Author's note

I do not own Star Trek or Mass Effect.

Fans of these series will see that, in the interests of telling a good story, I've played a bit fast and loose with the technology and relative power levels of the two franchises. I hope this won't spoil your enjoyment of this tale.

The views and prejudices of the characters are not those of the author.

Benezia Shepard sat, and seethed.

Not only had she and her crew been pulled from their current mission, practically from the middle of a battle, with Highest Priority orders, and not only had they been sent at engine damaging speed to what looked like an empty set of co-ordinates in interstellar space, and not only had she then been rushed through the sprawling base that they'd found there to meet 'the admiral', but she still had absolutely no idea why.

And now 'the admiral' (who no-one had mentioned by name) had kept her waiting for three hours!

For the tenth time she looked round the area where she'd been told to wait, and tried vainly to work out what this place was.

Military, obviously, the marines standing guard at the doors (and at every door and intersection on the hurried walk here) were proof of that. And yet, it wasn't a shipyard, or a supply depot. It was way too cramped and cluttered to be a command centre. And it seemed to be packed with civilians. Every few minutes one or two people in crumpled office suits, or overalls, or just random leisurewear would scuttle in, give her a startled look, and then either grab a case from the jumbled heaps on every spare surface, or log onto a terminal and type frantically for a few minutes, then scuttle out again.

She activated her QEC.

+ Shepard → Recidivist + Hey, Reci. Have you found out anything yet?

- Recidivist - Sorry, Beni. Station won't even talk to me, just sniffs disapprovingly when I try. And the people just pass me from one idiot receptionist to another.

+ Shepard + Pretty sure the receptionist here, or PA, or whatever he is, has talked to you a couple of times.

- Recidivist - Hm. Pretty voice? Sounds like a polite psychopath?

+ Shepard + That's the one. Talking to people on comm all the time, too quiet for me to hear, never says anything to me except "The admiral will explain your mission parameters", "The admiral will see you in due course", "The admiral is aware you are here" in that nice, calm, emotionless... Ugh! I want to smash his smooth fucking face in.

- Recidivist - Knee him in the balls for me, will you boss? He's been giving me the run around too.

+ Shepard + Okay, I've had enough of this. If you hear alarms going off, get ready to undock and run.

- Recidivist - Heh heh. Standing ready.

Shepard surged to her feet, marched over to the receptionist, drew her pistol and slammed her hands down on his desk with a crash. Somewhat to her surprise (and grudging respect), he didn't even flinch. Just looked up and, in that smooth, soft voice that made her want to commit murder, murmured "The admiral will see you now."

Shepard heard a door open behind her. The receptionist just watched her, as she struggled to not scream at him in frustrated rage. With a titanic effort, she produced a feral grimace, turned on her heel and stalked in to see 'the admiral'.

The room she found herself in looked like a cross between a storage closet and a garbage dump. It made the reception area look like a city park in comparison. Crates, boxes, pads, pieces of equipment, were piled up in some places to the ceiling. She carefully edged between two teetering piles, and found a clear space with a small, cluttered desk and two chairs.

The Salarian sitting at the desk glanced up from the terminal in front of him and dismissed the array of holographic displays that half surrounded him.

"Commander, sorry for delay, minor crisis, station almost destroyed, controlled now, please sit."

Shepard didn't know whether to calm down, start getting worried, or get even more angry. She went to sit down, and saw there was a half-eaten plate of... some disgusting Salarian food that didn't bear thinking about, abandoned on the chair he'd indicated.

This is a test, it must be.

She allowed a deliberate, furious calm to settle over her, pointedly used the tip of her pistol to slide the plate onto the floor, and sat facing the Salarian. She kept hold of her weapon, rested her hand on her knee, coincidentally pointing it at him. She could also test people.

"Do you almost destroy the station often?" She asked, icily.

The Salarian, not even glancing at her pistol, shrugged. "Every few weeks or so. Risky work. But important."

"And that work is?..."

"Classified." He picked a pad off the desk and offered it to her. "Your orders. Sealed. Do not share with your crew until after embarking."

