Chapter 26: Aftermath
"DIGERIS SURRENDERS!"
Those two words, or some variation of them, flashed on every news channel in Citadel space. Announcers spoke in shocked, almost incredulous tones about how, for the first time in recorded history, a Turian world had actually capitulated to a foreign power. Not just any world, either; Digeris was the most populous world in the Hierarchy after Palaven itself and by far its most important colony.
This fact was not lost on Councilors Tevos and Torbel, who were currently viewing the Galactic News Network's broadcast covering the story in the Council Chamber's private lounge. Both had drinks in front of them, strong ones at that, and dour expressions on their faces. It had become something of a tradition in recent days between them: guzzling liquor and bemoaning the state of affairs as the whole galaxy continued its downward spiral.
The screen now showed the Turian delegates from both the military and citizenry signing a document certifying the surrender before a crowd of humans. When it was done, Torbel let out a deep sigh.
"So, it's now official: Digeris has fallen," he remarked gravely. "I still can't believe it."
"I know," Tevos agreed. "The Federation has done what the Krogan at the height of their power could not." She stared down at her drink as though attempting to divine some message from the vibrant blue contents. "Do you think that stings their pride?"
"I doubt it," said Torbel with a snort. "From what I've gathered, they're too busy throwing parties and toasting the humans' success to be bothered. As far as they're concerned, this whole war has been the greatest thing that's happened to the galaxy."
"Them and the Batarians," grumbled Tevos. "With the Hierarchy's markets out of reach, several big companies are offering lucrative deals to them in the hopes of making up for their losses. My government is even talking about lifting some more sanctions from the Hegemony; it'll allow them to purchase greater quantities of starship-grade element zero and more advanced guidance chips for missiles. On the condition that they turn their newfound boon towards keeping the Terminus Systems at bay, of course."
"And I'm sure they'll do just that, because they've always been such a model of cooperation." Torbel shook his head in disgust. "Sometimes, I wonder what our predecessors were thinking when they let the Batarians join the Citadel. They flout our antislavery laws with near-impunity and scream about how we are infringing upon their 'cultural heritage' whenever we crack down on the practice, never mind all the times they've tried to muscle in on our own territories. What do they even offer us?"
"A presence in the Terminus Systems, for one," noted Tevos. "Better a poor foothold than none at all, I suppose. Along with a ready supply of cheap goods for the interstellar markets."
Of course, they both knew another, less savory reason: the Hegemony was where the powers that be of Citadel space went when they needed something done that they couldn't do in their own territories. If a particular individual needed to be "incentivized" more aggressively than what the local laws or basic decency would allow, or some other unpleasant deed had to be done, the Hegemony could make it happen and with no questions asked. So long as the Batarians kept their slaving practices minimized so that it didn't impact Citadel space, the rest of the galaxy was content to pretend they were a respectable member of civilized society.
And the unfortunate fact was that while slavery itself wasn't approved of by the rest of the Council races, neither was it rigorously opposed. There were plenty of worlds within Citadel space that had similar institutions in place; they just exploited legal technicalities and gave it a more acceptable name, like "indentured servitude" or "contract labor."
"Speaking of markets and trade agreements," said Torbel, changing the subject, "just how bad is the economic situation these days?"
The Salarian recalled an incident a little while ago when he'd gone to a bar for a pick-me-up and had inadvertently overheard a heated conversation between a group of Asari. The topic had been how they were all suffering severe financial hardships due to the war, with one of them brought to tears because she was facing complete ruin; it had been a very depressing experience for Torbel. If their situation was any indication, then things were really going downhill.
Tevos favored him with a wry glance. "Do you want me to be honest, or tactful?"
"Honest and blunt," said Torbel.
"It's a complete mess," Tevos answered. She sounded like she wanted to be crasser with her assessment, but her inherent professionalism wouldn't allow it. "Obviously, we expected that cutting off trade with the second-largest economy in Citadel space would cause problems, but I don't think anyone really thought it would get so bad so quickly. Smaller companies are going bankrupt left and right; even the major ones are getting hammered. Prices for practically everything are going up and wages haven't risen to compensate, which means people aren't buying as much."
The news hit Torbel like a physical blow. "Wait...so does that mean…?"
"Yes. At this rate, we'll be facing a galaxy-wide recession in another ten standard years, maybe fifteen."
Torbel stared at her incredulously. "Are you serious?!"
Tevos shrugged. "You asked me to be honest and blunt."
"I did, didn't I?" Torbel grumbled. He sighed and slumped in his seat. "So, what are we doing to stop that from happening?"
"The Republics have put some policies into action," replied Tevos. Her tone was resigned. "Stimulus packages, public works projects, bailouts and so on, but that only goes so far. If the downturn gets worse, there won't be enough money to cover the rising cost of living; then, people will start defaulting on their loans and other debts, which will further weaken the banking system." Tevos shuddered. "Athame help us if the credit collapses."
"I don't even want to think about that," said Torbel with a grimace. He downed the remainder of his drink and promptly signaled for a refill.
"The feeling's mutual," agreed Tevos. "But unfortunately, we do have to consider that possibility, especially since the Volus aren't around to do it for us." She let out a hollow laugh. "It's funny, isn't it? How many times did they ask for a seat on the Council, only for us to say they needed to have made some substantial contribution to society? Turns out, they've been doing it since they arrived; we just never noticed because they did it so well. How's that for irony?"
"Yes. It's like a cruel joke of some higher power." An Asari waitress returned with a fresh glass filled with bright-green booze. Torbel snatched it up the moment she set it down on the table, taking a generous gulp. "And not only that, thanks to the war, they now have enough military assets to lend aid to the Citadel if needed; they've even got a real monster of a dreadnought in production. They have all the qualifications needed to be on the Council, and I have a sneaking suspicion that they won't take no for an answer the next time they ask."
"Will they be able to keep those assets, though?" asked Tevos. "The war is still going on, after all. One bad engagement, and those new ships could end up as salvage."
"Not unless the humans make a drastic change in their tactics," said Torbel. "They've been very careful to avoid striking any Volus holdings; thus far, the only casualties the Protectorate has suffered have been on the frontlines in the Hierarchy. It is my belief, as well as that of STG, that the Federation is trying to force a wedge between them. And," he added wryly, "it seems to be working. There's talk within the Protectorate of an effort to regain their independence."
"That's hardly anything new," said Tevos. "There has always been grumbling among the Volus about their status as a client race of the Turians."
"If it were just a small group of them griping on the extranet, I'd agree with you. However, this is a lot bigger than a few virtual chatrooms. Anti-Turian sentiment is rampant throughout the Protectorate; even those profiting from the war have voiced their desire to be rid of the Client Pact, and it's only going to grow more intense as the war goes on." Torbel shook his head. "No, this isn't something that's going to blow over. This time, I believe the Volus are serious."
Torbel paused to take another swig from his glass. "So now the question is, should they actually push for independence from the Turians, who do we support?"
"That's not even a question," scoffed Tevos. "Right now, we need economic expertise a lot more than we need military power and thanks to the mauling the Federation is giving the Turians, they're not even going to be a military power for a long time. If the Volus truly want independence, I'll do everything I can to make it happen."
"In that case, I can guarantee that the first thing the Volus will demand is for a seat on the Council, especially when they realize how badly we need them," noted Torbel.
"They can have it," said Tevos. "And we'll probably have to make some other concessions if we want them to help us get things back to normal." A deep scowl creased her face. "As for the Turians, they'll be lucky if we let them keep their own seat. It would certainly be fitting to expel them from the Council after the mess they've created."
"Well, they certainly won't be in any position to object," remarked Torbel with a not-inconsiderable amount of vindictive satisfaction. The image of Sparatus's shocked expression as he was kicked off his precious Council seat was a delicious one. "And there won't be any opposition from the rest of Citadel space, either. The Turians aren't exactly popular these days."
