening red, before he sucked his tongue clean, then licked his lips of the blood once again.
Ulysses waved him off with his bruised hand and went to sit down.
Behind Butch, the Wanderer and the Matriarch, the rest of those invited to the meeting filed in. Most crowded around the Observation Port and did not notice the Courier's rapidly fading bruise or the blood he swallowed down as his jaw clicked back into place. All save Boone, who raised an eyebrow at his friend and glanced between Ulysses and Joshua, then back to the Courier.
Six shook his head as his mouth split into a self-deprecating grin, mirroring Ulysses as he waving off Craig's unspoken concern. Most of these who filed in wore casual clothing, absent the usual array of weapons and armour that Lani had become so used to seeing around humans. Although, the majority of them wore at least some article of clothing clearly influenced by pre-war military garb.
They all chatted animatedly with one another, especially those of them who had come from opposite Coasts of America. Their association was still a new and fresh addition to their daily lives, one that still engendered interest. Chris Haversam spoke quite companionably with Weston Lesko, the two of them being the Heads of their respective Wings in R&D. The two of them wore white lab coats over industrial-strength jumpsuits, highlighting the fact that they had likely come direct from Engineering.
Even the Three Unwise Men had dispensed with their iconic garb for more comfortable garments. Though in Joshua's case, he had simply stripped off his upper clothing and stood in his sturdy pants and wrapped bandages like an ancient Egyptian mummy waiting to be entombed.
Lantaya noticed a couple of new additions in the press. A willowy woman with an exceptionally pale complexion and almost pitch-black hair, accompanied by the bright-haired counterpoint of Doctor Elliott Tercorien.
The woman looked around her at the gathering of almost uniformly male, uniformly gruff and dangerous-looking human wastelanders with open worry. She had the distinctly soft look about her that told the Matriarch she was likely a pre-war human. That the difference between pre-war and post-war humanity was so stark that she could tell this from first glance wasn't lost on her.
As she stared, the woman paned her gaze around and finally caught her eyes. The two stared at one another for a time, before the human woman lent back and blinked, realising that Lantaya's blue skin and head fringe were in fact real, and she wasn't imagining it. The Matriarch offered her a smile and nod of the head that she hoped would be taken as reassuring.
This prompted the woman to turn her head towards Elliott and, obviously, enquire after the blue-skinned alien. Who she was and why she was here, probably. A question that Lantaya would have returned had there been time to ask.
Instead, the Wanderer called the meeting to order.
"If everyone could find a seat, please. Then we shall begin."
The already thinning press of new arrivals tapered out to a trickle, then subsided as they all took seats around the Observation Port. Tables and chairs had been arranged so that they could all sit in a circle, skirting the edge of the portal set into the deck of the Zeta, peering out into the inky blackness of space. Out in the blackness the humans stared, for the first time, at a solar body not of their own native Sol System.
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen to what we are tentatively referring to as the Arcturus Rift."
Necks craned to take in the vista. A field of bright dots, distant stars set against the background expanse of the ever-present blackness of space. And in the foreground, the looming shape of a red giant. The star of Arcturus. A lonely stellar pilgrim on a journey, billions of light years long.
Scattered amidst the system, floated a quartet of Mass Relays, undisturbed and inactive. They hovered in the blackness, squat shapes the size of titanic beasts, easily as large as small moons. The terrifying promise of both glory and danger in equal measure.
"For most of you, this will be the first time meeting the principle players in our shared venture. All told, we have a total of forty men and women onboard."
"Forty-one," the Courier cut in. The Wanderer would have blinked in confusion if he had still been in possession of a pair of eyelids to do it with.
"I am afraid you are mistaken. I tallied our number upon arrival back on the Zeta. We total forty, even."
"Ye didn't count ED-E," the Courier said sternly.
The Wanderer regarded his partner for a moment, before turning away and completely ignoring him.
"So let me set aside some brief time for introductions," the Wanderer formally announced from his spot in the centre of the transparent window. If it was not for the framework interspersed through the observation port for added stability, it would look as though he was levitating on thin air.
He gestured with one cybernetic arm towards the first of their number, beginning a slow circuit around the arranged tables.
"The two gentlemen in lab coats are Dr. Weston Lesko and Mr. Chris Haversam, the Heads of the Science and Engineering Wings down in R&D. Of all those present, their contributions to this expedition are likely to be the most important. Their technical expertise and the expertise of their teams will no doubt be called up frequently, and at times of utmost need. In light of this, I hope you will all treat them with the respect they and their positions deserve."
Weston and Haversam kept their expressions studiously blank, but nodded in the Wanderer's direction, acknowledging his compliment in turn.
"Ulysses, Joshua Graham and Desmond Lockheart, the latter of whom none of you will likely recognise."
The three men inclined their heads in order, Ulysses still holding Old Glory propped up against his shoulder, the long haft of the staff resting against his ear and bobbing over-so-slightly in time with his head. Joshua's bandaged profile cut a striking figure, his bright white bandages making him seem otherworldly, bathed in the light from Arcturus.
Then came the third, a ghoul, who true to the Wanderer's word Lantaya did not recognise. Of medium height, thickset build and clearly at ease in the company of dangerous men, he set with one leg crossed lengthways across the other, one hand tucked into his rumpled pinstripe suit.