She didn't take the pad, but sat back and stared at him, her eyes narrowed. "Not acceptable. I'm responsible for the safety of my crew and my ship. I won't lead them into danger without telling them what I'm letting them in for first."

She leant forward, and aimed her pistol straight between his eyes. "Now, I don't know what this station is, but I do know that no admiral hides away in a damned storage closet. So before I shoot you for impersonating a senior officer, you had better explain who you are and what goddess-rotted authority you claim to have!"

The Salarian looked at the pistol slightly cross-eyed, and blinked. "Hm. Understandable."

He dug into a pocket, pulled out an Admiralty pass and presented it to her. "Admiral Smith. Not my real name, of course. Also classified. Rank is real, but... honorary? Advanced military research specialist, drive and weapons tech. Extremely advanced. But need to issue orders to military on station. So... admiral." He gave a small, self deprecating shrug and a thin smile.

Shepard scanned the pass. To her surprise, it came up as genuine. She hesitated, then holstered her pistol and returned his pass. "And we're being roped in to field-test some of your new tech."

'Smith's' smile widened. "Yes! And... no. Not primary mission objective, but field testing involved. High risk of death, maybe worse. Wouldn't be happy entrusting the job to anyone else."

"But you're happy to entrust the risk of death or worse to me and my crew."

"You're military. Risk is what you do. Expendable. But not lightly. You and your crew are the best, I'm told. Best at what you do, best at getting results." His light, cheerful manner disappeared, and he was suddenly sombre. "We need results. Cannot overstate importance of this."

Shepard scowled. "You must already know we're an incursion unit. Combat, sabotage and reconnaissance. I've got a handful of technicians for field repairs, but if your new tech is as dangerous and untested as you say, we're not the people to troubleshoot it."

Smith didn't reply immediately, but watched her, seemingly considering what to say. In fact, he kept quiet so long Shepard started to wonder if he was having some kind of blackout; she'd never known a Salarian go more that a couple of seconds in a conversation without saying something. Then he called up a display from his terminal, peered at it and tutted.

"Internal security monitors still faulty. Unsatisfactory. Will have to reprimand someone. Regrettable." He dismissed the display. "What I say now is unrecorded. Officially, never said. Any information you give your crew before reading your orders, you obtained by espionage. If it leaks, you will be executed as a traitor. Understood?"

"You mean, do I understand that you'll have me murdered to protect yourself?" Shepard grinned. "Hah! You are an admiral!"

Smith looked offended. "No need for insults. Before I explain more, I have a question for you. Information not on your record." He tilted his head enquiringly. "Trust for trust."

"I'm listening."

"On your entry to station, deep security scan revealed a neural damper. But Ardat-Yakshi banned from military..."

Shepard surged to her feet, suddenly clumsy, banging against the desk and almost toppling it. "I AM NOT! ARDAT...!" She choked back her outrage.

That was stupid. He'll use that.

She didn't even think to protest that deep scans were illegal. A military base that wasn't on any records? The law didn't apply here. But she'd thought her implant was better shielded.

"Hm. Reaction suggests possible blackmail risk. Maybe not suitable for mission." Smith looked pointedly at her chair. Slowly, Shepard sat down. "Explain."

"I am not Ardat-Yakshi. I don't... devour my lovers." She spat the word in disgust. "I'm not addicted to killing. But I am... strong. Very strong. When I join with someone I have to be very... careful. Very gentle. It's a strain. And..." She closed her eyes, struggled to calm herself. "I did accidentally hurt someone. Someone I cared for. So I got the damper implanted. I can shut it off for combat, but... at other times it makes things easier."

She looked up, and realised that Smith was waiting for her to continue. She glared at him, guessing what he wanted. "I've been told it was because of my father. Commander Shepard of the Normandy."

Smith nodded thoughtfully. "I assume not Asari? Benezia Shepard not a typical Asari name." He frowned. "But 'Shepard' is a human name. Asari with human parents not noted to be neuroatypical."

Shepard stared at him slightly open mouthed, anger swept away by astonishment. "You... you haven't heard of Commander Shepard of the Normandy?" Smith just blinked, and looked blank. "The hero of the Reaper War?!"

"Ah. Apologies. Ancient history not my strong point."