That was putting it mildly. At present, the Turians were borderline pariahs in the galactic community. Every other race rested the blame for the war and all the problems it had caused squarely on their shoulders. The Federation's propaganda efforts had been a major contributor to that sentiment, having very effectively portrayed themselves as the wronged party and the Turians as unreasonable warmongers. The Turians hadn't made much of an effort to win the hearts and minds of the galaxy, but then again, they didn't have much to work with. It was pretty hard to spin the "We attacked an unknown civilization for a dumb reason and then started a war with them because we didn't get a groveling apology" narrative as something positive.
"Then that leaves the biggest issue: how are we going to deal with the humans?" said Tevos. "Regardless of what arrangements we might pursue, they'll be negotiating from a position of strength. We certainly can't strongarm a nation that devasted the greatest military force in Citadel space."
Torbel frowned. "I'll be honest, I'd just as soon as not have to deal with them at all. They have an entirely different technological field from us based on principles that we still have no real understanding of, which violates what we had previously thought to be fundamental laws of the universe. And as they've proven in this war, it makes them very powerful and dangerous." He glanced up at Tevos. "The Dalatrasses are worrying themselves sick about all the potential disasters that the humans could wreak if they wanted to."
"The same can be said for the Matriarchs of my government," said Tevos. "Along with practically every major corporation in the Republics; they're worried that this new tech the humans have will threaten their element zero monopolies." The Asari shrugged. "Still, I feel that it would best to try and coax the Federation to join us."
"In exchange for what?" asked Torbel. "They don't need new worlds to colonize, we don't have any critical pieces of technology that they lack, and from what I've read of them, the humans won't accept Spectre agents in their midst, even if we gave them the opportunity for one of their own to join. As far as I can see, we have nothing to offer them."
"Maybe not," agreed Tevos. "But we can certainly try to strike up some trade agreements and perhaps even some mutual-defense treaties. They'll likely agree to help enforce the antislavery clauses; they despise the institution with a passion."
"Of course, that will undoubtedly lead to them questioning why we have a proudly pro-slavery society as a member," noted Torbel. "If I were them, I might think that we were, to put it crudely, full of shit." The Salarian swirled the contents of his glass idly. "No, I have a feeling that the Federation will not be joining our little club."
"You could be right," said Tevos with a sigh. "In any case, the coming years are going to be the most tumultuous times since the Rebellions." A soft laugh escaped her lips. "You know, I actually envy you, Torbel; you'll only have to deal with these problems for a few more years before you retire, but I'll be stuck here for at least a couple more centuries."
"And I am most grateful for that," said Torbel with a grin. "But until that time, I'll be right here, standing on that podium and suffering alongside you." He raised his glass. "To us devoted public servants; let's hope we don't screw things up more than they already are."
"I'll drink to that," chuckled Tevos.
They clinked glasses and downed their contents, slamming the empty vessels onto the table. Tevos scrunched up her face in a grimace, eyes firmly shut, and then opened them back up. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she blew out a heavy breath.
"Whoo! Definitely not as robust as I was back in my maiden years!" She let out a genuine, stress-relieving laugh. "So, should we have another round?"
Torbel shrugged. "Why not? I've got nothing important on my schedule. Might as well enjoy ourselves a little longer before we plunge back into the maelstrom."
#
"ORDER! ORDER!"
Quentius looked on as the Castrum's Speaker of the Hall bellowed at the top of his lungs in a valiant but ultimately doomed attempt to make himself heard over the tumult that had gripped the Hall of Sovereignty. News of Digeris's fall had reached Palaven mere hours ago, and almost the entire planet was in an uproar. The Federation was now on the homeworld's very doorstep and there was no doubt that it would be the next target.
Worse still was the manner in which it had fallen. The enemy had not simply conquered the planet—the local populace had actually surrendered. The idea was ridiculous, unthinkable! It flew in the face of the core tenets of Turian society! Such an event simply could not happen! And yet, it had. The legendary resolve of the Turian people to never give in to a foreign enemy was undone, forevermore relegated to the realm of myths and fables.
Now, the Hall was filled with shouts and indignant squawks. Insults, accusations and threats flew about like party favors as the Primarchs and various high-ranking government officials tried to determine what had just happened and what was to be done about it. Quentius observed a particularly heated exchange that was occurring between Hericus and Palaemon.
"Have you lost your mind?" Hericus demanded, stabbing an accusing finger at Palaemon's chest. "We just lost our most important colony world to the Federation, and you want to try and negotiate a peace settlement?"
"Yes!" snapped Palaemon, not backing down. "Maybe it's escaped your notice, but we are losing this war! The humans are picking us apart piece by piece, and every attempt we've made to turn the tide has failed! Now, they're practically knocking on Palaven's door! We need to negotiate now, while we still have something to bargain with!"
"So, you want us to go crawling to the humans on our knees and kiss their feet in the hopes that they'll just stop?" Hericus growled back. "And you call yourself a Primarch! A true Turian should be willing to sacrifice his all for the greater whole! I can only imagine what the Turians of Edessan is like, if they have you ruling them!"
Palaemon seemed to swell with fury. "You have the gall to preach to me about sacrifice? To question Edessan's loyalty to the Hierarchy?" His voice was an ugly snarl. "My world has practically bled itself dry in this war! We've sent arms, munitions, and tens of thousands of good Turians to their deaths, all for the Hierarchy's sake! How many soldiers has that miserable little backwater you call a colony given?"
He suddenly clapped a hand to his brow as if in sudden realization. "Oh, that's right! While Edessan was sending its sons and daughters into the meatgrinder, Chatti got a Writ of Exemption because there are so few Turians living there that it was decided they'd be more valuable running the industrial sectors to produce goods for the war!"
Similar quarrels were taking place all around the Hall, most of which sounded as if they were mere inches away from becoming violent. For his part, Quentius sat in his chair and remained silent. There was nothing he could contribute aside from a snide "I told you so" to anyone who might listen, but he was in no mood to gloat, not when the Hierarchy was in such dire straits.
The war had exposed some very unpleasant issues within the Hierarchy, issues that most believed had long since been dealt with. Since their go-to method of solving a problem by blasting it to oblivion had failed, the leadership of the Hierarchy was at a loss as to what else to do. Ancient colonial grudges and distrust of the central government were once more rising to the surface, pitting Turian against Turian. Where in the past the Primarchs and other officials would have put aside their differences and worked to come up with a solution for the common good, now they seemed to be focused solely on who was to blame, squabbling with each other like pyjaks over a piece of food. Quentius shook his head.
Behold, the mighty Turian Hierarchy in all its splendor. He let out a derisive snort. What a fucking travesty.
One other member of the Hall was also keeping silent. Sergius Draxon sat on the Imperial Throne, his head resting on one hand. He looked nothing like the Primarch he'd been just a few years ago; his posture, once proud and straight, was now stooped and morose. His eyes were bleary, no doubt the product of many sleepless nights, and stared off vacantly into the distance. To look at Draxon was to see the physical embodiment of misery.
Quentius couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Yes, it had ultimately been his decision to go through with sending those ridiculous terms to the Federation that got the war truly started, but the blame wasn't his alone. Practically every high-ranking military official, along with several other Primarchs, had pushed for war, with full-throated approval and not even the Primarch of Palaven could brush aside so many powerful voices. Some had done so out of fear, others out of a misguided sense of duty, but far too many had desired war simply for a chance to cover themselves with glory.
They were the Turians who had glamorized the Unification War and Krogan Rebellions in their minds, viewing them as times of legends and great victories. To that end, war against the Federation had been their chance to bring back the martial grandeur of their ancestors. They had known full well that the terms were unreasonable; in fact, Quentius was willing to bet that they had counted on it. It was to be a glorious campaign of conquest against a mighty foe, which would immortalize those who fought in it for generations to come, and the rejection of the Hierarchy's offer of peace would serve as the casus belli.
