27 – Inter-Species Chit-Chat

"…which, in turn, manipulates the mass effect field surrounding the ship. As humans should know, due to the inverse square law, the more mass that must be fluctuated, the more element zero is required – which, in turn, leads to an increased demand for electrical current provided by the ship. Assuming, of course, that the element zero is utilized at the best possible efficiency. Older models of asari ships…and this human vessel, I suspect…have very inefficient drive cores, only able to generate miniscule amounts of dark energy. As for the asari ships, it used to be common practice to have manually powered energy harnessing procedures. Do you know why?

"…Sure…it's clearly…uh…"

Gorman was being involuntarily returned to his college days. There must have been some sort of mistake – he wanted to get a bachelor's degree in communications, not the PhD in post-theoretical hyperphysics he was now being lectured in. He didn't regret dropping out of Boston College back then, and so he would have been happy to retreat from the so-called "fundamentals of modern knowledge" if not for the fact that his new blue professor was dead-set on making him pay attention.

"Pay attention, Commander," T'Lore pleaded. "It's because all asari, including myself, are natural biotics. We could use our biological element zero nodules to draw dark energy from ship drive cores. However, with the advent of modern technology this was proven redundant. This brings me on to my next point…"

Gorman's attention returned, not because of the intricacies of biotics being finally explained, but because she had finally revealed something about herself. He didn't travel all this way and forward all those years just to learn math facts – he was talking to someone from a different sentient species and wanted to know more about her.

"You're a biotic?" he attempted to pry further.

"Yes."

They could have been playing poker on the ship again and her demeanor wouldn't need to change.

"What did you say you do for a living?"

Her hairless brow furrowed.

"Irrelevant, Commander," a hand went up and brushed her scalp back. Gorman had to try again, adopting his trademark interrogative stance. Back straight, head towering, glare sharp enough to pierce. It worked on Powell and Dave, Zaz, and (almost) Jeong, so it was his best bet to get anything out of her.

"How do you know about all these things?" he began, recounting the day's session. "Faster-than-light travel, element zero, dark energy, biotics…"

"Most of it is common knowledge," she replied, her tone close to chastising, "But I've had time to learn the advanced details. Time was a luxury we no longer have, which is why I must teach you these things now, and fast."

Gorman gave her a closer look.

She radiated superiority – her posture, the angle of her head, the clasped hands on the table – but perhaps not intentionally. Her face was stubbornly pouting, but there was some sort of sublime quality, a terrible beauty to her that had the Commander in a bind. Not a scratch, not a wrinkle, not any asymmetry of a kind.

"How old are you?" he probed.

This time, his determination won out. She gave a direct answer.

"In Earth years? A hundred and ninety-three." She caressed her scalp again.

"A hundred…and ninety-three," Gorman had to repeat, causing her to nod. "Well, how about that?"

"I understand that a time scale like that is hard for a human to grasp," she added, a little exasperated. This was evidently a rehearsed response, and one that Gorman was beginning to get sick of. With every science fact he'd heard, there was always a 'humans don't get' or 'humans have yet to master'. This time, however…

"Nah, I've got it," Gorman leaned back with a smirk. "I'm two hundred and one."

"You are?" she blurted, leaning closer for once. Her impeccably graceful stance was at last broken. "But the memories I saw, they felt so recent!"

"That's hardly relevant now, isn't it?" Gorman completed his flipping of the conversation. T'Lore didn't have a quick retort, instead finding one after one glorious moment.

"Impossible. Humans don't live that long."

"If you tried talking to my crew, you'd know I'm right."

"I tried! They don't care about the truth!" She raised her voice and flung her arms up in frustration. "Don't they realize that the end of days is soon upon us?"

"Then stop bringing up the apocalypse," Gorman laughed.

"Gah!" the asari rose from her seat, shooting the Commander a final look with those dazzling eyes before storming out of the crew quarters. Gorman relaxed the tension in his shoulders. He needed a break.

Barely a minute passed before there was a knock at the entrance to the quarters. This was not a simple knock on the metal door, but rather the cling-clang of someone trying to maneuver a lumbering suit of armor through the suddenly narrow doorframe. The creature that entered had black paint on their external skull and a quizzical look in their feline eyes. That look stemmed from several places; she had just seen an angry asari whizz by towards the bridge, and now that she was finally in the next room, the turian was greeted with the sight of a human at a table, fumbling around with a strange box-shaped machine. Commander Gorman was having some difficulty unpacking and stacking components for a contraption with several entry ports and a vertical nozzle. Some sort of weapon? He was all alone – was this object something he was trying to hide? Jocasta knew better than to ask questions she wasn't being paid to know the answer to. He'd have to have been deaf not to hear the commotion at the door, so the turian's presence was known in the same way that Gorman's presence was required.