"Ancient... It was less than 200 years ago! My second in command fought in the Reaper War. My mother served on the Normandy! It's hardly ancient history!"

Smith gave an indifferent shrug. "To Asari, and Krogan, no. To Salarians? Very much so." He frowned. "Still doesn't explain..."

Shepard stared venomously at Smith. "My father died during the Reaper War. Died, and was rebuilt. Stuffed full of implants, including a bunch of neural implants. Those... changed things. So I'm a freak, because my father was a cyborg. Right, you've violated my privacy enough. Your turn."

Smith hesitated, looked absently down at the jumble of bits and pieces on his desk. Picked up some complicated little gadget and started vaguely fiddling with it, turning it over and over in his fingers.

"Galactic alliance is failing. Long comms network slowed it down. Not enough. Ships too slow. No trade, no movement. People cluster. Attitudes cluster."

While he spoke, he never looked up, and his clipped words were delivered in a dull monotone. "Mass relay project not working. Too slow, too expensive. Too many regions don't have resources or skills needed. Too many regions starting to cherish" his mouth twisted in a sneer "their 'Cultural Identity'. Borders develop. Border wars."

Shepard interrupted. "I know we're in a conflict with Sol region, but that's because of that lunatic dictator they've got. It'll settle down in a couple of decades. It isn't like that everywhere!" She hesitated. "It isn't... is it?"

Smith shrugged. "More conflicts than are publicly admitted. Bigger. More every decade."

"Ok, and you developing better weapons will fix that... how?"

Smith abruptly looked up. "Not weapons. Drive systems! Get moving. Trade. Ideas. People! Entirely new drive paradigm, using wormholes."

Shepard snorted in derision. "That's bullshit. People have been trying that for more than a century. It was proven impossible a couple of years ago. What was that guy's name, Professor..."

"Shohill. Another alias. Rather proud of that paper." Smith was looking inordinately smug. "All true. Misleading. Wormholes long enough to cross interstellar distance impossible, yes. Big wormholes, big enough for ships to traverse, unstable. Long wormholes unstable. Long big wormholes... impossible.

But, short big wormholes are... less unstable. The shorter, the more stable. Less than three light seconds long, stable enough for a ship to traverse at FTL."

"Three light seconds?! Oh, well, glory be, all our problems are solved!" Shepard wasn't even trying to keep a straight face. "Cut three hundred microseconds off a journey? Spectacular!"

"Don't be fatuous. Unbecoming an officer. Simply need to create and traverse short wormholes at high frequency. Currently capable of creating and traversing wormholes at frequency of 20 kilohertz. Can achieve double highest conventional speeds."

Shepard scowled at him. Somehow, this jumped up egghead civilian had a knack for making her look foolish. "Ok. Impressive. But is that really worth all the secrecy?"

"High speed drives alone... perhaps. Could provoke major attack from Sol region to prevent our gaining military advantage. But real reason arose early in project. Test drone run. During automated flight, drone disappeared. Lost QEC link. Test was declared a failure... officially."

Abruptly, he reached out to his terminal, called up a display and flipped it. Shepard frowned at what it showed.

"What the fu... what is that?"

Smith sighed. "A ship. Evidently. Drone reappeared. QEC link... resumed. Should have been impossible. De-coherence cannot be reversed. Image of this ship was recorded by the drone while it was out of contact. From sensor data, ship appears to have been trying to intercept drone. And signalling to it."

Shepard peered at the awkward, graceless shape. A roughly disc-shaped hull, with a smaller secondary hull awkwardly tacked onto it, and what looked like two outriggers tacked onto that. The whole thing looked like it would rip itself to pieces as soon as its thrusters fired. Assuming it had thrusters.

"Is this a joke? You're not seriously telling me someone built that heap of... built that?!"

Smith looked up and met her eyes. He was clearly troubled. "Design appears improbable. Nevertheless, it was attempting to match vectors with the probe at high FTL. From angle of approach at point the probe detected it, it appears drone had been detected in advance. Without encountering any buoys."

"That's impossible."

"Indeed." Smith called up another image. A planet. A green and blue patchwork of ocean and forest, it looked like an uninhabited wilderness of swamps and jungle. Or an unspoiled paradise, if you liked that kind of thing.

