12 – Alive and Kicking

The sound of laughter broke through the Commander's earpiece. Neither Kalu nor Zaz were laughing along.

"Little girl," jeered the deep, foreboding voice of what Gorman assumed at this point to be the syndicate's ringleader. "There are no human Spectres. No matter how much you humans pathetically beg and plead on your knees before the Council, they'll never -"

The voice faded out. Gorman was straining his ears to find the reason why. It then came back, but now he recognized a genuine hint of apprehension in its low tone.

"My friend here tells me that I've got some…outdated information," it snarled. "Doesn't matter. If they're too much of a coward to come in here themselves, I don't care who you've got with you." A footstep was heard – the voice was coming closer to Zaz and Kalu. As they went through panicked umms and ahhs, Gorman thought fast, and gave his next order.

"Tell them you're leaving, and will be back with…well, me."

"We're leaving," Kalu firmly stated. "But we'll we back. The Commander wants to speak with you…personally."

A moment of pure tension passed. Gorman gritted his teeth.

"Fine. We'll be waiting. This should be good," the voice growled. "But I have one request."

Gorman waited with bated frozen breath. The next thing that came through the radio was not what he wanted to hear.

"Commandant! Everything going well down there, over?"

Gorman jolted upright.

"No, no, not now, Lieutenant!"

"Quoi?"

"How do I switch this to…" Gorman was frantically tapping on his earpiece to try and set it back to short-range. He could only imagine what was happening in the base, and the awful, dreadful silence Kalu and Zaz were receiving while waiting for direction.

"Turns out the recording le Capitaine provided us lied, Commander. Instruments tell me it's actually a Level 2 Cold Hazard down there, over."

The Commander swore. Everything was going so well. Kalu and Zaz had done so well. They'd established numbers, weapons, a vague layout – and somehow worded their way into getting back to the Bluntnose for phase two of his masterplan.

"No need for la vulgarité, over."

"I – I'm sorry. Just stay off comms for a moment. This is critical." With one more tap, the earpiece fell silent.

No sooner had Gorman uttered those words then he spotted the main doorway parting open directly ahead. A figure made its way out. Gorman awaited another one…and kept waiting…but the doorway closed shut. A company green suit of armor trudged alone through the snow and towards the truck. The Commander undid his seat's straps, and began forming one scathing debrief in his head.

The rear of the Bluntnose shuttered open, and a man climbed inside, quickly closing the door behind him shut. He reached for his head, and a puff of gas came from within as he took off the helmet. He looked tired.

"Kalu."

"Gorman."

"Where's Zaz?"

Kalu slumped into an open seat, brushing sleet off his shoulders.

"We could leave, but only if one of us stayed behind. Their rules."

"So you left her behind?" Gorman couldn't help but think of the dressing-down the pilot would give him if and when he found out. "Alone? In the center of a base with more than a dozen criminals?"

"She volunteered."

Gorman was fully prepared to unleash a comprehensive breakdown of why that was a bad idea, and what he could have done to prevent it, but his internal clock was ticking. Every second spent talking in here was a second wasted. Kalu had done his part – and as years of agency experience taught the Commander, if you want something done right…

"Give me your gun, and your armor."

"Commander?"

"Drop it all, let me take it. I'm going in there."

"You can't just…why should you…" Kalu spluttered. "What will I do?"

"You'll stay in the car. Do some donuts if you get bored, give that turret operator whiplash. Armor, gun, now."

Kalu opened his mouth to try and retaliate one last time, but reluctantly took his Lancer from his back and placed it on the Bluntnose's inner metal flooring. The armor naturally took a bit longer to remove. Gorman looked away, and when Kalu was done, he was presented with a modular set of pads, plates, gauntlets and boots. It was time to suit up.

Off came the aviators. One by one, Kalu helped the Commander's armor pieces fit into place. Maybe it was the planet's lower gravity, but it felt surprisingly lightweight for something that could probably stop as many Walther bullets as he was carrying. Every piece slotted neatly into the other, leaving nothing exposed. Satisfying clicks meant that they were locked into place, the Lancer bolted to his back like a magnet, and the helmet slid on tight. Kalu reached towards the back of his neck, and somewhere down there where the helmet met backplate he found a button of sorts.

