35 – The Sixth Day

It was a week, seven days to Virmire according to onboard computers – but Blanc did it in six. The perfect length, for many reasons. Too long a journey and the crew gets rowdy, restless. Too short a journey and they'd arrive woefully unready without any time to relax, and beset by overconfidence from the successes on Calypso. Commander Gorman himself needed time to put himself back in the right condition – physically and mentally sharp.

The first day was the least eventful.

It was a sort of decompression day now that everyone was nice and safe, not in a place where all that prevented your body being crushed were some freaky lime plants. The Phenomenon's interviewing spree continued, this time with ace pilot Pierre finally in the hotseat. Overhearing the embellished saga of the Siren of Lusia was entertainment enough, but Gorman took the day to do some more catching up on the last couple centuries.

Through a large number of paywalled sources and shady links, he was able to direct his omni-tool's browser to a website that looked almost untouched since the late 2000s. Naturally, it was an old US government site. He wasn't here to reminisce but to watch the highlights of a video that had been barely preserved, a congressional hearing that took place no more than a month after his departure from Earth. His former boss, Director Whyte, was testifying to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence about recent 'irregularities' in his department. It was easy to forget that when he wasn't moonlighting as head of Gorman's multinational force, Whyte was still a government official. Watching it was both a surreal experience, and, as the Director was eviscerated by Senators on gross misallocations of resources and taxpayer money, almost hilarious to see Whyte take the blows if it meant keeping the truth a secret. The fact that the public never found out about the events in orbit was something of a miracle, but aside from Whyte, the number of involved personnel was quite limited by design – part of the agency's plausible deniability, and a tremendous hassle logistically. A quick search after the video confirmed the logical conclusion – Whyte was unceremoniously fired within 48 hours and faded into obscurity.

While he had the omni-tool out, there was one other thing he could do while still in range of the extranet; something quick and harmless. In a matter of minutes he composed an email to be sent straight to the Human Embassy at the Citadel. In it, he introduced himself as a 'victim of extraordinary circumstance' and requested that his ship be granted authorization to head for Earth. He knew all too well that the email would likely rest for months at the bottom of some poor secretary's mountainous inbox…but he had nothing to lose by hitting send.

The second day on the road to Virmire served to answer some of the less important lingering questions in the backs of everybody's minds, not just the Commander's.

To begin with, an email arrived. Unfortunately not on Gorman's tool but Kalu's, a fact only noticed when the former security guard went to scrape all the Calypso sand from his company green armor. Through great lengths and a bit of luck, an message from Jenny Boxer was sent to Tara IV's missing tool in the hopes that it would reach Kalu. Elysium was beautiful this time of year, she wrote, and only through the Phenomenon did she hear that he was alive and well, as opposed to a piece of space debris somewhere in the Skyllian Verge. She had her doubts that following the 'slightly unhinged policeman' she'd had the pleasure of meeting at the depot was the right thing to do, but had faith that Kalu should be able to overpower Gorman and wrestle the ship to Elysium when things get dire.

Meanwhile, Gorman couldn't help but notice that the quarian crewmate was fixated on the contents of two crates in the cargo bay. Inside the foggy glass were the two bears, frozen in place. The last two pandas, if that friendly tourist on Polaris was to be believed. What he struggled to believe, however, was Sally telling him that quarians have no such animals. Not just a lack of pandas, no animals at all. Quarians are, she explained, much bigger fans of plant-based life, a necessity given their immune systems and, more importantly, a lack of space aboard ships. His stifled guilt for not strongarming some 'Calypsite' back for her was starting to haunt him again. To make up for it, he decided to look up some more dog photos for her – only to find that she had outdone him in that regard, showing him a whole gallery on her omni-tool of her new favorite breeds. She even made one her tool's wallpaper.

The third day was all about confrontation.

Put eight very different individuals in a submarine and you will very quickly find points of friction. That axiom worked well for humans alone, so throw in a few different species and things could easily spiral out of control.