But that didn't happen. Instead of resounding triumphs over the humans, the Hierarchy suffered defeat after defeat and any dreams of glory were now ashes. Their reputation as honorable defenders of Citadel space was in tatters and would remain so for a long time. Quentius was of the opinion that they'd be lucky if the Hierarchy itself didn't collapse around their ears when this was all over. At the very least, he expected that they would lose their seat on the Council; Spirits knew, they certainly had proven themselves unworthy of keeping it.
Speaking of which…Quentius mused to himself. Sparatus was supposed to address the Hall in a short while, but he was nowhere to be found.
Perversely, he found that he was looking forward to seeing how the Councilor would try to polish up this latest debacle. Sparatus had been moving the goalposts of the war ever since the Hierarchy had been forced onto the defense. First, he said that the Federation would never be able to attack the Hierarchy with any real force; when the humans started hitting their fuel refineries and shipyards, he said that they would never attack a major colony; when the Federation invaded Digeris and overtook almost half the planet in only a year, he said that Federation would never fully conquer the colony and that it would become the wall that their armies would break upon.
Well, now the Federation had taken over Digeris in its entirety with minimal losses and was ready for more. It was going to take some truly astounding wordsmithing to spin that as anything other than a disaster.
It was then that Quentius noticed Draxon stir out of the corner of his eye. The Primarch of Palaven sat upright, gazing around at the squabbling, shouting masses of Turians with a look of utter bewilderment on his face, as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He slowly stood up from the throne, his face a dark mask of anger.
"ENOUGH!"
Draxon's bellow cut through the clamor and Quentius could have sworn he felt the entire Hall tremble. Every single voice was abruptly silenced as if someone had hit the mute button on a video; everyone was now looking at him with expressions of shock and even fear.
"That is enough," Draxon repeated. His voice was strained, as if he was holding back an uncontrollable tide of emotion. "This bickering is pointless! We have a crisis on our hands, and you've all wasted nearly an hour already arguing about who is to blame!" He glanced about the Hall, meeting every gaze in turn.
"If you truly want to know who is at fault, I'll tell you: all of us! We're all to blame! We had the chance to make peace with the Federation when they first contacted us, but no, we chose to squander it! We let arrogance and fear dictate our actions, and no one is more guilty of that than myself!
"It was my decision to approve of the terms we drafted; I could have said no, but instead I let fear cloud my judgement. And for that, I will always bear the greatest shame of all." Draxon's hands tightened into fists. "But that is irrelevant right now. What matters most is dealing with this disaster; the Federation has control over Digeris, and they are undoubtedly working on plans for further campaigns against us. I want to hear from all of you: how should we proceed from here?"
For a long moment, nobody said anything, seeming too afraid to voice whatever suggestions they might have. Finally, Palaemon addressed the Hall, his face somber but resolute.
"Your Eminence, it is my view that we cannot win this war. As it stands, the Federation holds every advantage, with better weapons, ships, and tactical doctrine, as well as a practically limitless supply of their bioengineered monsters. If we continue the war, they'll simply grind us down into ruin. As such, I propose that we—"
He was abruptly cut off as the door leading into the Hall opened and Sparatus strode in. Contrary to what Quentius had expected, the Councilor did not appear angry or worried; instead, he wore a jubilant look on his face. For the life of him, Quentius could see no reason for him to look anything even remotely resembling triumphant. He mentally shrugged; Sparatus would soon show what he supposedly had up his sleeve.
Draxon fixed Sparatus with an icy stare. "Councilor Sparatus, how good of you to finally join us. I trust that whatever was occupying your attention earlier was of considerable importance?" The tone of his voice said that there would be dire consequences if Sparatus had been wasting time.
The Councilor inclined his head respectfully to him. "My apologies, Your Eminence, but rest assured that I bring good news. If you will let me have the floor, I'll gladly tell everyone about it."
Draxon gave a dismissive wave of his hand and sat back down on the throne. Sparatus moved to stand in the middle of the Hall, looking around at the Primarchs and assorted lesser officials. They all stared back at him; those who had been his most ardent supporters gave him looks of desperate hope, while the rest regarded him with simmering hostility. Quentius noted that there were far more of the latter.
"My Primarchs," Sparatus began, modulating his voice to sound somber, "I know that we are all devastated by the recent news from Digeris. It is a terrible blow, truly; but, as I informed His Eminence, we should not despair! We may yet turn the tide of the—"
"Oh, spare us!" a sharp, feminine voice rang out, cutting off Sparatus's speech. Quentius turned to see Cora Nicon was leaning on her podium, skewering the Councilor with a particularly vicious glare. "I know you love to hear yourself talk, but I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we are in no mood for that today! We have perhaps the biggest wartime crisis on our hands in recent history, and we don't have time to waste on you waxing poetic, so either get to the point or get out of the Hall!"
Quentius was impressed by the sheer vitriol in her words, and so were several others. Shouts of approval rang out around the Hall, along with some scattered applause. Sparatus glowered, clearly annoyed that his moment in the sun had been spoiled, but soldiered on.
"Very well," he said, clearing his throat. "As I was saying, we still have a chance to turn the tide of the war."
"Oh really?" This time it was Palaemon who spoke, his voice scathing and derisive. "And how are we going to do that? Did you pull some wonder-weapon out of your ass while on the toilet?"
To Quentius's surprise, Sparatus didn't snap back at Palaemon like he expected. Instead, he wore a smug look, the kind that a card-player gets when he knows he has a winning hand.
"Something like that," said Sparatus. "While it did spontaneously appear, it most assuredly didn't do so in my bathroom." He swept the Hall with a stern gaze. "What I'm about to show you all has been classified as Tier-5 top secret in accordance with Hierarchy Classification Code 179-88."
There were several gasps and hushed murmurs at that. Tier-5 was the highest level of secrecy within the Hierarchy; it meant that anyone who leaked information about it to those without the proper clearance would face summary judgement, even if they were a Primarch.
Sparatus activated his omni-tool and clicked a few keys. Moments later, a holographic display came into existence, displaying a human vessel. It looked like one of their cruisers, an immense hulking thing of armor and weapons.
"This human ship was captured by the Fourth Fleet a few days ago—intact." Sparatus put careful emphasis on the word. "Preliminary scans have indicated that there is no damage to any internal systems, which means it is fully functional. As of right now, the ship has been taken to a secure facility on Menae to be examined in greater detail."
Sparatus collapsed the image and favored the gathered Turians with a confident air. "This is exactly what we've needed: the chance to unlock the secrets of the humans' FTL technology. Once we do, they won't be able to hide in their void of space anymore and we can take the fight to them."
Quentius almost laughed at Sparatus's declaration. To hear him tell it, learning how to replicate human technology would be a simple matter of taking things apart and seeing how they worked. Reverse engineering was nowhere near that easy; it would take Spirits knew how many years and even if they somehow did figure it out, there was still the question of whether or not the Hierarchy actually had the means to construct their own version. That wasn't even taking into account the fact that refitting their ships with a new FTL drive would take even more time, all of which the Federation would use to keep hammering them.
"What about the human crew?" someone asked. "Did anything…happen to them?"
Quentius knew exactly what that question inferred: Did our people do anything that would give the Federation more ammunition for their propaganda? That was the last thing they needed right now; public opinion within the rest of Citadel space was firmly against the Hierarchy and their own efforts to counter the humans' smear campaigns had failed in spectacular fashion. If anything, their attempts had actually helped the humans.
He remembered the disastrous press conference where one of Sparatus's flunkies had tried to garner support from Citadel space by arguing that the Federation's use of bioengineered creatures was a war crime, only for an Asari reporter to ask if the Turians would have done any different if the situations were reversed. His failure to answer and subsequent attempt to deflect the question had resulted in scathing rebukes from practically every news site on the extranet.
"Nothing happened to them," said Sparatus. "In fact, there weren't any crewmen on board. No life signs were detected onboard when it was caught. It seems that they abandoned the vessel for some reason."
He sounded entirely unconcerned, but Quentius was most definitely not. He had seen what kind of otherworldly things the humans dabbled in, and alarm bells were going off inside his head.