Oddly, he was the only ghoul the Matriarch had yet seen who possessed a full head of hair. Even Raul, the only ghoul she had ever known to have some remaining hair, only had a small trace of a moustache. This Desmond Lockheart had a respectable moustache and a mane of neatly arranged hair. Combined with his thick-rimmed glasses, he seemed erudite and sophisticated at first glance.
"A pleasure to fucking meet you," his gruff voice, typical of most ghouls with an accented twist, dispelled this illusion, however.
"The three of them will be handling Intelligence Operations, when and if we come into contact with other alien races. I introduce them to you all, as pursuant to their objectives, they may come to you all to request assistance. You are to provide that assistance without questioning why. Intelligence work is a fast-paced and dirty business. When or if it becomes necessary to employ such methods, we likely won't be able to afford delays."
The Matriarch restrained a sigh.
She wasn't blind to the fact that all races would likely employ such operatives, and thus could not fault them for planning ahead for just such an eventuality. After all, of the two races they had met so far, one had been hostile and the other had been a lost explorer stranded far from home.
But some part of herself which still regarded itself as apart from humanity, felt conflicted at the knowledge that such men might already be arranging themselves to combat her own people.
This feeling she kept to herself, conscious of the fact that she was surrounded by members of a race not her own, who had a differing set of priorities. She felt isolated, with no-one to turn to who she felt held the same goals and motivations as her. She longed to see another Asari.
"Ishmael Ashur."
A dark-skinned human in a Recon Suit that Lantaya recognised from observing Brotherhood Initiates outside Rivet City. It was marked with strange sigils that seemed almost tribalistic in nature. He had a neatly trimmed goatee and a strip of greying dark hair that ran from the front of his forehead to the back of his skull, like a lonely foot-track through an expanse of brown skin.
"Ishmael will be taking on the job of Shipboard Security abord the Zeta. His role will put him in charge of shipboard weapons systems, which naturally includes taking command in the event of a ship-to-ship conflict. He will also be handling some aspects of logistical support."
If the expressions of the East Coast wastelanders were any indication, Ishmael was a known quantity. And perhaps not in any favourable light, either. Butch's expression in particular spoke to an inner conflict surrounding his opinion of the man.
"I've heard your name before," Desmond observed as he eyed the vastly younger man from over the rims of his black spectacles.
"My name is spoken often and loudly," Ishmael observed without much feeling behind the words, or expression in his eyes.
Ishmael Ashur had cold eyes, Lantaya decided, like a reptile. He looked like the type of person who could approach charity and cruelty in just the same impartial state of mind.
No emotion, just frigid logic.
"The King of the Pitt. The War Pig, Initiate Ishmael Ashur. Once upon a time, more than half the slaves taken in Maryland got shipped straight to your city to die on the assembly line."
There was a silence that settled upon the gathering wasn't one of shock, but one of expectation. It seemed everyone knew the story. The only ones in any way concerned by the revelation were Lantaya and Doctor Barrisford. Lantaya bridled at once more being confronted with an intolerable crime that she felt a burning desire to confront.
Barrisford looked at Ashur as if he was the manifestation of everything wrong with the world. But she did so from the point of view entirely unlike the Matriarch's. While Lantaya was a force to be reckoned with, Doctor Barrisford unconsciously began edging away from the dark-skinned wastelander. He was a threat, whilst she was someone unused to being threatened.
"It's hard to tell," Ishmael replied after a moments consideration, "Most of the slavers on the East Coast don't exactly keep detailed records."
"I heard you retired."
"You heard correct. The city I built now belongs to the People. It will be passed onto our children, our legacy and gift to future generations. And they will live comfortable lives in the lap of luxury. And in a thousand years they might very well curse us for building it."
"Then maybe you'll be able to confirm something else for me," the old ghoul went on.
He didn't actually give Ashur time to agree or disagree to the proposal, but simply forged ahead into his enquiry as he eyed the man from across the intervening expanse of the observation port.
"I heard from a few reliable sources that after you released your slaves, they didn't immediately rise up and separate your head from your shoulders and your bollocks from between your legs. In fact," the ghoul waved his finger in the air to punctuate his point, "I hear you still live there. Among the people you enslaved."
Ishmael smiled faintly, "That's all? No commentary on the inalienable rights of man? No moral condemnation? No ire, no outrage? Refreshing. Ever since the Temple of the Union expanded to the Pitt, I've heard little else."
Lantaya felt the sudden desire to provide all of those things but stopped herself. None of her protests had ever been listened to before. Raging internally, she took a deep breath and still her tongue and her heart.
She might have a right to judge, but she did not hold the right to punish. In that case, silence was her best refuge. The humans would govern themselves in whatever way they saw fit. She looked across the table at Joshua Graham, hoping to find an ally, but his expression was concealed and his posture didn't scream his desire to challenge the former slaver.
"I couldn't give a damn about your slave pens, Ashur. I've been required to work with worse scum before. Believe me when I say that you are nothing I haven't seen a thousand times before. What I want to know is how you manage to keep your head in its natural position, surrounded on all sides by men and women you enslaved."
A question that no doubt held compelling sway over others in the assembled group, who leaned forwards in expectation of the answer as Ishmael maintained his faint, unbothered smirk, not giving anything away.
"The wastelands teach one lesson above all others," Ishmael stated in a strong, sonorous voice. The kind of voice ideally suited to public addresses and speeches, "The strong rule and the weak must either become strong or find the strength to serve. The strong do not have to make concessions to the weak. My people know this."