It started when the asari finally caught the pilot in the act. He was up at the helm, swiveling away without a care, and, as he often did, he was smoking a cigarette. He never hid such a habit – but this was the first time T'Lore spotted him. Her long-awaited doomsday had arrived. What began was a rant audible throughout the ship – exacerbated by the fact Blanc was leaning on the ship's loudspeaker microphone – about the dangers of smoking. It could kill the Lieutenant, naturally, but the effects of smoke circulating through the Shackleton's outdated air filters may spell catastrophe for the crew as well. To smoke on the ship was harmful, selfish, irresponsible and, to her, incomprehensible.

Blanc's secret was up. He carefully explained that what he held in his hand was actually a fancy sort of electronic cigarette. The last authentic cigarette companies, at least human manufacturers, went out of business fifty years ago. What he buys are reproductions, containing barely a trace of nicotine yet meant to make you look just as cool as your grandparents did. The smoke still smelled bad, but in reality it was half as harmful as the real thing. T'Lore huffed, told him to quit fooling himself, and stomped out of the bridge. Gorman lauded her for at last saying what needed to be said. He also made the same mistake of believing him.

The confrontation of the day would not be limited to the bridge. The Commander wasn't sure what kicked off the debate, but Petronis was betting some serious credits that she could best Zaz in the prestigious sport of arm-wrestling – a classic turian pastime, apparently. Gorman immediately thought the idea idiotic. He knew what Zaz was capable of when she starts to glow. That's what made it all the more surprising when the contest began. Elbows down, hand and talon raised, clasped together…and pushing against each other hard enough to cancel each other out. A cobalt blue haze enveloped the human, and somehow the tie was still even. Then Zaz started to really shine. The turian's talon hit the table first, and she spent no time in declaring the need for a rematch.

The fourth day was off to a flying start. Gorman found himself in a good mood and hit the ground running.

He approached the mirror and saw that his crewcut was overgrown, and his facial hair was dangerously close to 'beard' territory. Borrowing Kalu's razor and – strangely – Blanc's comb, he sought to fix his shabby appearance. What left the Shackleton's restroom was a clean-shaven man with an improvised Ivy League trim, as close as he could get to the fellow on his agency ID card.

T'Lore did a double take when she next saw him. That got them chatting, one thing led to another, and he taught the asari how to do a quintessential human gesture: the 'high-five'. Spirits across the ship were just as high, and Gorman tried to capitalize on the moment. He remembered before Mavigon, when the younger half of the crew were huddled around one of the helm's screens. Could he replicate and improve upon that? There was only one choice in his mind for what to watch – any old 21st century television they could find. Gorman's omni-tool projected a holographic screen at one end of the crew quarters. The crew themselves were begrudgingly sitting wherever comfortable, the seats, the beds, the tables.

The cached catalogue to choose from, now with the extranet out of range, was pitifully small. It didn't help that when Gorman found something half-decent, it was immediately subject to a barrage of laughter and ridicule. 'What is he wearing?', 'This doesn't look a thing like Earth', or worst of all, 'Looks boring, Commander'. Fine, he huffed, he'd find something these uncultured future people might appreciate – a documentary. If they didn't like that, he could always order them to sit through hours of Senate hearings like he did.

They eventually settled on a strange choice, and it was a surprising success.

Gorman could barely hear the pseudoscience spouted by the man with wild hair on the screen over the raucous laughter of his crewmates. He hadn't expected that the non-humans aboard would especially find the History Channel's finest programming that hilarious, but even stoic Petronis cracked out some flanging chuckles. 'That was us!' became something of a catchphrase among them, as they found out they could now take credit for the Pyramids, Stonehenge, and most obviously Roswell. As the episodes dragged out, most of humanity's cultural and technological development could also be included. At some point along the way, Gorman's laugh-along smile began to fade as an uncomfortable notion appeared. They didn't actually think that he believed all that nonsense…right? To the non-humans' disappointment, he decided to call it an early night.