"And that doesn't strike you as alarming?" he asked, standing up from his seat. "Nobody abandons a perfectly good ship on a whim."
Sparatus turned his gaze on him, looking so arrogant that Quentius had to fight the urge to go down and punch him in the face. "There could be any number of reasons; maybe there was a malfunction with the ship's atmospheric regulators, or maybe there was a leak of something hazardous. I suppose we'll find out when we crack it open." He held up a hand that could just barely be considered placating. "I understand your concerns, Primarch Quentius, but I assure you that every precaution is being taken with this vessel."
"Those precautions are meant for conventional hazards," said Quentius. "In case it isn't obvious, the Federation is anything but conventional. There is no guarantee that the established security procedures will be of any use."
"No, there isn't," Sparatus agreed. "But the fact of the matter is that this is our best chance to learn the humans' secrets. We cannot let it slip away, not after losing Digeris." He swept the other Primarchs with a cool stare.
"Or perhaps you want to try and negotiate with them? I've heard that idea being tossed around lately, so let me ask you this: are you prepared to accept an unconditional surrender? Because that will essentially be what awaits us if we come to the table now. The Federation can demand anything it wants from us and the rest of Citadel space will back them; they want things to go back to normal and will happily support any deal to make it happen, no matter how ruinous it might be for us.
"Is that really what you want? To throw ourselves at the humans' mercy? What if they demand we become a client race to them? That they can exact whatever tribute they please from our colonies? That we have to give up our sons and daughters as test subjects for obscene bioengineering experiments? Are you prepared to give in to them on those terms? I know that I am not. I will never allow such a thing to happen, and neither should any of you!"
Sparatus spread his arms open to encompass the Hall. "This is our chance, Venerable Primarchs! Our chance to take the war to the enemy and drive them back to their hellhole of a world and into the depths of space where they belong!"
Damn you, Sparatus, you barefaced bastard, thought Quentius. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that the Councilor had resorted to playing on the fear and confusion that had gripped the Hall. It was his favorite tactic, after all; emotions were far easier to appeal to than logic, even among Turians.
And it was working. Those who had still been in favor of fighting from earlier were giving shouts of support to Sparatus, while the rest looked as if they were suffering from a sudden case of self-doubt. However things eventually went, he'd bought himself some more time; the war would continue to rage on and more Turians would die. Quentius felt his talons carving grooves into his podium, but he was too incensed to care.
When the Hall adjourned for a recess, he couldn't get out fast enough. He practically stormed out through its doors, his face a grim mask of anger. The first thing he intended to do was get back to his allotted quarters, pour himself a stiff drink, and try to come up with some way to end this insanity.
"Primarch Quentius!"
Quentius paused and turned to look at where the call had come from. A male Turian was hurrying towards him, a look of desperate urgency on his face. His attire, a dark blue and gray uniform, marked him as a member of the Merchant Marines. Within moments, he was in front of Quentius, a relieved sigh escaping from his mandibles.
"Thank the Spirits I found you," the Turian said. He straightened up and offered a crisp salute. "Captain Tyros Acacius, sir. My Primarch, I need to speak with you about—"
"Not now," said Quentius brusquely.
"But—" Tyros began to protest, and Quentius cut him off with a raised hand.
"Whatever it is you want to discuss, it'll have to wait; if you really want an appointment, set it up with my secretary, but right now is not a good time. Now, if you'll excuse me..." He pushed past the captain and resumed his walk back to his quarters.
"Jorus Irion sent me!" Tyros blurted out, desperation ringing in his voice.
Quentius stopped dead in his tracks and looked back at Tyros, observing him more closely this time. "How do you know Jorus?" he demanded. "He's a captain in the Navy, not the Merchant Marines."
Tyros swallowed nervously, eyes darting around as if searching for eavesdroppers. He leaned in toward Quentius and murmured, "It would be best if we spoke in private. I'll explain everything, but not here." His voice dropped even lower. "It's about the human ship."
Immediately, the alarm bells in Quenius's head started ringing again. A cold pit formed in his stomach as his concerns from earlier loomed in his mind like dark monoliths. Part of him didn't want to hear what this Merchant Marine captain had to say, but his sensible side told him that there was no way he could ignore it.
"Follow me," said Quentius.
He led Tyros through the Castrum's hallways, doing his best to remain circumspect. When they arrived at his quarters, Quentius informed the Guardian Serviceman on duty that he was not to be disturbed and quickly ducked inside, Tyros following after him. Once the door had sealed shut, Quentius turned to face him.
"All right, Captain, you have your audience," he said. "So, out with it: how do you know about human ship? That information is classified; I only just found out about it today."
"My crew and I were the ones who found it," said Tyros. "We were out on a salvage mission in the Gemmae System, cleaning up the remnants of the humans' latest attack. About three hours after we arrived, the ship suddenly appeared right in front of us."
Quentius stared at Tyros curiously. "It just dropped out of…whatever it is the humans use for FTL? There were no other ships with it?"
"Nope. Just the one." He let out a nervous chuckle. "Scared the hell out of us though, let me tell you. We all thought we were about to become part of the scrap heap for the next salvager to pick through, but the ship didn't fire. It just floated there, doing nothing. Then, the humans started hailing us on a general frequency."
It took all of Quentius's self-control to not burst out into hysterics. His thoughts whirled in his head like a hurricane. Sparatus had said there hadn't been any crew aboard the ship! Had he lied? Surely, even he wouldn't stoop so low as that!
"What did they say?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice level.
Tyros swallowed hard and his mandibles fluttered with anxiety. "They…they wanted us to destroy them."
For a long moment, Quentius said nothing. He simply stared at Tyros, letting the words sink in. As he did, he felt a chill growing inside him.
"Why?" His voice came out in an anxious rasp.
"I don't know," said Tyros, seeming to grow more distressed as he recounted his tale. "The message was garbled; I could barely make out what they were saying. But there's no doubt that they wanted us to destroy the ship. And the sounds they were making..." Tyros shuddered.
"I'll never forget those horrible screams. It…it…" He swallowed again. "It sounded like they were being…tortured. And they said that…something was on the ship."
The chill inside Quentius was now an arctic pall, filling his veins with ice water. "What was it?"
"I don't know. The humans didn't seem to know, either. They just called the thing 'it;' all I managed to get out of the message was that it was contained, but barely. For a few minutes longer, they begged us to destroy the ship, shouting, 'Do it! Do it!' over and over, and then…nothing. Dead silence."
Tyros was now trembling violently, his eyes unfocused as the memory overtook him. "Spirits, I've never heard such desperation and terror in my life."
He looked as though he were about to collapse right there. Quentius felt little better; if he was so affected just by the retelling, he could only imagine what it must have been like to have experienced it firsthand.
"What happened after that?" he asked.
Tyros took a moment to gather himself, then resumed his tale. "I sent out a call to the nearest naval force. We didn't have the firepower to destroy the vessel, and my crew and I for damn sure didn't want to go anywhere near it.
"An hour later, the Fourth Fleet came by. That's when I met Jorus—he was the most senior captain in the fleet. I explained what had happened to the admiral in charge. Obviously, I also told him about the message and that the ship should be destroyed, but…"
"He didn't listen," Quentius finished bitterly.
Tyros offered him an apologetic look. "I'm afraid not. He ordered a complete scan done to see if there was anything wrong, but everything came back negative; no life signs, no biohazards, nothing. There were several escape pods missing from their ports and the admiral concluded that it had been an elaborate trick. He thanked me for my service to the Hierarchy before leaving with the human ship. I tried to stop him," he added hurriedly, "but the admiral said that the ship was too valuable to be destroyed and when I kept protesting, he threatened to have me sent to an asylum."
And now that ship is hidden away on Menae, thought Quentius. "And that's when you came here?" he asked aloud.
"Yes," said Tyros. "Before he left, Jorus pulled me aside and told me to find you. He said that of all the Primarchs, you'd be the one who would actually listen. So, I went straight for Palaven and…here I am." He fixed Quentius with a frantic stare.