He spread his hands and interlaced the fingers before him on the table, "So, I made a concession which they knew they had no right to demand and no way to obtain. They wished to kill me for the methods I used to build the new world. So I made them a deal in exchange for my family and I. Our continued safety and residence within the Pitt."
Ishmael leant forwards in his chair with his clasped hands in front of him, resting them on the tabletop.
"They selected nine men from the ranks of the former slaves. They and I stripped ourselves to the waists and entered the Hole, an arena where the Pitt held fights for the entertainment of the masses. We were each given one knife and no armour. And we settled our differences. As men. I alone left the Hole that day, missing a foot of intestines and more blood than I would ever care to lose again. Natural justice has a weight to it that codified law does not. Now, are you finished indulging your curiosity?"
Ishmael gestured to the waiting figure of the Wanderer, who stood staring at the two interlocutors, waiting politely for them to be done, "Our 'glorious' leader is waiting to continue the meeting."
Desmond shrugged and motioned that he was finished with his impromptu interrogation.
The Wanderer moved his hand to indicate the next of the new additions, this one a face that the Matriarch could easily remember but was unlikely to ever forget.
"Jason Bright will be representing our contingent of astronauts and pilots, a number of whom we have recently taken on after our visit to Mars."
The Glowing One nodded, "We are to be companions upon the Great Journey. I am sure the bonds forged between us will withstand the test of time. Together, the Great Journey shall finally find its end."
No-one was entirely sure how to respond to that, given that most had only just met the ghoul. Feeling as though the short relationship had already gone further than they were comfortable with, they just nodded politely and moved right along. In conversation, when all else failed, a smile and a nod would always serve you well.
"Craig Boone will be heading up Special Operations. Those few aliens we have seen traces of so far have a more technologically advanced society than our own, as well as likely having the advantage in numbers and firepower. For our position in the galaxy to be secure, much preparation will need to be done. And it will necessarily need to be done without alerting these hypothetical aliens to our presence."
"I'm sorry," Lantaya cut in as she leaned forwards, an alarmed expression on her face at the direction the conversation seemed to be taking, "This is not a battle that needs to be won by striking from the shadows or leveraging the element of surprise. With my race at least, it would be far better for you to come forwards to the Forum of the Asari Republics and make your case before the people of my world."
"Tis a battle. Everythin' worth havin' is a battle. A friendly battle o' wits, sure," the Courier commented from his spot near the Wanderer's empty seat, feet up on the table and a lit roll-up in his mouth.
"Lani, we ain't lookin' to get convinced otherwise. This was always the plan. We took a month to get to know ye while we searched for the Relay. Durin' that time the Wanderer settled on our plan. 'Twas why we swore ye to silence an' why Wanderer used the words he used. We're gonna play this like it was in the beginnin'; fer the both o' us. Strangers in a strange land. We gotta get to know what we're dealin' with first."
The Matriarch cast her memory back to that day, what felt like so long ago, but in all reality had been nothing more than a week and change. She recalled the wording of the agreement she had been asked to make with them, enforced by the threat of probable death at the Courier's hands.
"I shall hold the knowledge of your race in confidence; the time and the place of your arrival onto the galactic stage will be left entirely to your discretion," she recited from memory.
The Courier's mouth quirked up at the side in a half grin. Smoke drifted up from his mouth as the Wanderer nodded in agreement. The others in the room watched the proceeding with interest, this conversation eluding to a chain of events none of them had been present for.
"It will be some time before humanity is ready to compete with enemies such as the Zetan. Perhaps even longer for us to contend peaceably with alien allies who outnumber and outgun us to such a profound degree. We have no force projection in space with the exception of the Zeta. Our grasp on the technology we have is not yet concrete. Most of the human population still languishes in conditions that do not meet minimum standards. Any economic contribution we might make would be quickly overtaken when the secrets of our technology are inevitably revealed. I will not leave the safety and prosperity of the wastelands to random chance or the goodwill of others. It must be engineered from the ground upwards."
The Matriarch breathed deeply. Well, she certainly could not begrudge him that desire. It was a noble one, eminently practical in his logic and execution. But a question remained. 'And how are you meant to return me to my people if you intend to keep your existence a secret from them?'
"Cannot enter into alliances with our neighbours, until their designs are known. Great warriors found a place beyond defeat, make their home there, before once looking for an opportunity to act," Ulysses's voice rumbled out across the Observation Room, his golden staff still proper up against his shoulder and his head bowed to gaze searchingly at the tabletop.
"So, this whole expedition is an intelligence gathering operation?" Desmond Lockheart questioned in his gravelly voice, the voice that all ghouls seemed to share. He had poured himself a dram of whiskey and was grinning over the lip of his plain glass with marked interest.
"With this many heavy hitters onboard, I thought we might be going out to kick someone in the bollocks, but it seems having your skull crammed full of cybernetics did you good, kid. No more blundering off half-cocked on cockamamy schemes. I take it this is why you sent me that transmission?"
"Correct," the Wanderer confirmed, "You worked in intelligence before the war. Your knowledge and expertise in this area are second to none. Also, you confessed to being a 'rock-hard bastard' during our last encounter. That could also prove useful."
"Didn't know ye swung that way. No performance issues with yer ol' member, aye Lockheart?" the Courier quipped from the side-lines. Desmond shot him a Look, caught somewhere in the indeterminate space between annoyance and amusement.