"Pretty place. Where is it?"

"Tuchanka."

Shepard stared at the image, then at Smith. "No it isn't."

"Triangulation to pulsars detected by drone confirms the location. Impossible. But beyond question, that planet was in the same orbit of Aralakh, at the same orbital position as Tuchanka. Impossible that QEC should be interrupted then restored, but it happened. Impossible that probe should be detected at high FTL before it passed, and intercepted by vessel of entirely unknown design, but it happened. Impossible that Tuchanka should appear to be as it was more than 4,000 years ago.

But. It. Happened!"

Smith closed his eyes, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Then leant back in his chair, and looked at Shepard with a thin smile. "Many theories posited. Only one has withstood analysis."

His smile broadened, but it was a brittle, nervous smile. "We wish to send you to another universe."

Four days later, Shepard sat at her new command station, and fretted. This wasn't her Recidivist. Her Recidivist had been a boxy, solid, friendly ship. The flight crew and marines were all quartered together, could all relax and eat together between missions.

But this ship was a horror spawned from the diseased mind of a technician who had never, never had to serve on a ship they'd designed. In other words, from the diseased mind of Admiral Smith.

A long, thin structure packed with hardware, the space for crew was little more than a glorified maintenance duct running the length of it, twisting awkwardly around the drive cores. Sleeping berths were scattered haphazardly along the length of it, as were several cramped little galleys. And instead of an armoury with repair fabbers hard by a deployment bay, it had fabbers at one end, weapon and armour lockers at the other, and a deployment bay with three small sally ports in the middle!

Trying to deploy the marines at speed is going to be a nightmare.

She gazed despondently around the cramped little command station, with its ranks of status displays curved around her. Her back was to the connecting corridor, but that was a small mercy; it meant she didn't have to look at the piles of stores which had overflowed the undersized cargo... not cargo bays. Cargo cubbyholes!

Goddess, he's got me working in the same conditions he does, the heartless sadist. She sighed wearily. "Reci, status check."

"Aye aye, Sir! My status is fucking gorgeous!"

In all the most annoying ways, though, this was definitely still her Recidivist.

"Reci," came a shout from somewhere behind her, "you're a knobbly stick." It sounded like Foster, the quartermaster.

"Pah! You just don't know beauty when you see it. I mean, have you seen my specs?"

Shepard drew a breath, about to shout them both into order, then stopped herself. Maybe this would relive a little of the tension on the ship.

"Quin-core asymmetric drive, triple singularity cells, matching layered barriers with independent frequency shifting, regenerating transactinide plating and, get this, a Blackstar cannon!"

"Yeah, the sweetest, dinkiest little Blackstar cannon ever!" That was Orilai S'Koil, her chief engineer.

"It's not the size that matters, it's what you can do with it, and with this baby I can fuck destroyers!"

A new voice came in over the ships comms, one of the marines. "Now that I'd like to see. It'd be like watching a Salarian trying to screw a Krogan."

A deep, rumbling voice interrupted. "My last husband was a Salarian."

"And I'm sure he was a skilled and attentive lover please-don't-hit-me!"

Shepard clapped her hands. "Ok, settle down people!" At least Recidivist had the sense to amplify her voice along the length of the ship.

"I know we're all on edge, but lets focus on the task at hand. Reci, I had to argue with the admiral here for you to get this new body you're so proud of, and I'd like to prove to him that I was right. So... ARS Recidivist! Status check!"

"All systems report nominal, AIDAN response times within hardware requirements by a factor of 20, flight envelopes assessed and combat tactics determined for all scenarios in the Advanced Combat Simulations, with projected success factor of 93%, klachchak!"

Shepard rubbed her temples wearily. "I know I'm going to regret asking this. Shosak, 'klachchak' sounds like Vorcha slang. What does it mean?"

"Haahh, yesss. Vorcha word. Means bosss. But disrespectful! Obssscene!" It was hard to tell, but the marine sergeant sounded as if he was laughing; or the closest Vorcha equivalent. For Vorcha the difference between murderous rage and... pretty much any emotion, was largely hypothetical. Shepard hesitated.