"Commander?" she started, standing as dignified as she could. Gorman glanced up from his little project. "Bodewell wishes to speak with you. He wants your input on his…em…outfit for your upcoming episode."

"He can wait," Gorman curtly replied. One of the turian's mandibles fluttered from side to side, and she slowly started backpedaling. The Commander seemed busy, she reckoned. Then, he proudly placed his assembled contraption on the table, putting a kind of holder within it and flicking on a switch. It whirred into life with discreet grinding noises. He turned his head towards her again and gestured to the open chair. "C'mon Petronis, sit down, please."

How strange was it that he was just talking to someone that could pass for human with only some paint and a hat, but right now he much preferred to speak with the heavily-armored seven foot tall bird lady instead. As the turian straddled into the chair like a jockey would mount a horse, a ding came from one of his last-minute Polaris Station purchases. He took the mug and examined its new contents, before sliding it across the table.

"Coffee?" he asked.

Petronis leaned closer and stared into the brown liquid.

"Yes, I think it is."

Gorman barely heard her, he was busy concentrating on repeating every complicated step to get another one for himself. And to think, the VI in the store reassured him that it was the simplest model they had, the Binary Helix EasyBrew 9000. After another moment of whirring and whining, it spat out some more blend into a new mug. He grabbed it, blew off the steam, and gave it a sip. Bitter. Scalding. Perfect.

"So, you're a bodyguard, eh?" Gorman continued. "Does it pay the bills, or is it something you do for fun?"

The turian cautiously tried to replicate what the Commander had done, putting the mug up to the slit between her mandibles and, to Gorman's surprise, downing the whole thing in one gulp.

"Warm," she said with a nod, before answering Gorman's question. "Been babysitting Don for about six months now. For all the anti-turian talk he does on his little show, I'm very well compensated."

The Commander raised an eyebrow and took another sip.

"If he doesn't like your species, why even have you around?"

Gorman's answer was staring him in the face. In fact, he could almost see his face in it. She tapped a talon on her armor.

"You know turians, Commander. We're big, we're mean, we know our way around a fight. If you want a bodyguard, its either us or a krogan…which is a liability at best and a death sentence at worst."

"I agree," Gorman conceded. He wasn't going to forget the sight of a krogan charging straight at him back on Mavigon anytime soon. "Have you seen the size of those things?"

"You've fought one?"

"Two."

The turian blinked. Even through the literal stoneface he could tell she was visibly impressed…but Gorman made the mistake of staring too long.

"Something wrong, Commander?"

"You're the first turian I've met properly."

"And the first you've met improperly?" Petronis leaned just that bit closer, sending the word 'danger' through every nerve in his system. Up close, she certainly looked big, mean and knowledgeable about fights. Those talons of hers suddenly looked very sharp. He therefore needed to talk to her in a language she may understand.

"It was me or him. Shot the bastard."

"Hmph," the turian grunted – with the flanging, a noise like hitting two notes on the low end of a synthesizer – and slumped back in their chair. "Not the human thing to say."

"Oh?" Gorman was intrigued, not to mention relieved that his head was still attached to his neck.

"You humans are always apologetic, even when you have the upper hand. 'Sorry, didn't mean to' you'd say, shaking my hand with one arm and holding a knife behind my back with the other. 'Sorry it had to come to this' you'd say before putting a bullet in my head. 'Opportunistic to a fault."

"Can't argue there," Gorman admitted.

"I'm your first turian?" Petronis reestablished, "Well, let me be the first to tell you that our species could learn a thing or two."

This was exactly what the Commander wanted to hear. No need for awkward, bumbling 'tell me about your people' inter-species chit-chat. Unlike the blue one, this alien was happy to give him an insight into just how an extraterrestrial society works.

"The Hierarchy makes things very clear," she continued. "Everyone has a place. Every place has its role. Civic duty is the most important thing a turian needs to understand, and to some administrations we've had – the only thing."

"The Hierarchy?" Gorman repeated. "Your government?"

"Turians are the Hierarchy, Commander. Service is mandatory. Some go and fight on the front lines, some stay home to care for the veterans from those front lines. It's a cycle with a thousand years of practice. We made it work."