The fifth day was when the reality of what they might find at their destination started to sink in.

The turian naturally took the lead in getting the weapons stockpile ready. Every gun's frame had to be spotless, its bullet delivery system calibrated, its optical sights dialed to optimum range. Special care was taken towards the Phaeston, it looked like she'd have her claws on it when the time came. She was something of a perfectionist when it came to firearms – in a way, the polar opposite of old Gorman. The Commander once had a reputation for playing fast and loose with his issued equipment. Who could forget the one time his standard Glock fell down a drainpipe (and the Walther embarrassingly requisitioned), or, more recently, how he was the only agent who didn't complain when all they had at NASA were old M16s? He still had a nasty habit for improvising weapons wherever he could, but he'd grown much more protective of that particular rifle since losing the Walther.

Which is why, as he had Sally help him manufacture some more bullets for it, he was indignant when she asked if he wanted to make any modifications to the M16. If there was one thing he had the experience to back up, it was that the rifle had proven more than adequate against any unknown threat – human, alien, robot, insect – this new century had to offer. He had no need for fancy scopes, ergonomic grips or underbarrel shotguns. Even the 'concussive shot' of Phaeston fame that arguably saved his life more than once on the Siren of Lusia was deemed an excess to the M16's simplicity. Begrudgingly Sally accepted that no change must come to the rifle – but he hadn't mentioned anything about changing the ammunition. Gorman's stacks of magazines now included both regular rounds and special ones with green, red and blue tips. The green was corrosive, the red incendiary, and the blue…had to be seen to be believed.

Aboard a spaceship remained one of the worst places to test any sort of weapon, but Zaz, Kalu and T'Lore were trying their best to teach the last defenseless crewmate a thing or two about combat. Don Bodewell took a break from his Phenomenon post to get as acquainted with the ins and outs of the Lancer rifle as he could without actually firing it. That meant the only one on the ship not busying themselves with the tools of war was the pilot. Blanc was curiously silent that day, and even more fidgety with the ship's controls than usual. Either the last leap through the last mass relay was something he really wanted to nail, or he was worried about who might show up at the helm the moment he took out a cigarette.

The sixth day quickly made the preparation of the previous five feel completely inadequate.

It started quietly.

"Too quiet," Blanc shook his head, swirling his finger at several of his holographic screens. He shifted them to a side with a swipe of his hand. Out beyond the ship's bow, a pale green dot stood out from the rest…and slowly grew larger. Virmire.

"Nobody's home?" Commander Gorman, standing at the helm's side, folded his arms. He glanced around the bridge – a full complement of crew stood equally at unease.

"No heat signatures between us and the planet," Blanc explained, "Geth ships radiate barely any. Means one of two things – we're alone out here or we're definitely, definitely not. I don't like either scenario."

"Tell me about it," Gorman sighed, "Too early to start scanning the planet?"

"I'll get on it," Kalu clambered into the adjacent seat, cranking the digital knobs to bring the scanner online.

"Why can't we ever go somewhere that's not a total unknown?" groaned Zaz. "Just once I'd like to know what we're getting ourselves into, is that too much to ask?"

No arguments there from the crew.

The dot approached. Closer and closer, until minute details emerged. Deep blue oceans, rugged archipelagos, wispy layers of clouds. It was as close to Earth as Gorman wanted, but something was off. The blue was too vivid, the archipelagos too small, the clouds sparse yet in tight spirals – cyclones? He was glad not to be on scanning duty, Kalu had the unenviable task of scouring every inch of an entire planet for anomalies. There was no use looking for any more heat signatures, Virmire itself was masking any warmth with its own tropical temperatures.

"We've got a hit!" was the therefore surprising cry from the scanner's operator. "Radio waves, faint but there, at these coordinates."

All eyes glanced to the upper monitor. An unintelligible sequence of characters was underneath a pulsating dot on a globe projection. Waves bobbed up and down a line just below.