"In any case," the Wanderer continued with a pointed look in the Courier's direction for his ill-timed levity, "We are beginning to stray from the point of this meeting. As I was saying, Craig Boone will be Heading Special Operations. Conventional Ground Operations will be Headed by Butch DeLoria. He and his Tunnel Snakes make up the bulk of our operatives on this venture and they have experience working in isolated conditions against superior forces. As such, he is the natural choice for command of them."
Butch had put the cap back on his canteen and spun the container of water like a top on the table under the eyes of those assembled.
"Yeah, nice to meet you," he said, somewhat awkwardly. He continued to spin the canteen, on obvious nervous tick.
It seemed he still didn't like the prospect of being placed in a position of authority. Or perhaps, didn't like the burden of responsibility. Either was equally understandable, Lani admitted. Though perhaps his unease was the best indicator that he deserved the trust placed in him. Authority was better placed in those who took it seriously.
Craig Boone, as was his habit, said nothing. His face was stony underneath his red First Recon beret. His t-shirt stretched out across the muscles of his tightly packed upper body, making his figure seem more akin to a classical era statue than a man.
"Very well, now that all of our ranking members are introduced, we can get to the first subject of discussion. Namely, the developing situation as it pertains to the various alien races we have run across so far."
The Wanderer fiddled with his Pip-Boy, and from the mounted projection system on the ceiling he produced a chorus line of three virtual figures.
One was an Asari, modelled after Lantaya herself.
The second was a Zetan, of an appearance typical of their species.
The last was a blank figure. Lantaya took this from a process of elimination to be a representation of the Protheans.
"These are our neighbours. The alien races that we know of as of this moment. Thanks to Matriarch T'Rali, we have a decent understanding of the technology, language and societal values of the Asari as they stood three-thousand years ago."
With an adjustment of the dials on his Pip-Boy, the representation of the Asari was brought to the foreground so that all might study it thoroughly. All did so, sometimes glancing at Lantaya as if comparing the image with the reality.
"Briefs and primers containing what we know are available on the ship-wide data-net for your convenience. They are potential allies but are not to be contacted or confronted directly until we have gathered enough information on their disposition. Negotiations must be approached from a position of strength. They are not the most concerning, but they are the group we know the most about."
"If you hope to avoid contacting them until the appropriate moment, then how do you expect to return me to my people without revealing yourselves?" Lantaya cut in now that the subject had been brought up. Her eyes were narrowed, as if she suspected them of foul play.
"The alien is right, kid," Desmond agreed as he swirled his whiskey around in its glass with a considering look upon his ravaged features, "She's been gone for three-thousand years. Even if we manage to insert her back onto her people's home planet without alerting them, the first question they'll ask is, 'how the fuck did she manage to survive for so long?' and, 'how the bloody hell she managed to get back?' Both questions will lead them straight back to us."
"Simple as, ain't it?" The Courier smirked and waved the problem off, "She's been dead for three-thousand years, aye? Just give her a fake name an' she can pretend to be someone else. 'Tis not like any yet live who would have remembered who ye were. Now is yer chance to leave the Road ye walked an' forge a new path, if ye so please."
Lantaya paused. She had to confess; the idea had its own attractions. But she shook her head, "It wouldn't work. Records of Asari citizens are kept digitally in a database shared between the many Asari Republics. We use it for political discussion and representation. These records are rarely deleted, only archived away. It includes extensive biometric data to confirm the voter's identity during political discussion."
"Bugger. That makes this complicated," Desmond replied. His already twisted features crinkled in thought. "If all else fails, we can just hack into the records and alter them. We may need to do that anyway. You will need a cover identity inserted into the official records in either case. They would really keep that old data for over three-thousand years?"
"Of course," Lantaya answered, as if that were obvious. Then she realised the point of confusion.
"Three-thousand years may seem, to a human, an excessively long period to keep records associated with a citizen who is presumed to be long dead, but to an Asari it is only three lifetimes. They will have kept them if only out of the desire to identify my body. If it was ever discovered, that is."
Lantaya frowned slightly, "Simply hacking into the databases of my people will be no easy task. I question whether you will be able to pull off such a feat. It is no trivial undertaking."
"Well, it has been some time since I have had to hack into government databases," Desmond smirked at her with his faintly yellowing teeth, "I will brush up on my skills, if you'd indulge me by showing me some of your races fundamental coding languages as a base. Don't worry love, you are in good hands with me."
The Wanderer nodded his thanks to Desmond. Again, the Cyborg adjusted the dial, and the image of the Zetan took the foreground.
"Next, we have the Zetan. They are enigmatic to the extreme. Little is known about their intentions, beside what can be inferred from their actions thus far. From these actions we have decided to classify them as hostile until proven otherwise. They also know the location of Earth and likely have for some time. That is, judging from the presence of Toshiro Kago aboard the Zeta."
The Wanderer turned his attention to the strange, willowy women who Lantaya had noted earlier, drawing the notice of all present to her. The women visibly gulped.
"I have spent some time attempting to decipher their language in order to aid in my reverse-engineering of their technology. So far, we have had limited success. To this end I asked Dr. Tercorien to retrieve a specialist from cryogenic stasis before my recent visit to Earth. If you all would welcome Dr. Holly Barrisford to the proceedings."
There was a ripple of nods and polite greetings at the twitchy Doctor Barrisford, who averted her eyes in an attempt to keep from meeting anyone's gaze. Elliott placed a reassuring hand upon her shoulder, making a point to keep his hand well away from her bare skin or her neck.