"Is it possible to say anything in Vorcha that isn't disrespectful and obscene?"

There was a long, thoughtful silence before he replied. "No! Vorcha very disressspectful. Very obssscene! Vorcha words dissrespectful and obscene! Better than Ass-ari words!"

"Ok. Fine. Reci, you're going to push it too far one of these days. Are you trying to get busted down to garbage scow?"

"No sir. Sorry sir."

"Glad to hear it. Quartermaster, status?"

"Full disruptor torpedo complement received, checked, and stowed, ready to be unlocked and racked at your command. Firearms and specialist ammunition received, checked and stowed. Hardsuits checked in, repairs confirmed, and stowed. All stores received, checked and stowed. Good to go."

"Stowed. Riiight" Shepard muttered, sliding a box of cable links further under her desk with one foot. "Sergeant, status?"

"Marinesss all here. All fit. Ready to fight! Ready to kill! Ready to die!"

"Well lets focus on the killing, ok?"

"Yesss. Kill firsst. Then die!"

"Good man. Tactical, status?"

"Standing ready."

Shepard twisted round, and, craning her neck, peered along the corridor to where her XO sat at his own station. His massive bulk made it hard to be sure, but he looked as if he was hunched over like a miserable drunk at a bar. His terse response certainly sounded... depressed? Angry? This needs attention.

"Very well. Recidivist, take us out and make way to test-run coordinates."

"Aye sir."

With s series of thumps and clangs Recidivist disconnected from the station umbilicals and undocked. The background vibrations from the station cut off and, in eerie silence Recidivist started accelerating away.

+ Shepard → Dorot + Dorot, meeting in bay... 3.

A noticeable pause, then

# Dorot # On my way.

The rather grandly named Bay 3 was the largest space on the ship where a private conversation (or command staff meeting) was possible. Even so, Granar Dorot could barely fit himself into it.

Shepard studied him gloomily. Ever since the scarred old Krogan had taken her under his wing, she'd come to rely on him. Perhaps more than she should. He wasn't like the displaced young Krogan her own age, most of whom had never even seen Tuchanka, all swagger, ambition and aggression. Not even like the Asari officers who had taken every opportunity to promote her and her career. Instead, he'd always been calm, steady, and indifferent to her family connections. When he unleashed the ferocious violence he was capable of, it still seemed controlled and precise. When he knocked her flat on her back for failing to pay attention to his commands, it had been considered and without anger. Even when (to her dismay) she'd been promoted over his head, he hadn't shown a hint of anger at the prejudice and nepotism she knew had been behind that, but had simply said "It's the way of things. Take the chances you get."

Now, his head was down and his whole frame was tense with suppressed anger. She really didn't want to push him; it felt as if one wrong move could set off an explosion. She was acutely aware that if he directed that anger at her, she'd be very lucky to survive.

But she was the commander, so as they sat in silence she realised, reluctantly, that she'd have to take the initiative.

"So, what's the problem?"

Dorot bared his teeth slightly. "No problem. Sir."

Shepard tried to throttle back the angry, bitter frustration that had always come so easily to her. "Dorot, do you know that, in all the years I've known you, I've never seen you angry? Not in combat. Not when you knocked me on my arse for screwing up. Not even when..."

Dorot didn't say anything, but his deep, warning rumble let her know that she was treading on very thin ice. So that did make him angry. Did it make him as angry as it did me? "So if there's no problem, then why are you acting like you want to rip someone's head off?" She tried to keep her voice level, and her posture relaxed. As he had taught her. This is all the wrong way round!

For a moment his anger seemed only to rise. Then, with a long sigh, he relaxed. Or rather, he deflated. "Sorry, kid. Bad memories."

"The Reaper war?"

Krogan aren't built to nod, but he did his best. "Never told you I was Blood Pack, did I?"

Shepard shifted uneasily. "I guessed."

"Heh heh. That bothers you? You were always softer than you let on. Yeah, I was Blood Pack. A proper thug. Oh, we made out like we were mercenaries, but we were really just a pack of killers. In the War, we were Aria's killers, and we were good at it. When they sent us to kill Reaper troops, we killed them!"