"It's too faint, I can't tell if they're geth frequencies," apologized Sally.

"Could be Alliance?" theorized the pilot. "In this part of the galaxy, I doubt it."

"Coordinates look promising," determined Kalu. "Dayside, as dry as it gets."

"Remember – we're only here to scope this place out," Gorman reminded the crew, "This planet was on that geth recording. I want us to find out why." He cleared his throat and gave the order. "Take us in, Lieutenant."

The Shackleton kicked up a gear and the planet drew nearer.

As gracefully as possible, the ship careened into its atmosphere at ridiculous speed, kicking up clouds and flames. For a moment, an art show of beautiful fiery colors screamed past the front viewport. The motion dampeners could only handle so much, and the Shackleton and everyone in it shook side to side. Hopefully the discharge rod would hold out.

After a wash of fire, the ship faced an idyllic sight. Prime beachfront property if Gorman ever saw it. Shimmering oceans, sand bars, deep pools, reeds of grass and high crags. It looked a bit like photos his sister showed him of her trip to Bali. If the view from orbit was anything to go by, the whole surface of Virmire was like this. Something therefore had to be preventing the massive influx of tourists he would expect to see…and he was probably about to find out.

Dark clouds gathered on the horizon. Gorman's eyes squinted – then widened. It was no storm. It was smoke.

"Merde!" exclaimed Blanc, pushing one of his handles down with sudden expediency. The ship took a nosedive, sending the crew stumbling over themselves. With a heave, he pulled the ship upright again at a lower altitude.

"What? What is it?" Gorman rapidly tried to assess the situation. Out the window, down by the shores, were the smoking remains of some sizeable…vehicles? Any lights had long been silenced, but the off-white, almost lilac color and sandy metal shine gave him an indication as to who they belonged to.

"Up ahead," Blanc pointed straight with his free hand, "Turrets. Defense systems. All of them look disabled, thankfully."

Sure enough, the calm crags and swaying greenery were starting to be joined by bulky, hardened metal infrastructure. Watchtowers, walkways, gates – all tall and all leading to the next piece, indicating a route. The fried, sparking remains of individual geth troopers could even be picked out at this height. There were clearly the signs of battle; the watchtowers had scorch marks, the walkways were carved inwards in some areas from a well-placed cannon shot, every gate was blasted open or manually parted, and all that remained of the defense platforms the pilot had picked out were cinders.

To the amazement of the crew, it kept going. Gate upon gate, checkpoint upon checkpoint of fallen geth and their ruined defenses. Whatever lay beyond, the robots had given a lot to stop anyone from reaching it – and stunningly, it was looking like someone had done just that. With each passing area of debris, Gorman imagined what hellish fighting his team would have endured to get past just one such gate.

"There, in the distance!" Bodewell saw something on the horizon. "A tower!"

Gorman agreed, it was definitely a tower, albeit a very odd one. Firstly, it had a significantly darker metal tone than the rest of the complex, and it was taller. Much, much taller – even at this distance, it must have stretched at least a mile into the sky. The top half, the only half visible, had a pointy, arrowhead shape with a narrow strip carved out down the middle. A network of intricate patterns glowed a dim violet on either side, supported by a thin midsection. As even more of the structure rose over the horizon, pillars like the struts of a tripod could be seen, although they were strangely curved inward, as if they were massive tusks. There was an additional set of lower buildings at its foundation that sprawled out substantially. Could it be the geth base of operations? Would they find the voices on the recording there? Maybe an intact prothean beacon, if he was lucky?

"It's no tower. I…I think it's a ship," T'Lore's voice was almost reduced to a whisper.

Gorman's assumption was broken – and his mind made a startling connection.

"The geth flagship. Almost forget about it. What Powell said he saw on Eden Prime, and what the colonists on Feros mentioned as well."

He expected to see his crew recalling the facts and nodding along with him. Instead they were dumbstruck and mostly silent.