"You believe me, don't you? I swear on my life that every word is true! I'm not crazy! I'm not!"
"I believe you," Quentius assured him, discreetly taking a step back. Tyros was clearly unnerved by retelling what he'd been through and he didn't want to be on the receiving end of a panic attack. "I promise that I'll do whatever I can."
Tyros sagged with relief. "Thank you, my Primarch. Thank you." He gave an awkward bow. "I probably should get going. Wouldn't want someone to catch us talking, eh?"
"That would be a good idea," agreed Quentius. "And I would advise that you keep silent about the ship; being locked up in an asylum would be the least of your worries if the wrong people hear you talking."
Once Tyros had left, Quentius stalked over to the wet bar, his mouth feeling very dry. He rummaged through the cabinet, seeking the whatever was the strongest booze. His search led him to a bottle of gin, which he promptly dumped into a glass, filling it to the brim. Quentius drained the whole thing in two gulps, paused to feel the alcohol's burning warmth spread throughout his body, then summed up the situation he now found himself in with a single word.
"Fuck."
Things had just gone from bad to worse. If Tyros was right, then there was now a Federation ship with an otherworldly entity inside it within Hierarchy territory and no one was the wiser. Worse still, it was apparently something that was powerful enough to overwhelm a presumably experienced crew and force them to abandon the ship or die.
Quentius knew better than most the kinds of things the humans dealt with. The codexes of their recent history read like one long horror story, filled with accounts of them fighting against monsters that made the Rachni seem downright cuddly by comparison: shapeshifting demons who prowled among them in the guise of their race, working to destroy their civilization from within; primordial leviathans from their homeworld's ocean depths that could swallow a mech whole; mad undead sorcerers who wielded terrible powers, and far more. Anything that could inspire the kind of terror and desperation in them that Tyros had described was something that Quentius never wanted to have the misfortune to encounter.
Quentius poured himself another glass, but instead of drinking it, he merely stared down at amber-colored liquid. The face that gazed back at him was a mask of dismay, with haunted blue eyes and mandibles practically vibrating. It was a reflection of the turmoil inside him, the sheer dread at what the Hierarchy might unleash upon itself. Amidst the maelstrom of his emotions, a single question stood out in his mind like a beacon.
What was he supposed to do now?
#
The next day found Quentius in the Castrum's interior gardens, one of the few places that could provide an illusion of peace and tranquility within the capitol in these times. He sat at a table, a cup of steaming koza in hand. It had been a long night for him; he'd laid awake almost until dawn trying to decide his next course of action. After hours of deliberation, he'd managed to come up with what he hoped would be a suitable plan.
He just had to wait for a couple of his colleagues to arrive.
Quentius took a sip of the koza and grimaced. He'd requested the strongest brew available, and the barista had clearly taken his request to heart. Just a single sip of the fermented grain malt was like a kick to his neurons and had an intensely sour taste that not even four packets of sweeteners could mitigate. Still, it had the desired effect of waking him up completely, though leaving a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.
He checked the clock on his omnitool; it was almost ten in the morning. They should be arriving shortly. Quentius took a deep breath and waited, his talons tapping an impatient rhythm on the tabletop.
He was just finishing his koza when he heard footsteps approaching him. Glancing up, Quentius saw Palaemon and Cora coming his way, looking a bit annoyed at having been dragged away from whatever they'd been doing. Quentius didn't blame them, but he wasn't going to apologize; the situation was too dire and they were the best candidates for what he had planned.
"Palaemon, Cora," he greeted them. "Thanks for coming."
"I hope this is important, Quentius," said Palaemon, sitting down next to him. "I've got a meeting with Edessan's head industrialists in an hour about managing the quotas for arms and munitions." The sour expression on his face said that he was not looking forward to it.
"It is," Quentius assured them.
"Would it by any chance involve Sparatus's completely idiotic plan to reverse engineer the humans' FTL technology and use it against them?" Cora inquired with a wry tone.
"As a matter of fact, it does," said Quentius. "I'm glad that someone else shares my misgivings about that ship he's got locked away on Menae."
Cora let out a very unladylike snort. "Misgivings? Spirits, Quentius, the idea is so absurd that even the Salarians wouldn't consider it! It's a complete waste of time and resources; it'll take years to figure out the humans' technology, assuming that we even can figure it out, and meanwhile, the Federation will continue to hammer us into dust. If Sparatus thinks he can turn things around with that ship, then he's more delusional than I thought."
"If the technicians on Menae start poking around in that ship, that will be the least of our concerns," said Quentius.
Palaemon looked quizzically at him. "What do you mean?"
"Remember back in the Hall when I mentioned how odd it was for a seemingly fully-functional ship to be abandoned? Well, I have recently been enlightened to that reason."
Both Cora and Palaemon fixed Quentius with looks of alarm. He could practically see their minds whirling, trying to figure out what he meant.
He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "The humans didn't abandon the ship, or at least not all of them. Something apparently got onboard and wiped out the crew, something so terrible that they begged to be destroyed."
For a long moment, the other two Turians simply stared at him, their expressions a mixture of horror and disbelief. Finally, Cora asked, her voice hushed, "How do you know?"
"I received this information from a source that I trust implicitly." Quentius was careful not to mention Captain Tyros or Jorus; if the wrong people got wind of their involvement, it would end badly.
Palaemon swallowed hard. "Spirits, Quentius...if this is some sort of joke, it's really not funny."
"Do I look like I'm joking?" Quentius snapped. He stabbed a talon onto the table's surface. "There's some kind of dangerous entity on that ship and if it gets loose, who knows what kind of damage it could do? We need to get it off Menae, immediately, and then destroy it as quickly as possible before it can escape. At the very least, we need to prevent anyone from trying to get inside that ship."
"How do you propose we do that?" asked Cora. "It's not as if the other Primarchs will just accept your word on this. They'll need proof, and as far as they're concerned, your 'source' won't count. It'll sound like the ravings of a lunatic and if you're not careful, you'll end up getting shipped off to a psychiatric facility."
"That's why I plan to appeal to our race's sense of duty," said Quentius. "We are Turians; it is in our blood to put the welfare of the greater whole first and foremost. So, during the next session, I will put forth a motion to halt any and all research of the human ship until a proper investigation is completed on the grounds that failing to do so would put Palaven and possibly even the entire Hierarchy at risk."
"That's going to be a hard sell," said Palaemon. "As the old saying goes, 'what's the point of having a weapon if you're not going to use it?' For better or worse, we have something that could grant us some insight into the humans' technology and you want us to do nothing with it. That's not going to make the other Primarchs happy."
"But I'm not advocating anything like that," Quentius corrected him. "I am merely stating that to dive headlong into an unknown quantity like the human ship—especially after seeing everything else they've unleashed upon us—would be reckless and completely un-Turian. He offered a small grin to Palaemon. "Essentially, I'm going to shame them into agreeing with me."
"That might work," Cora conceded. "But you'll have to give them something else to work with."
"And I will," said Queniust. "After I put forth my motion, I'll let Palaemon do his."
Palaemon blinked. "Mine?"
"Yes. Before Sparatus revealed his surprise, I'm guessing that you were about to suggest that we enter negotiations with the Federation."
Palaemon let out a hollow laugh. "Yes, but I don't think that will be very appealing to the other Primarchs. First you motion to halt any kind of R&D on the human ship, and then I come in to say we should set up peace talks? Both our proposals will be buried faster than blinking."
"I'm not talking about negotiating a treaty, but a ceasefire," said Quentius. "You're absolutely right that any proposal to make an armistice would be dead on arrival right now." He raised a finger. "But, if we phrase it as merely trying to give the Hierarchy a chance to regroup and recover from the losses we've suffered, with the understanding that hostilities will resume after the truce has expired, that will be far more palatable."
Palaemon rubbed his mandibles, his expression thoughtful. "That would certainly be more agreeable than an outright admission of defeat; it would allow the Hierarchy to take a step back and reassess our military capabilities." A devious glimmer shone in his eyes. "And If I add in that it would give us more time to study the human ship, that would sweeten the deal. It would still be a longshot, but the other Primarchs might be more inclined to go along with it."
