Life in the Alliance Navy was a headache. There was no way around it.
For Captain David Anderson, a man who'd seen his action, came out of it relatively intact, the last thing he wanted was more drama.
Unfortunately, the universe seemed content with throwing it at him. The first was that stunt with Flight Lieutenant Moreau – stealing a highly-classified military prototype from drydock for a joyride – now, there was word of another slave raid out in the Terminus.
Anderson wasn't a drinking man. The universe seemed very, very intent on making him one.
Ordinarily, a Batarian slave raid was cause for minor concern. Retaliatory strikes, but not much else. The Terminus systems had their risks, the colonists knew it, accepted it when they settled out there. But Watson was one of the big development efforts. An exercise in colonial development, governance, and long-term sustainability without going through the Alliance… well, mostly. The Alliance still took care of defense, and brokered that Compromise that pissed a lot of people off, but largely, it was hands-off.
He could understand, if not respect the reasoning behind it. The Alliance answered to the nations of Earth, not the other way around, and the earthside governments were getting a bit testy about the fact that the Alliance was representing all of them, and probably moving to supplant them.
He could've chosen a better way to do it than making a colonial venture out in the Terminus.
Now, the countries back on Earth were screaming for blood. Batarian blood. Nobody louder than the UNAS. The Americans had been historically aggressive (he felt comfortable saying that – he may have been born in the EU, but America was his homeland), but this was taking the cake.
The people in that settlement on Watson were American citizens, and their children. It was American interests the Batarians had disrupted, and they were demanding that the Alliance do something about it.
The problem was, something had already been done. Ordinarily, that wouldn't be a problem. The Alliance would offer compensation to whatever do-gooder had stuck their neck out, but in this case, the do-gooder in question was… well…
Anderson sat slumped in his seat in one of the many meeting rooms in Arcturus Station. He'd only been there originally to report on the final tweaks to the Normandy, hash out the crew roster, et cetera, when the news came in.
Watson had gone dark an hour ago. Transmissions jammed out of the system. Thirty minutes ago, the red tape cleared, and an Alliance fleet was sent in through the relays.
What they found…
Hackett looked stone-faced. For many, it was hard to get a read on the grizzled old man. For Anderson, he could tell Hackett was just as uncertain as the rest of them. "Play it again."
The VI in the room beeped, obeying the command as it reset the file.
"You have brought nothing into this world," A legion of identical female voices spoke over one another. Yet, there were differences. Some were whispering. Others screaming. A few could be heard crying, and an even smaller few seemed almost flirtatious. But, the vast majority of them were growling the words. Furious. "And we will ensure you bring nothing out."
The transmission had been found in the memory banks of a comm buoy. The source had been transmitting over every frequency, trying to make sure it was heard. And the senders had made good on their threat. No Batarians were left.
And the responsible parties? The initial investigation of the sensors around the colony showed that it was the Geth.
The goddamned Geth.
"The Geth haven't been seen outside their space in hundreds of years!" Admiral Hernandez threw up her hands immediately once the recovered audio finished. "It's preposterous! There's no way that ship is genuine, absolutely not!"
"The design of the ship is ultimately irrelevant," Hackett leaned forward. "The proof was on the ground. Several heavily damaged units have already been recovered, and are being held aboard SSV Marathon while it's decided where they'll be transported to for analysis. But even a cursory examination by the ship's engineer has already shown the fact that they're like no mechs we currently have in Citadel space."
However, something else piqued Anderson's interest. "The Marathon?"
Hackett nodded, looking down at his datapad to skim over the information. "The frigate was chosen in case the platforms reactivated and attempted to seize control of the ship. In the event that happened, a smaller ship could be more easily disabled by the rest."
"Can they reactivate like that?" Anderson wondered. He knew they were synthetics, but if they suffered enough damage to shut down, then surely they couldn't come back online unless they were actually repaired.
"That's not the real question, here," Admiral Hernandez leaned on the table. "What were they doing near a human territory, hmm?" She pushed herself up, beginning to pace around. "They jumped into human space, utterly destroyed a small Batarian fleet, landed their ground forces on our planet, smashed all forms of ground resistance, and took off! Into the black!" She gestured quickly.