"That is not a geth ship, Commander," Sally stated with an intense sincerity.

Gorman's second assumption was broken. He went to look at the scanner's monitors for anything to go by. It was still set to planetary scan, fantastic if he wanted to see the planet's soil composition but not quite what was needed.

"What's it doing?" gasped Zaz. Kalu leapt out of the scanner seat to get a better look, allowing Gorman to bend down and tap away at the controls.

Suddenly the monitors switched off.

Every single florescent light and holographic screen on the bridge went out.

That included the front viewport. Now was not an ideal time to learn that it too was merely a projection.

The Shackleton's bridge was engulfed in pure darkness – and then red.

The displays at the helm and on Gorman's monitors showed a blood red outline of the massive ship. Tall, imposing, tentacled.

The Commander's blood froze.

He'd seen this type of ship only once before…in his nightmares. The beacon's visions.

The crew were stunned into total silence. Gorman glanced to the only one of them who might understand. T'Lore looked purple in this light…and also terrified.

The ship hovered on every screen. Gorman was feeling a whole host of emotions – fear, dread, surprise – but strangest of all was the feeling that this hunk of metal was somehow judging him.

And then a transmission came through every speaker.

"YOUR FATE IS IRRELEVANT."

This was no tower, this was no geth vessel, this was no mere ship at all – this was something else, and it had just spoken to him in a tremendously deep, booming, monotonous tone.

This was the moment he'd been waiting for ever since he was first dragged into this mess by the first infernal beacon.

He had to respond.

"Hey!" Gorman shouted at his tormentor the first words to come to mind. "Why don't you go fu-"

A deafening, earsplitting zapping sound tore through the bridge, like an entire brass section blasting their digital horns all at once.

The red lights vanished, and darkness took its place again.

Somewhere in the blackness, Blanc was frantically looking for the right switch. Once he found it, the front viewport crackled back into life, bathing the deck in false natural light. The view outside was of the surface. It was fast approaching.

"Complete systems failure!" the Lieutenant yelled. He pulled for dear life on his controls. Luckily there still seemed to be enough power to prevent everyone falling onto the ceiling. "The whole damn ship needs to reboot!"

"Abandon ship?" Petronis was next to snap back to reality.

"Never!" was Blanc's reply, "Just hold on to something!"

"The Bluntnose!" Kalu's idea came in the nick of time. Where better to withstand a crash than inside a tank? "Let's move!"

That was enough to snap the rest of the crew back into action. Gorman followed the crowd sprinting out of the bridge, before giving another look back to Blanc.

The Lieutenant did as much as he could from the helm, but he was still surprised to feel the Commander's hands trying to drag him away from the console.

"Alright, I'm going, I'm going!" he relented, futilely flicking on autopilot, and the last two out the door descended at rapid pace down the stairs and bolted through the cargo bay.

Gorman dove into the Bluntnose and its bay door slammed shut behind him. There was no more personal space left – he was lying face-down on rows of his crewmates' knees – but all anyone could do now was wait and pray. He closed his eyes.

What happened next were some of the most stressful seconds of his life – and that said something considering everything he'd been through. What followed was a shaking, rattling and rolling in the crammed interior of the truck that lasted only a few more seconds. He felt every vibration, and bumped into everyone and everything inside, but overall it was not nearly as severe as he'd expected.

The bay doors and Gorman's eyes opened. He flipped over onto his back, ignoring the moans and groans of the dizzy crew to try and shimmy himself outside. The ball of energy that was the engine was still glowing, a good first sign. His boots hit the cargo bay's floor, he picked himself up, dusted himself off, and turned around. The Bluntnose was upside down, wheels in the air – but both it and the cargo bay were intact. The lights were dim…but they were still working.

One by one the others clambered out and regained their bearings. Blanc, once again, was first back to business, racing up the stairs to gauge the damage on the upper level. Saal'Inor made the engine her priority. Otherwise, everyone needed to catch their breath. A quick headcount, just to be sure, turned up positive.