Several events happened in rapid succession – he had turned the armor on.

A green and white heads-up display now took up a portion of the Commander's vision, showing him direction, a radar featuring a blue dot, and a crude outline of the Lancer in a corner with a gauge next to it.

Then came the kinetic barriers. A blue haze engulfed the Commander for less than a second with a distinctive humming sound. With luck, the cold outdoors overloading the barriers as soon as he stepped outside wouldn't hurt him.

Finally the unexpectedly unpleasant momentary feeling of a needle into his back. The pain quickly subsided, but Gorman could only guess at the purpose. Some sort of stimulant? A tetanus shot? Hopefully whatever it was, it was more of a help than a hinderance.

Kalu noticed the small yelp and hands reaching for the small of the back.

"Don't worry, booster injection is standard procedure. Suit's smart enough to recognize a new user."

"What use is something like that to a fuel station guard?"

"Ask McFinley." Kalu climbed into the drivers' seat, intent on staying in the truck's warmest area while the Commander disembarked. "I'll be here," he nodded at the armor's latest wearer.

Gorman nodded back. He grabbed the Walther, went towards the back of the passenger section, grabbed the handle, and hoisted the door open. He pushed through the opening, planting his feet on a new world. He closed the Bluntnose's rear shut, took a deep breath, and began to walk.

The wind was quieter, but his heavy breathing was all the more louder as a result. He trudged along towards the base, the layers of snow giving way. It was up to his knees in some areas. His educated guess that his handgun would be somewhat protected by keeping it close to his armor seemed to be paying off. On the contrary, this 'reconnaissance' mission had become a rescue mission. Sure, this was the dominant thought in his mind, but he couldn't resist looking all around at the bleak winter wonderland all around him. Is this how Armstrong and Aldrin felt, plodding along a path completely foreign to everything they knew? He looked left and right. The turrets were no longer focused solely on the Bluntnose…but on him.

He arrived at the doorway, a shuttered alcove with icicles all around it. There was a button there, and he pressed it. Nothing happened. Then he realized he needed to say something to it. With the armor they probably thought it was Kalu again.

"This is the Commander."

Silence.

The shutters folded upward. He strode inside and into an intermediate chamber. The doorway slammed shut behind him. Gas was released, pressure changed, temperatures now bearable. Once the changes were complete and the next door slid open, he realized he could do the same to his helmet, to make it look like the ones he saw the staff wearing during his first steps onto Tara IV. The mouthguard retracted upwards, giving him a less opaque visor and sterile air to breath unobstructed. He glanced down at the Walther, giving the slide a pull to make sure it still worked…and that it was loaded.

The inside of the base was devoid of life, yet full of crates. Storage lockers, overhead compartments, dim, moody lighting – memories of the batarian ship flooded back. Between everywhere he had gone thus far since he woke up on that ship, it was either dirty and full of crates or clean and full of crates. This was neither the grand science fiction future of a gleaming, floating utopia, nor a murky, soul-crushing dystopia. This was a future designed by freight couriers.

Curiosity drove him to inspect a crate at random. Full to the brim with weapons, discs, spare parts for armor, and smaller transparent containers with a fine red powder inside. Dealing with smugglers had given him a glance at future contraband – and if one crate here ticked all the boxes then surely so did the rest. Chen and company were right, this was absolutely a criminal hideout.

There was a doorway off to the left. He approached, the light to its side flickered green, and he waltzed in. His nerves were fraying. Another narrow corridor. Tension was rising. Another door with a green light. Sound were now starting to be heard from beyond. A conversation? He walked up to the door. His mind was racing – should he abandon the 'Spectre' act or lean into it? What even is a Spectre? It made sense to keep it up, Zaz's life potentially was depending on it. The door parted open, and into the atrium he stepped.

The description from earlier over the radio was apt, there were columns and tables strewn around the atrium. Doorways at the far end were visible, as well as a massive set of control panels and gizmos all along the right wall – the heating system's interior, no doubt. Oddly enough, there were high, leafy plants dotted around. At least the criminals were making an effort towards making this lifeless rock feel homely.