"Doctor Barrisford is formerly of the United States Space Administration. Her speciality was centred around linguistics. Her job was to develop the methodology that would eventually be used to interact with sentient life, foreign to our planet. How to translate a language with no common reference point. How to find common modes of communication without reference points readily available. How to handle First Contact. I believe her position was why the Zetan kidnapped her to begin with."
"She was not treated well during her time under their care, so please be considerate," Elliott stated from beside her, observing her keenly with the eyes of a practised medical professional.
He had not been enthusiastic at the prospect of allowing his patient here. She was far from mentally ready for such a meeting and his eyes spelled trouble for anyone who might cause her distress. Barrisford, for her own part, didn't look as though she would be offering any input to the proceedings. She hunched in on herself and tried to avoid eye contact, although her eye were hyperactive, flickering around the room like a squirrel caught in a trap. Classic signs of trauma.
"With her help we are slowly making inroads into their language. Subsequently, we have discovered a number of interesting facts."
The Wanderer brought up another image on the projector, this time that of a Chinese Stealth Suit. Matte-black and worn by the Chinese Crimson Dragoons and Black Ghosts, their premier special forces and counter-insurgency groups.
"The first of our discoveries came during our translation of the controls for the Zeta. We found that the ship is capable of being cloaked from outside observers for an almost indefinite period of time. The technology used to accomplish this feat is almost identical to that employed by the Red Chinese in the creation of their Stealth Suits, that you see pictured here."
There was a long pause as he allowed them time to digest this information, during which the soft hum of the ships internal workings and the clink of Lockheart's whiskey glass were heard most prominently. It was Desmond who broke it properly.
"We always wondered how Chinese scientists managed to develop that technology and harness it when all we could manage was shitty Stealth Boy knock-offs. They must have nicked it off the Zetan, same way the Enclave did with their Tesla Armour and Plasma weaponry. Is the entire bloody ship able to cloak at will?"
"Correct," the Wanderer confirmed with a short nod towards the ghoul, his coal black eyes meeting milky white.
"It's a technological marvel," Chris added, his usually harsh voice and demeanour softening for a spell as his enthusiasm for his work momentarily took over.
"We examined the outside of the Zeta with our drones when we realised what the controls meant. The stealth field emitters are built into the outer hull at regular intervals, flush with the side of the ship and shielded against solar radiation and emissions. With the unique drive core and the stealth field, the Zeta is virtually undetectable unless it chooses to make use of a Mass Relay. Then the activation of the Gate will give away our presence."
"They take great strides to remain unseen. Study us from the depths of Endless Black. And those of the Matriarch's people. They wish to examine those who toil in ignorance of their presence," Ulysses noted before adjusting his staff and gazing at it in consideration, "Stinks of Old-World curiosity. Poking and prodding. All the time searching for answers, never once questioning the Why of it. Might be no meaning to what they do. Just to goad until secrets spill out. Insects from rotting wood."
"They were studying us and we cannot yet tell why," Joshua repeated Ulysses's commentary in more comprehensible terms. Elliot Tercorien gave his own input to the proceedings, causing Dr. Barrisford to glance sideways at him in slight alarm at the sudden rush of attention in their direction.
"Speaking of the activation of Mass Relays," Elliot began as he adjusted his own lab coat, shifting under the gaze of the many influential men and women present, "Somah also suspects that they may have had something against the Protheans. Or, possibly just against the technology that the Protheans employed."
Elliott started counting off fingers as he listed the rational, "First, the alarms on the Zeta were triggered when we first scanned Charon. The ships computer flagged it as a possible threat. Next, the scanners and computers also flagged a number of artifacts and tech we brought up from Mars and wouldn't allow them onboard. The airlock doors refused to open while they remained in the decontamination chamber."
"And lastly," Elliott said after raising his third finger and hooking it with his opposite thumb, "Approaching and then going through the relay also triggered a number of alarms that Somah needed to shut off. Really loud ones," he added to emphasis his point.
"That is our working hypothesis, though the reasons remain unclear. Thankfully, from studying their technology and language, we have also begun to understand some of the fundamentals of their technology as a whole," the Wanderer picked up the wayward strands of the conversation and carried on whilst the rest of the room was still absorbing the revelation regarding the Zetan and the Protheans. It was difficult to know what to make of it. The most they could do was speculate.
The Wanderer reached into his pocket and retrieved a green crystal, roughly half the size of Lantaya's clenched fist. They all studied it curiously. They had seen a number of such crystals scattered around the Zetan, secreted away in various locations or displayed on shelves in plain view of any casual passer-by.
"These crystals are to be found all across the ship," he declared, holding it up so that it was clearly visible to all. The crystal caught the light, sending vibrant green motes across the tabletop and the walls of the room.
"Up until this point, we were not sure what the Zetan employed these for. Our theories ranged from negotiable currency, to decoration, to items of religious significance. Once we learned enough of the language to begin translating their system documentation, we have proof positive that these crystals are actually the Zetan's preferred method of data storage."
He paused at this point, as if this knowledge was supposed to be significant to them all. Most of those present returned his look with blank expressions. It was Chris and Lesko, predictably, who rushed to explain the importance of such a discovery.
"Crystal-based computing has long been theorised of in scientific circles since the invention of fibre optics for the transmission of data," Lesko began as he adjusted his spectacles and waved his hands like a professor beginning a lecture.