"I'm guessing that you don't actually want hostilities to restart though, right Quentius?" Cora asked with an amused smirk.
Quentius nodded. "Correct. Assuming this all works out, I intend on spending that time trying to convince enough Primarchs to actually come to the negotiating table for a permanent settlement with the Federation." He glanced at Cora and Palaemon. "I trust that I can count on your support for that?"
"Of course," declared Cora. "The longer this war continues, the more the damage will spread and the more Turian lives will be lost. If there is any chance to end this thing, I'll take it. And if it sticks in Sparatus's craw, so much the better."
"I won't be able to, at least not publicly," said Palaemon. "If I propose a ceasefire to buy us time to recover and strike back that the Federation, I can't just go, 'Oh, actually, why don't we sue for peace instead?' a couple days later. At the very least, a few months will have to pass and you'll obviously have to make a show of convincing me to throw my support behind a real treaty."
Quentius felt a stab of disappointment, but he knew that Palaemon was right. It would be a major blow to both his political career and the plan if his fellow Primarchs saw him flip-flopping like that.
Palaemon gave him a conspiratorial smile and added, "That doesn't mean I can't help you behind the scenes, though. I'll make a few calls and see what kind of support might be found. And between me and Cora, we've got plenty of favors to call in."
That was good to hear. With any luck, Quentius might be able to convince the other Primarchs that he wasn't being an alarmist. And if the worst happened and they didn't listen to him, well...he quickly pushed the thought from his mind. No sense borrowing trouble, he told himself. One thing at a time.
"Well, I'm glad that we're in agreement, then," said Quentius, offering them both an appreciative smile. "Until the next session, I guess."
With the meeting now finished, Quentius stood up and strode away, tossing his empty cup in a nearby wastebin. His first objective of the day was successfully finished; now, for the second part.
The Primarch made his way toward the Castrum's hangar bay, where all the delegations' private aircars were currently docked. His escort team, two menacing looking Guardians, fell in behind him as he approached his own. The driver, who had been lounging in the front seat, quickly scrambled out of the car and offered Quentius a smart salute.
"Welcome back, sir," the driver said. "Where will you be heading now?"
"Detention Facility 28," replied Quentius.
"Right away, sir." No sooner had the words left his mouth when he ducked back into the driver's seat and started it up, punching a key to open the automatic doors. Like the rest of the chauffeurs who served the Primarchs, he followed the golden rule: don't ask questions. You can't talk about something you have no knowledge of.
Quentius clambered into the spacious passenger seat, followed by his bodyguards. The door hissed shut and they were off. He gazed out the window, his mind awhirl with plans and contingencies. He had Palaemon and Cora in his corner, but that wasn't nearly enough; he was going to need the backing of more Primarchs. Drumming up support from them would not be an easy task. Even the ones who might be amiable to sitting down to hash out a peace deal would need some serious convincing.
But for now, he had to focus on his next task.
A little under an hour later, Quentius arrived at his destination. Detention Facility 28 was located just outside Cipritine, and it was a place unlike anywhere else on Palaven. The main structure was a towering edifice of metal and concrete, surrounded by high walls topped with electrified razor wire. Watchtowers and guardhouses dotted its perimeter, and a mass effect forcefield enveloped the whole thing.
He was met at the entrance by a pair of armed guards and escorted into the building. The interior was a sterile and utilitarian space, filled with all manner of security equipment, from checkpoints manned by guards to retinal scanners. There were also plenty of cameras, both visible and hidden, tracking every movement. The walls were covered with thick, reinforced panels.
Even by the standards of Turians, this would have been considered excessive. But this place didn't hold ordinary criminals; it was meant to house a very different and far more dangerous kind of inmate.
Human prisoners of war.
Quentius was led through the various layers of security, passing through a gauntlet of scanners and checks before arriving at the warden's office. The door slid open and Quentius was greeted by a tall, broad-shouldered male Turian in a crisp gray uniform. He wasn't a particularly intimidating figure; while tall, his frame was lean and noticeably lacking in muscle definition. His features were fine-boned, almost delicate in appearance, and his eyes were a soft, gentle shade of green. It was plainly obvious that he was a bureaucrat first and foremost.
"Greetings, Primarch Quentius," the warden said. "How may I assist you?"
"I need some information about the prisoners," said Quentius. "Who among them is the highest ranked?"
"Let me see…" The warden went back to his desk and consulted the terminal on it, squinting at the screen. "That would be a Captain Cormac Tyson, I believe. He was captured during one of our engagements with the Federation's naval forces. Why do you ask, sir?"
"I'd like to speak with him," Quentius said. "In private."
The warden looked at him with carefully-neutral expression. "I see. May I ask what you wish to discuss with the human, sir?"
Quentius fixed him with an unyielding stare. "It is a matter of Hierarchy security. That's all you need to know."
"But, my Primarch, this is highly irregular," the warden protested with clerkish irritation in his voice. "Standard procedure dictates that, if any interrogation is to be conducted, it should first be cleared by the Ministry of Security, followed by a review from the Office of Detainee Affairs, and finally a—"
Quentius slowly bent down until his face was only a foot away from the warden's, whose voice trailed off into silence. Resting his hands on the desk, he gave the other Turian the full benefit of his severe gaze.
"Let me explain something to you, warden," Quentius began in a deadly soft voice. "I am a Primarch, the highest tier in the Hierarchy after the Primarch of Palven. I was given this lofty rank because I was determined to be the best suited for the burden of leadership. And as a Primarch, I am afforded the authority to act as I see fit for the security and welfare of both the colony I govern and the Hierarchy itself.
"So, here is what will happen: you, warden, will bring the human to an interrogation room and inform him that I wish to speak with him. You will not ask why, you will not speculate about what we will talk about, and you will not question the decision in any way. Is that understood?"
The warden swallowed and nodded.
Quentius smiled pleasantly. "Excellent. Now, go and fetch the human, and we can get this over with."
"Yes, my Primarch." He paused and took a fortifying breath. "However, while it is within the scope of your authority to forgo the standard security procedures, I'm afraid that there are some that must be followed without exception." A hint of steel appeared in his eyes. "And to forestall any objections, they were enacted by the Draxon himself; his mandates supersede yours, naturally."
Quentius sighed in resignation; he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. "Very well. What are they?"
"First and foremost, you cannot be alone with the prisoner." He quickly held up a hand. "I'm sorry, but the humans are simply far too dangerous and unpredictable for anyone to be alone with them, especially someone of your rank; a Primarch would be a very tempting target."
"You really think he might try to kill me?" asked Quentius. "Even knowing it would mean certain death?"
The warden's answer was immediate. "I would put nothing beyond them, sir. Just glance at their history and you'll find no shortage of martyrdom cultures that glorify death in service to their cause. Failing that, never underestimate the power of spite; that's something they have no shortage of."
Quentius found that he had to agree. But that would make his inquiries about the ship much more complicated.
"Secondly," the warden continued, "we cannot allow the prisoner to be unbound, nor allow you to have any kind of physical contact. Again, their potential for violence is just too great. Finally, we will have to perform another full search on your person to ensure that you do not have anything that could be used as a weapon before we will permit you inside the room with the human. I hope you understand, sir."
"I do." Quentius was disappointed, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was going to have to be very careful with his questions. "Let's get this over with."
The warden nodded and led Quentius from his office, the Primarch's bodyguards falling in step behind them. They proceeded deeper into the detention facility, past numerous checkpoints and armed guards, and into the heart of the facility. There, Quentius was subjected to a thorough pat-down, a scan for any potentially dangerous objects, and a visual inspection by a security officer. Finally, after almost ten minutes, he was deemed clear and allowed inside the interrogation room.