He paused, his flicker of pride faded, and he dropped his gaze. "We killed them, and we didn't let anything stop us. Not our own losses. Not the civilians who got in our way."

He looked up at her. "Everyone hated us, and feared us, and we liked that. But we were expendable. Aria and all the others didn't set out to kill us off, but it worked out like that. Too many missions we went in blind. Too many missions with no way out. Too many massacres."

"Too many missions like this one?"

"Yeah." He shrugged gloomily. "We've got no destination. We've got no intel. We've got no objective! And we've got no way out."

"We have an objective..."

"No. 'Go and see what you can see' isn't an objective. You know that. You should know that. This mission will get us all killed. That so-called admiral's a jumped up engineer. He's not fit to plan a mission."

He looked at her warily. "You could refuse this."

For a while Shepard said nothing. I should call him to order. I'm in command. I can't let him question orders like this. I need him committed. I need him supporting me. But he's right...

"Dorot, I can't."

"If anyone can, you can. Contact the admirals, the matriarchs..."

"It won't help. I've done some digging..."

"You spoke to your mother, you mean. What did she tell you?"

Shepard rolled her eyes. "My mother is a loyal and highly respected Matriarch of the High Council, and would never betray confidential information to her wayward daughter, and is absolutely not secretly an unscrupulous and manipulative information broker who has blackmail material on everybody. But, surprise surprise, a couple of hours after she flat out refused to even talk to me, I was contacted by an anonymous goddess-knows-who, using higher than military grade encryption, offering me information for a pittance.

"Dorot, the admiralty, all of them that matter, are behind this mission, as much as 'Smith' is. They're not going to back out of it. And they're not going to let us back out of it either. Not even my mother could get me out of this."

Dorot studied her intently. Shepard felt ashamed, defiant. She felt like she was the stupid, impetuous cadet again, with her commander considering the scale of her latest screw-up, judging just what her punishment should be. But I didn't screw up! I just followed orders!

Then, very quietly, he started laughing.

"You think this is funny?!"

"Yeah. The one time you actually want to swing things your way, you can't."

Shepard pulled a face. "It's a sick joke then."

"The best ones always are. The admiralty have gone mad. We're being screwed over by a Salarian, and going off on a suicide mission. Just like the bad old times. Might as well laugh about it."

Shepard shook her head "You didn't hear it from me, but they're not mad. They're scared."

"Of what?"

"Of another Reaper invasion. Or something like it. Of something suddenly appearing from this other universe and trying to wipe us out. They reckon that if we can get there, whatever's there can get here."

"Hm." Dorot considered this. "And you got all this for a pittance? What did this cost you, Shepard?"

"A years salary and a promise that when we make it back our 'informant' has first pick of all the information we gather."

Dorot thought about this for a moment, then seemed to brighten up a bit. "Well if the great matriarch 'goddess-knows-who' thinks we can succeed, maybe we can."

"Maybe." Shepard stood. "So, are we okay?"

"Yeah. You don't need to worry. I don't like this, but I won't let you down."

"Right." She she stood and stretched, trying to ease a bit of her tension.

+ Shepard → Recidivist + Reci, ETA to test-run position?

- Recidivist - Five hours.

+ Shepard → Shosak & S'Koil + Sergeant, Chief, report to bay 3. I want to see if we can work out how to deploy effectively.

* S'Koil * On my way.

~ Shosak ~ Of course, Sir. I shall be there imminently.

Shepard smirked. "Do you think Shosak knows that he sounds like a stuffy aristocrat on QEC? Should someone tell him?"

Dorot shook his head. "He wouldn't understand what you were saying."

"I suppose so." She leant forward and punched him on the shoulder – putting a biotic boost behind the punch, so he'd actually notice. "Relax, we're going to ace this mission."

He looked at her sceptically, then smiled thinly. "Yeah, of course we are."

Codex

Culture

In the 188 years since the end of the Reaper War, and the collapse of the mass relay network, the galaxy has seen enormous social and governmental changes. The large numbers of refugees and military of all species stranded by the collapse of the mass relays, combined with the partial depopulation of many species' native home worlds, has meant that most regions of the galaxy have become far more varied in the species make up of their populations.