"So, you're…what, a dictatorship?"

"Turians and democracy don't mix. We like our order, but we're no dictatorship. Merit determines society. The best leaders lead, the best followers follow. Anyone who thinks otherwise is either a barefaced traitor or a casualty of the Unification War."

Gorman's fear receptors started to sting again. Why couldn't First Contact have been with a race of hippy aliens preaching friendship and love? There was one thing that didn't add up, however…

"So how does humanity fit into all this?"

"Humans are individualistic. That means you can be rash, headstrong, take unthinkable risks…and frighteningly be celebrated for it by the rest of your species. Your cult of the individual lets dissenting views run wild – and yet you defied all turian logic and united into your Alliance. We're still bitter over the Relay 314 Incident, but even the other Council races are running around scared at how humans have developed so much in such a short amount of time. You're unpredictable."

"…Thanks, I guess?"

"That's my point. Being unpredictable gives you an advantage. A serious problem for turians trying to plan against the Alliance Navy during the Incident was that you do not read your manuals, nor do you feel any obligation to follow your doctrine. The turian navy is the best in the galaxy, and you still caught us with our feathers down for a moment. Initiative is a skill you can't teach, and something turians claim they don't need."

"But you know better?" Gorman wanted to dig a bit more into the personal. For all the valuable information about the species, he got the feeling that she was treating herself like an outlier.

"My mandatory service was in the military police," she divulged. "I didn't like it – I loved it. That sense of purpose that every turian kid is promised growing up – I found it. So when it finally came to an end and I was to be transferred – I couldn't take it. For all the turian meritocracy that made us the pillar of galactic security, they couldn't realize that I was happy where I was. But then something happened that changed my mind. I got…scouted."

"Sounds familiar," Gorman couldn't help but smile. He took another sip. "You ever hear of a city on Earth called Boston?"

Something close to an hour passed, yet it felt a quarter of that length to the Commander.

For an alien, Petronis was proving herself a real conversationalist. Whereas Gorman pushed himself to take an interrogation-level interest in everybody he had to speak to recently, he'd yet to meet anyone willing to ask about him like her. They talked personal, philosophical, and lastly, political. She was keenly reciprocating every question with one of her own. Gorman learned about an epic struggle called the Krogan Rebellion, and Petronis learned about the Declaration of Independence.

According to her, a mistake of titanic proportions was committed about two millennia ago. The hulking brutes called krogan were once saviors of the galaxy, having been granted advanced technology to defeat some vaguely-defined threat eons before. The folly of the Council (which notably excluded turians at the time) was to assume such a deed came from a place of pure nobility. The krogan's refusal, or inability, to cooperate in good faith with their fellow races – a telltale sign of their inherent savagery, the turian claimed – led to full-blown war. Galactic peace was once again at risk, and answering the call of duty were new saviors: the Hierarchy. Turians turned the tide. The thwarted monsters were graciously allowed to keep their hellish homeworld, but to prevent such a calamity ever again, their once-rapid birth rate was tamed by a synthetic solution, something Petronis skimmed over. All Gorman could remember was that it began with a G. And that's what it took to get the turians a seat on the Council, precisely why humanity's dream to follow seems doomed from the start.

Gorman was more or less forced to recount his own comparatively miniscule triumphs against overwhelming odds. The agency that recruited him all those years ago operated by definition in a similar manner – prevent threats to global peace. That got him talking about international law and how to uphold it, and in turn, the origins of the rights of man. All this knowledge, heard for the first time by the turian, was being told by a man who truthfully was going off of late night documentaries and high school history classes. Naturally, the omni-tool bailed him out. If you had told high schooler Gorman that one day he would be reading 'We hold these truths to be self-evident…' to a being from another planet, he may not have believed you.

The improvised cultural exchange session was interrupted at long last, but not by a disappointed Don Bodewell as expected. A crackle came through the ship's loudspeaker, followed by the voice of the Shackleton's helmsman.

"Commander Gorman to the bridge," Blanc announced. He sounded decidedly alert.

"Tell him to hurry up," came another, more distant voice through the speaker. Gorman recognized it as T'Lore's.

"Euh…get up here soon, Commander," Blanc added.

Gorman finished the rest of his coffee, made tepid by an active discussion. He rose from his chair.

"You'd better tag along," he said to the turian.

"Tag a long what?"