The interrogation room was a small space, barely ten feet across and half that wide. It was entirely gray in color and the only furniture within was a metal table bolted to the floor and two chairs on either side. Quentius was ushered inside and he settled down into one of the chairs. Two guards took up position behind him, their weapons held at the ready; no shock batons or tranquilizer rifles here, they were kitted out with the kind of heavy guns that were made to take down Krogan.
Quentius waited for a few minutes, trying to maintain a calm and collected posture. Inwardly, however, he was a seething mass of frustration, and it was taking everything he had to keep himself from showing it. This was already going to be a delicate enough discussion; now that he had some unwelcome ears listening in, he was going to have to be very careful how he asked his questions.
Finally, the door on the opposite end of the room opened and a human was brought inside, flanked by two more guards. They quickly escorted the human to the other chair and forced him to sit down, securing his wrists and ankles to the armrests and legs with thick cuffs. As they worked, Quentius took the opportunity to observe the human male.
Cormac Tyson was an impressive specimen of his race: a little taller than Quentius and with a frame heavy with muscle, he cut an imposing figure. His head was completely hairless, though a thick dark beard grew on his chin. He did not appear to regard his sudden change in location with any sort of antipathy; on the contrary, he seemed quite amused by the guards' ministrations.
"That's right fellas, make sure those cuffs are nice and secure!" he chortled. "Wouldn't want the big bad human getting loose now, eh?"
The guards didn't respond, but one of them gave the prisoner's leg a warning kick. Cormac let out a theatrical groan, though he continued chuckling. Once the guards were finished, they withdrew and stood at attention, watching the human closely.
"Captain Cormac Tyson, I presume?" asked Quentius by way of introduction.
The human turned his attention on him, a wide smile curling his lips. "Yeah, that'd be me. I'd shake your hand, but, uh…" he waggled his multiple fingers at Quentius. "Can't really do that right now." Cormac leaned back in his seat.
"And who might you be then, mate? You're obviously someone important; ya look a good bit fancier than the other Turians I see around here. Not that that says much; no offence, but your sense of fashion is really fucking dull." He pursed his lips thoughtfully as he studied Quentius. "I'm guessing some kind of politician? Someone pretty high up on the ladder, too."
"What makes you say that?" asked Quentius.
Cormac gave a casual shrug. "It's not that hard to tell. You carry yourself with too much authority to be some regular old pollie. I'd put my money on you being a praetor or an executive magistrate." His smile widened, revealing a row of bright white teeth. "Am I close, mate?"
"You are indeed, Captain," said Quentius, feeling both impressed and unsettled that the human was so perceptive. "I am Primarch Quentius."
The human let out an appreciative whistle. "A Primarch, eh? Guess I should feel honored that one of the top dogs in the Hierarchy came all the way here to visit little old me. So, what's the deal here? You'll forgive me if I don't believe that you came here to just have a friendly chat."
"Actually," said Quentius, "that's precisely what I want."
Though he maintained the appearance of being laid back and uncaring, Cormac's eyes were now gleaming with sharp interest. "Uh huh. So, what, you want to hear about my hobbies and personal history?"
"More along the lines of learning more about your people," Quentius corrected him.
"Is that so?" asked Cormac. He shrugged again. "Well then, ask away. Any topic in particular you had in mind?"
This was it. Quentius had to play this next part perfectly. He cleared his throat and began his questioning.
"The most curious thing I find about your race is that, even though you are an incredibly advanced society, you firmly believe in the supernatural. That is, you believe in the existence of things like magic and otherworldly creatures."
Cormac let out a derisive snort. "We don't 'believe' they exist, Primarch; we know they exist. That's a cold, hard fact."
"Some would call such views irrational and ridiculous," said Quentius, affecting a condescending tone. "Granted, your people have demonstrated some strange abilities, but the idea that there could be things lurking in the darkness is preposterous, isn't it?"
Quentius saw a slight twitch in the human's cheek. It seemed that he'd managed to strike a nerve, though Cormac hid it well.
"Preposterous, huh? Well, I guess that's easy to say when you haven't seen the kinds of things we have, mate. Trust me, if you'd been through what we had, you wouldn't be calling it ridiculous. In fact, you'd probably shit your pants if you even saw them."
"Really?" asked Quentius. "According to your own codexes, you've faced off against all manner of terrible things and emerged victorious. What sort of monsters could possibly be a threat to your people?"
Cormac let out a mirthless laugh. "Do you have any idea how little that narrows the list down, mate? I'm flattered that you think we're such bonzer badarses, but the truth is, we're nowhere near the top of the food chain; hell, we're barely even on the bloody thing. The universe is a damn big place, and there are plenty of nasty things out there that could wipe us out without even trying. And that's just taking into account the ones we know about; there are plenty of other mean bastards out there we haven't catalogued yet."
That was not what Quentius wanted to hear. He had been hoping the human would provide him some clues about what sort of entity they might be dealing with. The idea that he might not even be able to name the thing they were potentially housing was petrifying, to say the least.
"Then it would safe to assume that you think we wouldn't stand a chance against these…beings?"
This time, Cormac's laugh was very much mirthful. In fact, he laughed so hard that he would have fallen over had he not been tied down to his chair.
"Are you kidding me, mate?" he hooted, tears of laughter running down his cheeks. "You Turians can't even handle us, and we're playing nice! Trust me, you haven't seen just how brutal we can be when it comes to war. Those other nasties, though? They wouldn't think twice about doing all sorts of unspeakable things to you guys. You don't even get the honor of being a challenge. You're just meat."
Cormac's eyes suddenly focused intently on Quentius. "You know, all this talk of monsters and magic stuff has got me wondering if maybe there's something specific that you're driving at?"
"And what makes you say that?" asked Quentius, trying to sound casual.
"I didn't become a Navy captain by being a complete drongo, mate," said Cormac. "You really expect me to buy that a bloody Primarch, one of the biggest fish in your little pond, just came by to ask me questions about us humans for shits and giggles?" He shook his head. "No way. You're looking for something in particular, so what is it? Come on, mate. Don't leave a bloke hanging."
"I'm afraid that is none of your concern," said Quentius.
Cormac gave another limited shrug. "Fine. Have it your way." He looked straight at Quentius, all trace of humor gone. "But let me tell you this: you Turians are not ready to fight the things we've fought, not by a long shot. If you don't want your people to end up as the playthings of some big, scary fucker from the great beyond, then your only option is to get the Federation to help you. Otherwise, you'd best prepare yourselves for the biggest arse-fuck in your entire history."
Quentius was silent for a long moment. Then, he cleared his throat and looked up at one of the guards. "I believe I am done here. You may escort the prisoner back to his holdings."
"Yes sir." With economical speed, they began to unlatch Cormac's restraints and Quentius stood up from his seat to leave. Just before he passed through the door, the human's voice rang out after him.
"Remember what I said, Primarch: you'll need our help if something's running around in your backyard. If you don't get it, then this war is gonna be the least of your problems."
#
Subsurface Classified Research Base Caligo, Menae; same time.
Chief Engineer Ocarius Armo had served in the Hierarchy's most secret R&D stations for a good twenty years and in that time, he'd seen more than his fair share of astonishing things. Weapons and equipment that had seemed impossibly advanced had been produced here. Entire fields of research had been developed, resulting in technological marvels that had never been imagined. As such, he was not a Turian who was easily impressed.
But the human ship? That certainly qualified.
The first thing that stood out to him when he'd first seen it was just how big it was. It was supposedly only a cruiser, but looked more like a miniature dreadnought. Its hull was covered with armored plates that were thicker and more heavily reinforced than anything on a Turian vessel of the same class. There were no shield generators, but with that kind of protection, it seemed to hardly matter; there were even reports of them simply smashing through their Turian counterparts in battle.
Of course, he'd known that the humans' ships would be larger and better-armored than theirs; the Battle of Shanxi had made that abundantly clear. What was truly astonishing, though, was the sheer amount of firepower the vessel packed; it had twice as many guns as a Turian cruiser, and each one was capable of delivering far more damage. The direct-energy mounts were particularly impressive, simply due to the fact that the humans had somehow made them practical for a warship.