Time seemed to slow down as Gorman noticed the criminals themselves. They were standing around, fifteen strong and armed with weapons as described, but what Kalu and Zaz had failed to mention was how…different they were. They were tall and bulky, some extremely so to the point of where his first thought upon seeing them was wondering how they fit through the doorway to get in here. There were too many to get an in-depth look, but their helmets were off, revealing colors no living human being should ever have on their skin. His heart sank. In the center of the chamber were presumably the top brass, backing up a commanding figure. They all had sickly green skin…and four eyes. All black dots were now looking at him, and away from another figure in front of them that was wearing jungle camouflage. Zaz turned around. Her own eyes widened.

"Batarians," Gorman recognized, and experience took over.

He pulled up the Walther. In an instant, he saw every single criminal in the vicinity draw their own weapon.

There was no time to react – the batarian leader caught Zaz off guard and grabbed her. It plucked out its own mockery of a handgun from its side. Zaz's helmet also had its breather up, showing an expression of shock, and now, pure fear. Her dazed brown eyes locked onto the Commander's.

"The first human Spectre," boomed the batarian. It had the same raspy voice as the one he'd heard through the radio, but to hear it in person, and to see the alien giving it, lent it much more threat. Hang on just a moment, Gorman thought – they can speak? "Every batarian knows who you are," it continued. "A worthy adversary…once. Now reduced to the Council's leashed varren."

"Are we sure it's…him?" remarked one of its batarian wingmen. "Wouldn't the Commander, you know…"

"Quiet!" barked the leader. It returned its attention, and its gesturing weapon, to Gorman. "You've got some nerve to show up here."

"Let her go. Now."

"Or what? The Council's going to cry? What's one human life worth to you, Commander, when you've already murdered hundreds of my kind?"

Whoever the real Spectre is, Gorman thought, they're a real piece of work. If anyone looked ready to cry it was Zaz. He gave her a quick look, as reassuring as possible under the dire circumstances. The batarian withdrew his gun, reached for his back, and produced a serrated blade. Something told him kinetic barriers wouldn't be enough to stop it.

Gorman reached a hand up to his helmet, and pushed down on its side. It was time to pray for the earpiece's radio to pull through. Until then…he needed to stall.

"Blake sends their regards."

"That old hag? She put you up to this?" the batarian was almost humored, but quickly reverted to gnashed spiky teeth and admiring the pointiness of his new weapon. Foe, not friend, thought Gorman. Maybe he could work with this.

"She got what was coming to her. I made sure of it."

The batarian paused.

"You, of all people, killed her? With that gun?"

"Damn right. Do you think you'll see it fire with three eyes?"

Fury overcame the batarian and it gripped its blade tighter – but it composed itself enough to gesture to colleagues a few more steps away. From the shade of two columns emerged two columns of beings. They towered over everyone else, massive suits of black armor with a large hump where the head should be. Upon another look, those were the heads. Wide, jagged, scarred, with thick carapaces for 'hair'. Two beady eyes were on either side of the head, as opposed to front and forward. Their two legs were bent unnaturally backwards and their large hands and feet had three digits each. Heavy metal plating smothered these new, utterly intimidating aliens, and if that wasn't bad enough, they were carrying shotguns. A close-quarters weapon. These monsters were ready to get up close and personal – a terrifying thought, as they came just that bit further towards the batarian group.

"You don't want to threaten us, Commander," the batarian hissed. "These two ate the last human who did that."

The two big monsters' faces carved into insidious grins. Gorman gulped. All this while, the batarian to the ringleader's side was tapping away on his own version of Kalu's omni-tool. He leaned into the leader and whispered something into the spot where an ear should be.

"You're not the real Commander, are you," it snapped. Gorman remained silent. "Before we kill you, and your girlfriend, and that other guy who came in earlier…who are you really?"

"Commandant, is that you, over?" crackled through the earpiece.

"Pierre Blanc," said the Commander.