"Simply put, our current standard for computer hardware is still heavily based on the use of a metallic or synthetic substrate as an intermediary to transmit data. Fibre optics transmits data far faster; the speed of light to be exact. But once light reaches the machine it then needs to be received by a specialised adaptor, appropriately named for its function of adapting the transmissions from light into electronic signals that can travel across the more conventional substrates internal to the machine."
Under the table, Chris brought his foot down on Lesko's instep, a not so gentle reminder that brevity was, in his eyes, the most cardinal of virtues. Lesko yelped, then glared hotly at Haversam, before continuing.
"It became an object of interest to find a new substrate that would accept light-based transmissions directly, rather than requiring the use of an adaptor to convert the transmissions It would streamline the process, making the overall speed of the machine faster."
"If I recall the relevant literature," Desmond Lockheart commented in his gravelly voice, pushing his own spectacles further up the bridge of his mangled nose, "The project called for a liquid crystal substrate in order to take advantage of the properties of light as a medium of transmission. My eyes might be milky white, but I'm not fucking blind. That crystal has a rigid structure."
They all looked at the ghoul in surprise, a number of raised eyebrows among their number. Lockheart just grinned, flash-fried lips peeling back over his faintly yellow teeth. He swirled the whiskey in his glass and emitted a sound that reminded everyone strongly of tarmacadam, which they realised might be a laugh.
"Don't let my rugged good looks fool you, smoothskin. I'm something of a scientist myself."
"How marvellous!" Weston Lesko proclaimed in sincere pleasure at the discovery and completely overlooking the subtle jab that Scientists couldn't be in possession of rugged good looks.
Chris didn't reply. After all, he was an engineer. He was ugly for entirely different reasons.
"We absolutely must convene at some later point to compare our findings. We can always use another pair of hands in the Science Wing. I don't suppose you have experience with advanced computer coding? Our coders are sadly overworked at the moment," Lesko admitted at the tail end of his rushed explanation.
"Focus, Doctor Lesko," the Wanderer ordered, "Sufficed to say, the crystals are capable of transitioning from a solid to a semi-liquid state when certain conditions are met. We will dispense with the more technical details. If any of you should wish to be enlightened on the process, I'm sure Doctor Lesko or any of the staff in R&D will be happy to oblige."
"Great Scott," Lesko said as he adjusted his spectacles again after they had slid down the bridge of his nose. His blond combover was rapidly taking on the appearance of a rats nest, with his exposed bald-patch rising out of the mess like a patch of dirt in the middle of long grass.
"To explain so complex a subject to so many people would be a massive undertaking. It would require a scientist to do it justice!"
Chris rested his forehead in his palm and sighed heavily, "Lesko?"
"Yes?"
"You are a scientist."
"I am?" Lesko's face grew puzzled for a moment before he seemed to recollect himself. Breaking out in a jubilant grin, he stood up straighter and beamed at the occupants of the room, who currently couldn't return the gaze due to the collective rolling of their eyes.
"Ohh yes! I am a scientist. How marvellous!"
Chris, recovering from his second-hand embarrassment at his partners scatter-brained behaviour, extracted his face from his hand and tried to ignore the grinning faces all around him. The Wanderer, ignoring all of this, soldiered onwards.
"In light of this, all crystals found around the Zeta need to be collected and handed in to Doctor Barrisford in R&D, or 'Lettersman' Strayer who will be acting as her assistant when available. We will be cataloguing and translating their contents. There are potentially zettabytes of data stored on this ship's onboard computers alone, not even taking into account the loose crystals scattered throughout the ship. And every byte might contain valuable intelligence. Doctor Barrisford will be working on an automated translation program to sift through our collected archive in pursuit of relevant information."
"Then let us pray that their records will enlighten us as to their methods and intent," Joshua commented softly, "We cannot hope to confront or combat them if we do not know them."
"To gain victory, must know your enemy. Must know yourself," Ulysses agreed, before glancing at Joshua and the Courier in turn, "Do we know ourselves? I would know your minds."
"If there is ever to be lasting peace, the enemies that wait at our gates must be dealt with. I have reservations with working alongside some of you," Joshua said, his eyes focusing on Ishmael in particular, "But fire must be confronted with fire and a man need not have a righteous heart to strike a blow with righteous hands, if he is directed by the Will of God. What actions can we take against the Zetan at this moment?"
The Courier finished his roll-up, stubbing it out on the side of his own neck in order to avoid dirtying the table. Doctor Barrisford, who watched him do this with wide eyes, looked swiftly away as he turned and smirked in her direction.
"Nothin'. For now. The hunt has begun, but we're not yet prepared to make our move 'til we know where they are. We'll stalk them from the shadows for a fair bit 'fore the time comes to strike. 'Til then, we must be on our guard. These little grey bastards observed us in secret for hundreds o' years without givin' themselves away. They might well get the drop on us 'fore we do on them," he reminded them with a bright glint in his eye, lips peeled back over stark white teeth.
He didn't seem too concerned at the prospect, despite his urging to be cautious. In fact, he seemed excited at the prospect of being hunted. Of testing himself against a foe that might just stand a chance of ending him.
"We stand on their ground. The work of their hands," Ulysses observed, tapping the floor with his boot, "Do they still have control over it? Ghosts lying in wait for the incautious, as there was in the Divide?"