"Follow me," he corrected. Petronis dismounted their seat and tailed the Commander out of the crew quarters, through the conjoining shaft, and into the bridge.

Blanc swiveled around in his favorite recliner and immediately went through two opposite emotions. Happy to see Gorman, angry to see who he brought with him. The asari was standing with their arms folded next to the pilot. Even with the Commander's entrance, not to mention the noise of the turian's clunky two-toed boots, her attention was completely focused out the front viewport.

Gorman stepped forth to get himself a better look. Out of all the sparkles in the vast dark, there was one front and center that was steadily growing. It had to be the asari ship.

"Have you let them know we're here?" the Commander asked.

"Yes and no," sighed Blanc. "We've just heard from T'Lore's contact. Name's Tara, if you can believe it. What a coincidence, eh?" The pilot gave a laugh, but it was forced. There was a stress he was trying to relieve.

"You talked to them?" Gorman made sure he heard right. "That's good news. What did this Tara have to say?"

"She said she had no recollection of ever agreeing to meet us," T'Lore spoke up, still gazing starward. "I made our mission clear when I called at Polaris, but now she acted like we never had a plan, and cut communications."

The Shackleton was still advancing towards the science vessel. An orange star and white craft lingered in the distance. Gorman was happy to see that nobody here was giving up that easily.

"Can you reopen a line to the ship?"

Gorman had to hear for himself. He walked to the helm's controls, and leaned towards the microphone he'd used before. The Lieutenant flicked a couple switches and twisted a couple dials. The helm speakers were at once a low static. With a thumbs up from the pilot, Gorman was live.

"Hello? This is Commander Gorman, SSV Shackleton."

Silence.

Gorman cleared his throat and continued.

"Tara? It's a pleasure. We're on approach to meet and hand over our recording, just as planned. Your ship, the…uh…"

"The Siren of Lusia" whispered the asari next to him.

"The Spirit of St. Louis," Gorman misheard and transmit. "Is it ready, or do you need more time?"

Silence again…

…and then suddenly a voice broke through. A woman's voice with a flat, calm pitch.

"Good to hear you, Commander. Unfortunately, I do not remember any such plan. While I would normally be happy to meet you, this ship is on a top-priority mission and cannot stop under any circumstances."

"That's odd," Gorman quickly responded before she could terminate the connection again, "Because our mutual…acquaintance, Witta T'Lore, spoke highly of you. She said you were dependable. She said you agreed to help us. You don't want to go back on your word, do you?"

Another pause. Gorman half expected her to hang up again. Had he been too aggressive?

"Of course not, Commander, it's just that I have no recollection of having ever discussed a 'plan' with our mutual acquaintance." T'Lore's attention finally shifted away from the window. Tara kept speaking. "Surely you understand, Commander, that we are on strict orders from the matriarchs of the Republics' scientific committees to conduct our operations in this sector – without interference. Have a safe journey home, Shackleton. Go with the Goddess."

The communications cut out.

"She knows me, Gorman," T'Lore insisted, turning to face the Commander. Her face had anxiety written all over it, more than usual. "This doesn't make sense. Something is wrong."

"Could be a fancy VI pretending to be her," Blanc shrugged. "Remember when I told you about my time on the MSV Burnley? That was exactly what the pirates on that station did to try and keep us away."

"Nonsense," T'Lore vigorously shook her head. "That was her voice."

"How is this even a debate?" came another opinion from behind – Petronis finally weighing in. "We go for an intercept. Sudden memory loss or not, Tara's going to help us when we're knocking on the airlock."

"And risk an interstellar incident?" T'Lore suddenly raised the stakes. "An Alliance ship tries forcedly board an asari government craft? Humanity already has a reputation for erratic, immature behavior, there has to be a way to proceed without such escalation! Think of the consequences!"

"An interstellar incident? Not a bad way to reach the Council," Blanc smirked and gave Gorman a nod.

"Absolutely not," the asari pointed a scolding finger at the pilot. "I don't know why Tara's changed her mind, but there are other avenues that hold just as much promise. If we set course for Noveria, we can still try to -"

"You're kidding, right?" the turian interrupted with such force that it almost made T'Lore's scalp droop. Petronis glanced to Gorman. "Commander, you seem like a man who can't stand having his time wasted. We need to get that recording to the Council, and on that ship is the only asari who can, and already agreed to, do that for us. So are we going to give up, or are you going to show us some of that human initiative?"

This time, Gorman was the one who was silent for a moment.