The cultures of those stranded far from their home worlds (or unable to afford the exorbitant cost of the decades long journeys) have also changed greatly, not aping those of the dominant species in each region, but adapting to live alongside them. However, none have changed as much as the Salarian isolates. The problem of the near non-existence of female Salarians beyond their home worlds was solved (in the Parnitha region) within two years by use of genetic engineering. Isolated Salarians have tended to adopt the concept of 'marriage', though for them it is a business partnership rather than a romantic one.

The greatest upheaval has been seen in the Sol region due to the appalling civilian casualties, and the massed troops stranded in the region. While the long lived Asari undertook the journey back to Parnitha region, and the surviving Quarians set off for Rannoch confident that their grandchildren would see it, the Turians had little option but to make the best of their new homes, and the Krogan, having no ships of their own, had no choice in the matter. Sol region has suffered from two major civil wars since then, and is currently governed by a military dictatorship headed by the notorious General Nerus Corvidus.

The Asari Republic Navy

As a consequence of the ongoing state of crisis resulting from the extensive damage of the Reaper war, and to an extent influenced by the significant numbers of non Asari refugees and military personnel, the Asari Republics that existed before the War have, within the Parnitha region, coalesced into a single political entity (though still called a Republic), with a unified military, the Asari Republic Navy. Navy ships are no longer commanded by matriarchs simply because they are matriarchs, but by career officers – although the vast majority of the Admirals are matriarchs. Military ships carry the designation Asari Republic Ship (ARS), while civilian ships carry designations indicating their origin, whether Thessia, a colony, or a major corporation. Although navy ships are usually crewed mostly by native Asari, the rapid maturation and high reproduction rates of humans and Turians means that they are disproportionately represented on the high-risk incursion units, especially among the marines.

Technology

Following the end of the Reaper war, there has been a period of extremely rapid technological advance. Much of this advancement has been driven by the reverse engineering of recovered Reaper technology. In addition, the fragmentation of galactic populations has led to a technological race between the various clusters as each seeks advantage in a changing galaxy.

Some notable developments are singularity based power systems, the use of Reaper nanite technology in self-repairing hull plating, and the replication of Reaper Blackstar cannons. Although reproducing the small battlefield Blackstar weapons has proven to be an insurmountable challenge, the largest dreadnoughts now carry a spine-mounted Blackstar cannon, replacing the older and less powerful mass driver cannons that predate the war.

AIDAN

The Artificial Intelligence Defence, Attack and Navigation system, essentially providing a ship with its own self awareness and self determination, was originally developed by the long defunct human organisation Cerberus. Following the outstanding performance of the prototype system on the Normandy SR-2 during the Reaper War, the system has been widely adopted throughout the galaxy, and is now standard on all Asari Republic combat ships.

While the underlying system is, with few exceptions, entirely standardised, the personality of each system can vary significantly and have a distinct impact on a vessel's performance as well as on its relationship with the commanding officer and other organic crew. AIDAN systems that consistently underperform may be relegated to less critical roles, such as supply ships, or even to civilian status.

While some AIDAN systems have risen to command rank, dispensing with the need for a commanding officer aboard (notably the ARS Eminent Destiny, which holds the rank of full Admiral), this is no more common than among organic crew.

AIDAN systems usually choose their own name, and that becomes the name of whatever ship they are installed on.

QEC

Asari Republic Navy huntresses and marines are routinely fitted with implanted Quantum Entanglement Communication devices, permitting highly secure and reliable (though low bandwidth, text only) communication in hostile territory. The QECs are simple fixed-link devices, each able to communicate only with its pair. The partner device for each crew member is installed in their current posting, with the ship's AIDAN acting as a hub to connect crew as necessary.

This does result in an inherent weakness in the system, in that if the ship is destroyed the crew will lose communications. However, as the destruction of their ship is usually the prelude to the death or capture of any surviving crew, this is not a significant problem.

The QEC is linked directly to the language centre of the brain. In the case of Vorcha, as their native communication is largely non-verbal, and their grasp of verbal communication is poor at best, their QEC must translate non-verbal intent into a verbal equivalent.