"Automated processes or remote overrides?" The Wanderer clarified to make sure his understanding of Ulysses's metaphors was correct.
"We must assume so, though none were employed against us during the battle between the Zeta and the other, unnamed Zetan Mothership. Once we have a comprehensive translation of the Zetan language, we can begin decoding and cataloguing the ship's systems. Until then, we are blind to much of the ship's functions."
"You know what? I take back what I said. It would have been a bloody sight better to wait until you had the translation of the ship's systems before gathering humanities best and brightest on this potential fucking death-trap of a spaceship!" Desmond growled.
"Who dares wins, lad," the Courier smirked at the ghoul sardonically. Desmond met his gaze sharply, eying the Courier up and down in faint surprise. "Return to yer roots for a while. Dare a little, why don't ya?"
The venerable ghoul bristled but retained his semi-dignified countenance, "Don't you worry about me, boy. I can dare with the best of them. That aside, there is still one last alien race on that list of yours, kid."
He pointed towards the last representation on the holographic display, the black figure which the Wanderer had used to denote the Protheans. The Wanderer, obligingly, rotated the display and brought the last of the three to the foreground.
"The Protheans. The base Jason and his Brothers commandeered on Mars was theirs, as well as the contents, which we have salvaged and brought up to the Zeta for safe keeping and study."
Ishmael leaned back in his chair, his expression one of deep contemplation as the Wanderer spoke. Once the pause in explanation came, he registered his opinion.
"The Protheans settled an outpost on Mars how long ago?"
"Over fifty-thousand years ago," Lantaya answered without hesitation, being the subject matter expert amongst those present. Ishmael's eyes flickered to her. His expression was intensely interested.
"The Zetan were here to study us. Is it possible that the Protheans were also here studying humanity?"
Lantaya paused, considering the possibility.
"It is possible, of course. Your race would likely have been in its earlier stages of evolution. A ripe subject for a Zeno-anthropological study. Vastly more valuable than material resources or even a garden world by dint of rarity alone. Opportunities to study such a race are few and far between, and all races I have known so far seem to possess a common interest in the process by which they gained sentience. I have no doubt this was also true of the Protheans."
"But while the possibility exists, we know nothing for sure," Chris Haversam stated conclusively.
"We know that the Road led us here. Twistin' an' turnin', bendin' and twirlin'. Against all odds," the Courier's voice drifted across the table like a song at midnight. They turned their attention to the King of New Vegas, whose fingers were tracing shapes on the tabletop as his eyes stared sightlessly out the Observation Port and out into space.
"The Protheans are the key. If there's to be a vote on our headin' once the lass is back with her people, mine goes with the Protheans," the aging tribal spoke with such calm conviction that they momentarily forgot to ask for his reasons. Before they could do so, however, he pre-empted their queries.
"The Road led us to the Protheans an' wherever it's gonna be leadin' us from here-on-out, that must be meanin' that the Protheans are involved. Jason was guided there to set a beacon on our Road. Lead us down the right path. An' that path heads off towards the Protheans."
"No step on the Great Journey is more important than any other," Jason Bright noted with a nod of agreement, his echoing voice only adding to the air of mystic the two men seemed to carry with them. "The last step cannot exist without the first, or every other step that leads to the inevitable end. The fourth cannot exists without the second, and no step before exists without the possibility of those that come after."
"Is this really the time to be arguing deterministic philosophy? Just because something exists, does not mean it is relevant to the proceedings," Haversam grumbled derisively, "Are you going to try and make a case that every rock, pebble and concrete slab on Mars is relevant just because it happened to be there when we arrived? I used to believe in your Great Journey, Jason, but not now. You two need to screw your heads back on and join us in the real world."
"I can be livin' in two worlds at once if I need to. The Spirits guided us to the Protheans. They're the key to somethin' I can't yet see. But how 'bout this, yer Saintliness?" the Courier replied with a relaxed grin towards the Aerospace engineer, "I'll be pursuin' the Protheans 'cause I'm the crazy shaman whose off his feckin' skull with all the superstitious ramblin' an' ye can be the sane man whose only followin' along 'cause ye want to know how they did what they did. Like how they went 'bout buildin' the Mass Relays."
"And what makes you think I'm interested in how they built the Mass Relays?" Chris retorted stubbornly through beady eyes
"Sure, 'tis feckin' obvious. Just look at them why don't ya? If ye tell me ye wouldn't be interested then I'll call ye a feckin' liar," the glib reply came on the tail end of another wide grin. They all glanced out the Observation Port, their eyes drawn almost inexorably towards the four Mass Relays that loomed out in the void.
Haversam scoffed, but nevertheless looked placated. For a man wholly in the grips of tribal superstition, no one could say that the Courier wasn't astute when he needed to be. Chris was indeed interested in the Relays. The technology required to build such a colossus! He would gladly pursue such knowledge to the ends of the galaxy.
Jason Bright nodded, his luminescent skin glowing faintly alongside the stars outside the port and the ship's interior lighting, "Though I am confident the Protheans will be relevant to us in the future, we cannot know when or how. We must be watchful for signs of the Journey ahead."
"And speaking of the journey ahead," Joshua looked to the Wanderer and tilted his head to the side, "It would seem to me that we must now discuss where you are taking us."
Joshua indicated Lantaya and the Courier with one bandaged hand, starlight seemingly causing the white fabric to shine with its own inner light. Lani was struck for the first time by the odd coincidence of the similarities between Joshua Graham and Jason Bright.