But it wasn't just the weapons or size that the ship had going for it; its propulsion systems were also an incredible piece of engineering. Even though it was larger and more heavily-armored, the cruiser was actually able to outpace the majority of the Turians' warships. In terms of maneuverability and speed, the ship was superior to their own cruisers.
In short, the human ship was the most impressive vessel Ocarius had ever seen. He was hopeful that if he were able to examine it in detail, he could make huge leaps forward in the Hierarchy's technological development. And what he wanted most of all was a chance to study its "D-engine," the device that supposedly served as a source of unlimited power, that made all of the humans' tech possible.
Now, he was about to get his chance.
He stood in front of a table with his team, gazing down at the holographic schematic of the human ship. All of his engineers were watching him attentively, waiting for their instructions.
"Well, everyone," Ocarius began, "this is the moment we've all been waiting for. Today, we get to go aboard the human ship and figure out what makes it tick."
There was a rumble of excited murmurs. They were all as eager to get inside the human ship as he was.
"We'll cut our way in through this portion: the lower-starboard bulkhead." He touched a section on the ship, which turned green. "The armor in that area is relatively thin, so cutting through it should not take very long. Once we are inside, the plan is to make our way to the Engineering section, which we believe is somewhere in the middle of the vessel and where all the best bits should be. We'll be recording everything we find, and hopefully that'll give us a basis to work with when we start studying them properly. Does anyone have any questions?"
No one raised their hand.
"All right. Now, I don't want anyone getting careless in there. This is a potentially dangerous environment, so we're going to take things slow and be extra careful. We'll also be going in with a team of marines for additional security, just in case the Hueys left some surprises for us." Ocarius swept the gathered Turians with a stern eye. "Our objective is only to make note of what's inside, nothing more. Do not go off on your own or take any unnecessary risks, and absolutely do not touch anything. Are we clear?"
Everyone nodded.
"All right. Let's go do some science."
The team quickly got to work, packing up their tools and equipment and carrying them out the door, where a grav-lift waited for them. The marines were already there, armed to teeth as if they expected to be going into battle. Ocarius didn't blame them; with the kind of technology the humans had, there was no telling what they might run into.
Once everything had been loaded onto the lift, the group boarded and were whisked away. The human ship had been towed to the research base the day before, and it had now been placed in the center of a large, open hangar. The vessel had been completely secured and a mass effect field enveloped the area to prevent the ship from moving, even if the base lost its artificial gravity.
Ocarius's heart was racing in anticipation as the lift halted at the area they'd chosen. He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he and his team walked up the gangway and approached the ship. This could get him a place in the history books, if things went well.
As they neared the bulkhead, one of the team took out a plasma torch and activated it, spewing a tongue of blue-hot fire. Carefully, the Turian began cutting into the hull, sending a shower of sparks flying into the air. Ocarius and the rest of the team kept a respectful distance away.
A few minutes later, the bulkhead gave a loud creak and fell inward with a crash. Ocarius and his team hurried up and peered into the dark passage beyond, using their helmet lights to illuminate the gloom. A quick sensor sweep confirmed that there were no environmental hazards, so it was safe for them to enter.
"Let's move in," Ocarius ordered, picking up his toolkit and stepping through the breach. He was soon joined by the rest of his team, along with the marines, who formed up around him. "Remember: take it slow and stay together. And above all, don't touch anything."
The interior of the human vessel was a cavernous space, with the walls curving up in an arched ceiling above them. It was a maze of walkways and catwalks, crisscrossing each other and intersecting with the many stairwells leading up and down. It was also pitch black; even with their lights, the team couldn't see more than a few meters ahead of them.
They slowly began making their way through the ship, carefully checking their surroundings for any signs of traps. Everything appeared normal so far, but they couldn't afford to let their guard down.
"This is the most amazing thing I've ever seen," one of the engineers muttered, staring in wonderment at the alien design.
"Stay focused," warned Ocarius, even though he privately agreed. This ship was truly a marvel of engineering; it was no wonder that the humans had been able to cause so much trouble for the Hierarchy.
As Ocarius and his team made their way towards their destination, he suddenly became aware of a strange feeling in the air, as if there was something in there with them, watching. He couldn't quite put his talon on why he felt that way, but the sense of eeriness was very strong and he was certain that it wasn't simply because he was surrounded by such strange technology.
The unease he felt only intensified as they drew closer to their destination. Even though he saw nothing alarming, his gut was telling him that something was very wrong. A quick glance around told him that his fellow Turians were also feeling the same; even the marines looked like they were having to actively force themselves to keep moving forward.
Eventually, they came to a sealed door. Ocarius and one of his engineers examined its control panel; like the rest of the ship, it was inactive, and it would not respond no matter how hard they pressed its buttons or swiped their fingers across its surface.
"Looks like we'll have to cut our way in here, too," Ocarius remarked, signaling to the torchbearer to come forward. The engineer stepped up and, after a moment of fiddling, fired up the plasma cutter again. Sparks flew and the smell of burning metal filled the air as he began cutting into the door. Moments later, he had created a hole big enough for them to climb through.
One of the marines moved up to the hole, shining his light through. He stood there for a long moment, and then suddenly recoiled, staggering back in an almost drunken gait, his gun falling from nerveless hands. Ocarius looked at him dumbfounded; never before had he seen any Turian, especially not a career soldier, act that way.
"What is it?" he asked. "What's wrong?"
The marine didn't seem to be able to answer; all that came out of his mouth were burbling, choking noises. Ocarius was beginning to feel very alarmed, and the rest of his team wasn't fairing any better. The marine pointed a shaking finger at the hole, whimpering piteously, and Ocarius peered through, shining his light into the dark.
What he saw was beyond anything he could have imagined.
It was a scene straight out of a nightmare. The chamber was a mess of blood and body parts—human body parts. But the charnel scene not the result of an explosion or some other destructive force; rather, the bodies had been surgically unmade. Limbs were severed from torsos, bones stripped clean of flesh, and organs drawn from their confines, all done with a mad precision.
On the walls, strange glyphs and runes were scrawled in the humans' own red blood, forming intricate and arcane-looking patterns. All of them bore the telltale signs of having been inscribed with frantic desperation. Ocarius could make out bloody handprints and even ragged grooves where fingernails had clawed futilely against the metal surfaces.
Most terrifying of all was that the mass of gore was not simply strewn about, but arranged in a deliberate pattern with the same demented meticulousness, like a macabre mosaic. Or, perhaps, an altar.
Ocarius had never seen such a dreadful sight before, but he could not look away. His eyes were drawn to the center of the horrid arrangement of flesh, where a pool of the humans' blood had been collected. The surface was placid and smooth as a pane of glass, with not even so much as a ripple disturbing it, and it formed a perfect circle. Not even so much as a stray drop or trickle marred the immaculate symmetry.
Ocarius was suddenly made aware of a low, pulsing sound, like that of a massive heartbeat coming from the pool. The scales on the back of his neck prickled as a wave of cold, unnatural dread washed over him, and an overwhelming scent emanated from the room. It was the stench of voided bowels and rotting meat, and it made his stomach clench.
Suddenly, a laugh rang out, horribly triumphant and of such a vile tenor that Ocarius felt as if oily, rancid sewage had been poured into his ears. This was followed by the utterance of words that carried with them an ancient and unspeakable malice. The pool began to bubble like a pot set to full boil, the surface frothing and sputtering with violent, unnatural energy. Ocarius and the others could only stare as the pool's crimson surface began to change. It was growing thicker and darker, like a pool of clotted blood, and the stench of decay grew stronger.
Something rose up from the pool as smoothly as though an elevator was pushing it up. What it was, Ocarius couldn't begin to describe; all he knew was that it was a horrible, unspeakable thing that shouldn't exist, something that was completely outside the realm of reality. Its shape was incomprehensible, its nature unfathomable, and the very act of looking at it was a violation of his very self. Another stream of horrid laughter echoed throughout the chamber.
And then the screaming began.