Both sides raised valid points. The lady on the other end of the speaker seemed genuine enough to be truthful, and as a result T'Lore's credibility was starting to strain – especially given her sudden hesitation after constantly shaking the doomsday clock since her arrival onboard. As with Gorman himself, for all the evangelizing he did earlier about upholding the rule of law, the alternative to backing off would be to risk an incident on a scale bigger than anything he'd ever been trained to prevent, much less incite.

There was no need to have another coffee and mull it over, nor a need to complicate it further by asking the rest of the crew for their theoretically valuable input. He was the Commander, and as he sat down in the captain's chair, he gave his command.

"Lieutenant, set an intercept course."

The asari always looked distressed, but it got worse enough to quieten her. An aura of pure smugness enveloped the turian as she arrived to Gorman's side. The pilot got to work, letting the ship loose from a drift to a sprint.

"Shall I raise the Jolly Roger, Commander?" he called out over cranking up the auditory emulators for that extra oomph.

"No need," Gorman considered, then dismissed. He had the iron hand of the Shackleton's main gun, but now he had to unveil the velvet glove. "Open communications again."

"Patching you through in five…" Blanc giddily reeled a dial.

"Remember; We're in control here," Petronis reminded.

Five seconds passed. Gorman pressed his seat's own mic on and spoke again.

"Tara, this is Commander Gorman. While I respect the nature of your mission, I'm afraid that if our evidence doesn't reach the Council, the consequences could be dire…your government would even agree."

"Pardon me, Commander," Tara's reply came quicker than expected, "But I have no recollection of any 'evidence' you may possess. Please do not approach our vessel, or we may be forced to retaliate."

"Retaliate?" T'Lore blurted.

"With what weapons? It's a research vessel," Petronis scoffed.

"I will explain more on your ship, Tara," Gorman planted his proverbial feet, "See you soon."

This time he was the one to cut communications, with a tap of a button by his armrest. Weapons notwithstanding, the Shackleton was able to go toe to toe with the Siren of Lusia's thrusters too. They had caught up enough to catch a closer look. Gorman had to stand up again.

The asari vessel was defying whatever view the Commander held of what a 'ship' should look like. Instead of being long, it was tall, with thin cathedral spire spikes on either side of a central ring. It was big, too. The Shackleton could probably squeeze into the gap in the middle of the ring like a futuristic stunt driver. Energetic blue fumes sparked from the spires, and lit up the ring's hoop like a halo – propulsion, probably. It all combined to give the ship a fuzzy haze.

All eyes were on the ship. Data in multitudes were appearing on the helm's screens. Blanc took a moment to try and make sense of any of it.

"Velocity and vector matched, lots of life signs aboard, readings all over the place..." Before the Commander could plot the next move, something else popped up. "We're being hailed."

"Patch her through," Gorman sat back down.

"Commander, I've tried to be reasonable with you," came the voice of Tara. Despite the subject, there was no evident frustration in her voice – just as calm and composed as last time. "I must warn you that this is an official scientific expedition of the Asari Republics. Any provocative actions you take will -"

"Picking up another signal, Commander," Blanc suddenly interjected. All heads were raised. "Lower frequency, weaker range, still coming from the same ship."

"Switch it, Lieutenant," Gorman ordered.

Tara's broadcast was dropped, and in its place was a new transmission with ten times the static.

"…who you are…Siren of…armed…ship…human…."

No amount of background noise could mask that whoever this new woman was, she was afraid.

"Tara?" T'Lore gasped.

"This is Commander Gorman," Gorman reintroduced, "Are you in danger?"

In spite of the pilot's best efforts, the signal was only getting weaker. Through the auditory fog, a single word managed to break through.

"…Witta…"

The asari turned an icy color.

"Signal lost, Commander," Blanc's voice uncharacteristically trembled. "Merde," he whispered, "One life sign on the ship just went dark."

Gorman jolted back on his feet.

"Pirates, Lieutenant?"

"I only see one ship, Commander," Blanc was frantically readjusting the ship's scanners and sensors.

"Find us a way in, Lieutenant," Gorman directed. "Petronis, get the rest of the crew and get them geared up."

"On it," the turian stomped out of the bridge with purpose. Gorman stayed put, wanting to help the pilot pick out their route in. It was then when he realized T'Lore was still frozen in place.

"Witta," he called out. Her eyes darted to him. "I need you. Can you fight?"

She took a deep breath.

"Always."