All crewmates accounted for, time to give orders…and try desperately to ignore the magnitude of what just happened up there. Easier said than done.

"We're screwed!" Bodewell wailed, running up to the Commander, grabbing him by the shoulders and rocking him back and forth. "The ship's dead in the water, the geth are around the corner, a scary red monster the size of a mountain just roasted us, we're beyond screwed! What are we going to do? It's the end of the line, man, the end of the freakin' line!"

"Get a hold of yourself, Don," Gorman tried to be diplomatic while giving a 'help me' look to the nearby turian. "We're still alive. We'll get out of this mess."

The bodyguard was able to drag the wild-eyed vidcaster away from the Commander, still muttering inane things to himself. Gorman brushed his shoulders off and saw the distressed looks all around. The mission parameters had in record time been completely upended, from an investigation to an evacuation. He had to start back at square one.

"Can we get the truck back on its wheels?" he asked them. He looked in particular towards T'Lore and Zaz. "Biotically, perhaps?"

"Maybe in…a few…minutes," replied Zaz between heavy breaths. T'Lore looked equally strained. He put two and two together. They must have been part of the reason that the Bluntnose's landing was relatively soft. Biotics continue to impress, he thought.

Kalu, Bodewell and Petronis looked at each other, then gave it their own go, starting to push against one of the truck's sides.

Gorman turned towards the engine.

"How's it look, Sally?"

"Better than I'd hoped, captain!" she piped without looking up from her open omni-tool. "We're operating at about sixty percent. Assuming the electrics upstairs are still in working order, I can get that back up to ninety in no time!" Only Sally could make a complete failure of a third of the ship's systems sound trivial.

"I'll get that checked out for you," Gorman found his own task, and began trekking up the stairs.

He didn't chance a look at the catastrophic mess that was likely the crew quarters, but inside the bridge the situation was manageable. Some loose cables dangled from the ceiling, some computer interfaces were sparking, but at the helm, screens were up, information was flooding in, and the helmsman was busy at work. He tried swiveling his chair around once he heard the Commander approach, but it only went halfway before grinding against an exposed floor panel.

"Good news and bad news, Commander," Blanc sighed.

"Hit me."

"We might get airborne again," he began, gesturing to a dozen different status readings, "Hull's dented but not breached. Life support is barely operational, electrics running on emergency reserves. And as you can see…" He flicked on a switch and three-fifths of the viewport fizzled into bright clarity. "…we're not at the bottom of the ocean, which is always nice. We're a hop, skip and jump away from that geth base we saw earlier."

"What about the big ship? The one that…spoke to us."

"Gone," Blanc snapped his fingers, "Just like that. As if it was never there. A ship that size shouldn't be able to pull a maneuver like that, it's impossible…but, unsurprisingly, that's exactly what happened."

"And what's the good news?" Gorman winced. It certainly didn't feel like a hallucination.

"Commander…" the Lieutenant sighed again. That was the good news. "What little scanning capability we have left shows two things in the direction of that base. Radio signals…and spikes of radiation. Both are increasing in intensity."

"Meaning?"

"I can only hope it doesn't mean the geth are planning to nuke this place to high heaven. My best guess says they're now aware that we're sitting ducks. They've got to be preparing some sort of attack – if whoever busted down all those checkpoints isn't keeping them busy. Not a chance I want to take."

"What do you recommend?"

"The Shackleton is our best and only way out of here – provided we get everything back online. We just have to hold off whatever is coming our way while we make the repairs, and then get the hell off this planet before that ship returns, or worse."

Gorman disagreed on principle. Someone, or something, was destroying all that geth infrastructure, and by the sound of it, they were laying siege to the base itself. An old saying is that the enemy of an enemy is a friend, and a friend is something they could definitely need if the repairs aren't enough. Another old saying came to mind.

The best defense…