The standoff was reaching a tipping point. Gorman held his Walther upright with determination, but no matter who he pointed it at, there were fifteen times as many guns aiming in the other direction. He wondered how many shots his armor's shield could withstand before giving up. Then came a dreadful realization – he hadn't waited five minutes since getting inside, his barriers were still down. He was totally exposed. He pushed down his helmet's breather.

The batarian broke the silence.

"Do you expect me to know who -"

BOOM!

Without warning an enormous explosion rocked the right side of the base. A handful of criminals were flung around like ragdolls. The sudden change in pressure and breathable air escaping dragged the base's occupants from their feet. Gorman hit the deck before he could get a shot off – luckily, this was now a common problem. He glanced to Zaz…who was starting to glow.

With a battle scream she too exploded in a burst of blue energy – and a vicious kick behind her. The batarian holding her was thrust backwards, cracking against the far wall. In the midst of the shouting, smoke and chaos, Gorman issued orders.

"Get to cover, and get your breather down!"

She did as told, flicking her helmet together. Together they scrambled to get themselves against anything resembling cover – a column and a violently overturned table for Gorman and Zaz respectively.

He had expected a precision strike – take out the pipes, drain the heat. Instead, there was now a massive hole where the right-hand wall used to be. Snowy wind poured in, and fluttered ash into his visor. He wiped it off, and chanced a look around the column, gun barrel first. Figures were picking themselves off the ground. One lanky silhouette saw the Commander peeking – and raised its gun.

The Walther fired first. A spurt came from its head, and it collapsed to the floor. No futuristic shields were going to bail out the aliens this time.

The smoke started to clear. One down, fourteen to go. Zaz leaned her Lancer over the table, picked out a target, and started raining down bullets.

As Zaz spotted hostiles to shoot, causing shouts downwind, Gorman spotted a perfectly chest-high wall ahead. He swerved from cover and sprinted forward. A bullet whizzed by. He responded in kind. A batarian grabbed its abdomen, keeling over. The Commander quickly examined his surroundings. Lying next to him was another batarian – or at least, its bottom half. Murky green blood was pooling beside it. In the pool were the contents of its belt – two silver discs with buttons on them. He grabbed a disc and looked back at Zaz. She made a throwing motion with her hand. He pressed the button, and tossed it over the wall.

"GRENADE!" came a cry from beyond. It was then drowned out by a short, thumping bang and further shouts. With the enemy in even more disarray, Zaz made a break for the wall, sliding through any returning fire to come up to the Commander's position. Maybe it was natural, maybe it was that injection from earlier, but Gorman's adrenaline was high enough to push around the wall.

A tall alien had the same idea from its own cover, but three shots from the Walther saw it tumble over itself in pain. The radar dish on his helmet's display was a sea of red. Despite the combat high, he still felt shiveringly cold. He cursed the temperature under his breath.

"Want to stay warm? Keep firing!" Zaz instructed, as steam sprung out of her own gun from overfire. She was now pointing at the similar gun on his back. He put the Walther down, reached for the Lancer, and it uncoiled itself like a telescope. He braced himself, and stole another look down the battlefield, but his heart skipped a beat when he saw what was coming.

"Big guys!" was all he could yell. The armored beasts had reemerged. A shotgun burst splattered a pillar behind them. Zaz braved a peek over the wall.

"Krogan! Fall back!" She broke into another run…this time back the way they came. Gorman picked up the Walther and fired off the last of its magazine to cover his escape back. It wasn't enough – one of the innumerable bullets flying through the base struck to the left of the Commander's waist, just above the hip.

He'd been shot before – it came with the job, or at least that's what he told anyone that asked. It was never a pleasant experience, much less anything that can be shrugged off. That's why it came as a surprise when he didn't really feel anything that intense. It hurt like hell at first, but it was replaced with the strange sensation of the armor releasing a sort of…goo at the impact site. His mind clicked, remembering the fabled medi-gel that repaired damage to the pilot's head back on Eden Prime. If this is what it felt like, he'd take it any day over going without it. To add to his fascination, upon physical inspection there was no blood. He chalked it up to the gel, but there was also the possibility that whatever superhot alternative to bullets his foes were using had not only created the wound, but immediately cauterized it.