"Did us a favor, didn't expect anything in return, and got the hell on," Admiral Samson commented as he took a puff from the electronic pipe in his mouth. "My kind of people. Or… synthetics."
"We can't just assume their intentions were peaceful," Hernandez glared at the smoking Admiral. "They showed up, slaughtered a Batarian fleet, let a ship get away, and then vanished! That seems an awful lot like probing to me."
"Probing what?" Samson cocked an eyebrow in return. "The defenses of a bunch of no-good, four-eyed, slavering snot-mouthed criminals? Maybe they got beef with the Batarians too."
"Or maybe the geth thought they were as good a target as any!" Hernandez refuted. "Did you hear that message? What if they decide that we've brought nothing into the world next, hm?"
"It's a moot point, anyway," Hackett held up his hand at last, to stop the arguing. "It's happened, it's done, there's nothing we can do about it. In all likelihood, the Geth will go back beyond the veil, and we can all forget this ever happened. In any event, it's out of our control. This news is just that – news. Let's get back to business.
Hernandez was first to sigh, as she shook her head. "Right. That," She picked up her datapad, tapped a few commands into it, even as she continued to shake her head. "I can't believe I'm letting you poach Pressly from me, David."
"And I can't believe I let you poach that bottle of '82 Thessian Red from me, Lin," Anderson grinned in return. "It's called an 'eye for an eye.'"
"I paid for it anyway," The woman groaned. "Asari liquor's too damn strong. Biotic bitches…"
Samson chuckled at that, before turning his focus onto Anderson. "So, you got the last of your crew roster sorted out, I take it? Need I ask if a certain Commander will be your XO?"
Anderson could feel a bristle of anger, but knew the man meant nothing by it. Still, too many over the years had questioned his decision making, taking a mentorship role to that one. "Shepard's good. Experienced."
"Abrasive," Samson fired back, no doubt having read the personnel file… or watched the news. It wasn't Shepard's fault. The paparazzi never knew when enough was enough.
"She's been put through the wringer," Hernandez responded to Anderson directly. "First, she went through the Skyllian Blitz. Then witnessed her whole unit wiped out on Akuze. And to cap it all off, she was boots-on-the-ground at Torfan. People who've gone through less carry a lot of baggage. You sure you think someone like that is a good fit for the symbol of cooperation between Humanity and the Turians?"
"People like that are still human too, damn it. Besides," Anderson leaned back. "A nice, comfy desk job on a shiny new frigate that's not expecting to see combat will do just fine. Besides, I know how to deal with her."
"Then good," Hackett passed over the datapad to Anderson. "You can give her the orders yourself. Unless there are any final objections, I guess that's everything."
Anderson nodded, and stood up first, grateful to be released from the proverbial purgatory. He barely even heard Hackett declare the meeting formally adjourned before he was out of the conference room, and on his way down to the rec center to find Shepard.
The deep, crimson hair could only barely be seen from a distance, but he found her quickly, arm-wrestling with another Marine. It was the usual case – everybody wanted to say they could beat her at something. It'd be like saying they were able to beat Rambo, or John McClaine in a fair fight. Her career really was the stuff of action movies, and it showed in how it molded her body.
Plus, she was an N7. People took whatever excuses they could get for a one-on-one with them.
Anderson had heard the last echoes of the bang of an arm hitting the table, when he was over there, throwing the datapad down in front of her.
She looked up, her face scrunched as she looked at her longtime CO. "Nice to see you too, sir. I piss you off, or is that just a statement?"
"I know you've been getting stir-crazy for the past few months," Anderson gestured down at the datapad. "Got your new posting here."
Shepard's eyebrows joined each other inquisitively, as she looked down at the datapad. "'Your Fornax subscription is ending soon…'" She pretended to read from the pad, causing Anderson to roll his eyes, before she looked back up. "The Normandy? You mean that yacht we're building with the Turians? I'm not interested in a desk job, Anderson."
"Trust me, Shepard," Anderson chuckled, because he already knew. "This is going to be a lot more interesting than just a desk job…"