Both religious in their own ways, both possessed of horrible deformities that while ugly, also seem to imbue them with a peculiar gravitas.
"The Good Matriarch and Courier Six have spoken to me of several presumed destinations. Thessia is one. This ancient Space Station at the heart of the Serpent Nebula is another. But how do we intend to get there? Do we know how to chart a course through this… 'network' of Mass Relays?"
In answer, the Wanderer brough up his Pip-Boy once more and fiddled with the controls. At once, the three figures faded from view, to be replaced by a celestial exhibition of massive proportions. A star chart, rendered in three-dimensions by the holographic technology of the projector. It hung there in the centre of the room, suspended above the Observation Port and the sight of the real counterparts in the immense blackness of space beyond.
Desmond wolf-whistled in what was for him, sincere appreciation, taking a long sip from his whiskey glass as his gaze roamed over the display.
"Behold the glory of our lord's creation," Joshua whispered almost inaudibly, his voice filled with religious reverence.
"This is a crude star map of the Milky Way," the Alpha informed them as he moved amidst the sea of stars like some sort of cosmic giant, "put together using information obtained from Matriarch T'Rali, our own conventional astronomy charts, Zetan navigational systems we have managed to have translated, and some few Prothean charts from the base computer on Mars."
"No wonder it looks like Frankenstein's fucking monster. Mary Shelley would be proud," Desmond eyed the composite chart with his practised eyes, trying to puzzle out what some of the floating notations included next to the individual stars were saying. Most of it was clearly alien in origin, though from what he could see, they were from multiple different languages.
The Wanderer nodded, "It is less than ideal and work will need to be done refining this map for future use, but we do have two reasonable candidates for a reliable route to Thessia. Here," he indicated a series of long lines, linking several systems of stars together in an elongated chain, stretching their way from Sol to the Serpent Nebula. It seemed to be the shortest way.
"And here," the cyborg indicated another with a solitary cybernetic finger, tracing a path that skirted the outside edge of the galactic core. It seemed longer by far to the eyes of those watching. A thought that Ishmael was quick to voice out loud.
"The first route is shorter. It takes us almost directly to the Serpent Nebula from here."
"Correct. If the speed our vessel has displayed so far is its average rate of progress, we could be at the spot where the Matriarch last remembered being before her capture by the Zetan in less than two weeks," the Wanderer agreed.
"What's the catch?" The Courier enquired cheerily, "Ye never get to take the shortest route, Wanderer. 'Tis always somethin' blockin' the way, forcin' ya to take the scenic route. It's like an unwritten law o' the universe."
"Quarry Junction," Boone spoke up unexpectedly from the island of silence his complete lack of either noise or movement had erected around him. His face was twisted into a grimace, as if remembering a bad dream.
The Courier, in contrast to Boone, laughed and reflected almost wistfully, "Aye, Quarry Junction! I miss that nest, some days. That ol' mother Deathclaw was a fighter an' a half. Best evenings work I can remember, off the top o' my head."
"There is an obstacle," the Wanderer granted them. "Simply put, this area is one of the points of contention between the three maps we have used to compile this composite. It is only shown on two of them, and of the two, neither of them agree on the details of the Mass Relays or the interior of the systems they lead to. For this reason I suggest we take this route right here…"
A cybernetic finger traced another route that curled around the edge of the galactic core, through several star systems, taking the longer way around the Milky Way to emerge through the back door of Asari explored space.
Or, at least, Asari explored space as it stood three-thousand years previously.
"It looks just as screwy as a map of the D.C. underground," Butch commented as he grimaced up at the confusing maze of interconnecting Relays. His eyes traced the route indicated, taking in the small labels that hung in space next to the dots in space, indicating the Mass Relays.
"Where did we get all these names from? Exodus Cluster? Horse Head Nebula? We ain't never been all the way out in space before, but we already have names for these places? And they're all in English too. What gives?"
"Some of them are adapted from human astronomy charts," Lantaya informed them as she studied the path she would need to travel before finally seeing home again, "Some are Asari names translated to the nearest English equivalent. Others are adaptations from what little Prothean we Asari understand. The Zetan planets that did not have names from other charts have been given numbered identifiers or placeholders until we can get more information."
Butch shrugged at the explanation, still tracing the course they were set upon taking with his eyes, his mouth working involuntarily as he read off the names of the systems they would be traversing.
"Arcturus Rift…" he said, starting with their current location. He read it off almost like stations on a map of the underground, the two being somewhat similar to him in concept.
"…to Exodus Cluster, to Horse Head Nebula, to Hawking Eta, to Omega Nebula, to Eagle Nebula, to Serpent Nebula. Nice, me and the boys might set up there. It's even named after us, you dig?"
There was another long pause, as they all stared collectively at the star chart floating before them. Butch cleared his throat.
"Uhh, hey Wanderer?"
"Yes, Mr. DeLoria?"
"Just Butch," Butch corrected him, "Can I ask a question?"
"Of course."
Butch was silent for another few moments.
"What the fuck is a Nebula, exactly? And why are there so many?"
There was another long silence, before Desmond snorted and threw back the last of his whiskey in one gulp.
"I'm so glad," he said in his gravelly voice heavy with sarcasm, eying up the leader of the Tunnel Snakes, "to be working with a group of such thoroughgoing professionals, again."