"Commander? Gorman, are you alive down there?" White's voice, barely audible over the gunfire, broke through again.

"Alive and kicking!" Gorman shouted back. "Can you reach Kalu?"

"Bien sûr, Commander. He's doing laps around the base as we speak. I…think the turrets are firing on him."

"Take out those turrets, and tell him to get in here!"

"Consider it done, Commander. Good hunting."

After soothing his wound one more time, he refocused on the battle just in time to see a remarkably frightening sight. The 'krogan' was charging at him. He pulled up the Lancer and unloaded into it. Red and yellow liquids spilled out…but it kept coming. Then, it started flying. Gorman ducked and it soared overhead, momentum smashing it into the back wall. Zaz caught his eye, a blue glow emanating from her hands. Fast approaching her from the side, however, was the other one.

Gorman made to call out to her, pointing at the impending impact, but the ground itself started to shake. Zaz's balance gave way just in time, narrowly avoiding the charge. A dull boom had come from outside, followed by a smaller one much further away. A turret had met its own fiery end.

Gorman dragged himself up and bolted towards her, firing the Lancer at those unfortunate enough to have fallen themselves into his line of fire.

The wall they had been using before obviously wasn't built to handle a cacophony of sustained gunfire. It broke apart and fell unceremoniously to the floor. Gorman and Zaz, now both upright again, looked at each other.

"We've got to fall back outside!" Gorman directed.

"You got it, Commander. Cover me!"

Zaz stood out in the open momentarily, and began glowing a vibrant blue again. She made a motion like throwing an invisible javelin. Somewhere down the atrium, Gorman heard the sounds of bodies being thrown around and their armor clanking on every surface.

After a moment of pride in her handiwork, Zaz made a run for it. The Commander aimed down past his cover to see a bunch of batarians scrambling to pick themselves off the ground and hide behind their own. He held down the trigger on the Lancer, propelling a hailstorm of projectiles. The gauge on his HUD filled up with each shot. Seeing opportunity, he angled his rifle upward ever so slightly. A light fixture, once dangling precariously, cut loose and fell behind an overturned table with a crash and what he imagined were various batarian expletives. The gauge reached its maximum, and the rifle's burst cut. A puff of steam came from its sides and the gauge dropped back to normal. That was a good a sign as any that it was time to get out of there.

A dash to the base's new open-air entrance began, hopping over twisted metal, broken machinery, shattered pipework and batarian bodies. Another bellowing thud rattled everything around them – another turret down, hopefully. Now back out of harm's way, Gorman began to formulate something akin to a plan. That's when they noticed that they weren't alone outside. The krogan who'd barely missed with its first charge had plucked its humpback out of the snow and was not intent on missing its second one. It lined up the two frightened souls standing by the hole, and with a blood-curdling yell began to run.

It didn't get far before it was smacked aside by the flat hood of a large black and blue truck. With two deafening bangs, its twin mounted guns unleashed a volley straight into the monster, silencing it for good.

With no time for a reunion, Gorman and Zaz gave a wave and pointed out the interior of the base to the Bluntnose's tinted window. The guns twisted left and right, scanning for targets, before blasting a salvo inside. Any icicles still clinging on had definitely fallen now. The Commander gave its driver a thumbs-up.

Cautiously, the two on foot rounded the outer rim and back into the base's atrium. Weapons at the ready, they saw nothing but smoke and death where Kalu had let loose with the Bluntnose's arsenal.

Silently – despite his ears ringing – the Commander was counting bodies. Two krogans, one more wall than beast, one filled with two bowling-ball sized holes in the snow, accounted for. A few tall aliens that Gorman didn't recognize – and never could given how some of them looked now. A couple bodies were fully intact, yet their frozen heads gave away their gruesome fate. Batarian casualties were the most common, but all in all it still added up to ten. Give or take a few that may have been instantly vaporized by that first shot from the Shackleton, the remaining criminals must have had the same idea he and Zaz had. They fell back. There were two more doorways in this base. One was violently opened by the Bluntnose – the other slammed shut.