33 - Frontier Theory
Gorman stood up straight, popping his head over the palisade.
The sky was darkening, and not just from the downpour. Whatever passes for night was coming, and soon. At the far end of the crater-filled expanse, a black and blue truck burst forth from a wall of lime stalks, causing them to bend and stretch but not break. The Bluntnose bounded forward, dipping and jumping across a burrow and veering around a group of particularly agitated bugs. The twin guns blasted a salvo, missing any target but creating a large expulsion of white sand, not to mention a new deep obstacle in its way. The bugs screamed with indignation, and the horde started galloping on their stumpy legs in pursuit and firing acidic salvos in its direction. One could only imagine the commotion inside the truck – all Gorman could hear through his subdermal earpiece was intermittent, unintelligible noise.
"Friends of yours?" Barclay yelled over the punchier gunshots and feral screeches from the battlefield. The rifle volley from the barricade conversely started to die down as the colonists noticed the surprising arrival.
Gorman pressed his fingers to his ear again and opened his mouth, but the crewmates spoke faster.
"Help us out here, Commander!" pleaded Kalu.
"Keep shooting, Jocasta!" exclaimed Saal'Inor.
Another shot from the guns, this time rotated to the Bluntnose's rear, did little but kick up a heap of sand high enough that it could be mistaken for a geyser.
"They're gaining! Drive faster, Kabiru!" cried Zaz.
"I warned you, I warned you all about Project Bonanza!" blabbered Bodewell of all people. "It's the turbohybrids! We're doomed!"
Gorman considered his options. Was it too much to ask the Bluntnose crew to just shoot better until all the insects were gone? No, there had to be some way he could work with them without needing to brave the seabed pressure out there. There was something about the way the truck came from the bamboo forest that caught his attention…how the stalks never snapped.
"Keep driving in circles, keep the bugs busy!" he transmit. "I've got a plan."
"Make it quick!" Kalu responded and the radio cut out.
Gorman ducked back behind his section of trench. He already had the deputy security chief's attention, but with a mighty whistle he drew the eyes of the rest of the weary colonials.
"Do we have any biotics?"
It was a longshot – which is why he was astonished when more than half raised their hands, Ralph and Sabine included.
"Just what is this plan of yours, Commander?" Barclay raised a brow.
"We have the range, chief," Gorman announced. "Do we have anything explosive? Fuel, chemicals, preferably something volatile, preferably in a container?"
"Yes, we've got fuel canisters, but -"
Gorman smirked and tugged on the nearest lime stalk. It might just work.
"Ever use a slingshot before?" he asked.
The colonists got busy, hustling to the little hangar Gorman had briefly sighted earlier and returning while rolling clunky, hexagon-shaped canisters in front of them. The Commander took command of the barricade, ensuring they kept up some fire when any of the bugs strayed too close in their pursuit of the Bluntnose. A hitherto underutilized feature of his omni-tool came in handy. By holding his forearm up to his forehead, he could peer through the orange haze at several times magnification. He scanned the dune and picked out a spot right in the middle, an elevated site at the crest of three craters. The colonists glowed a shimmering, vibrant blue, taking a wide stance and shoving out their hands. They began lifting up the canisters with combined ease. The projectiles were hovered in front of the bamboo, and the hand gestures changed from push to pull. Sure enough, the canister dragged the stalks back with a loud creaking sound. Stretched far, then stretched further, until Gorman was satisfied and their hands started to wobble. Whatever this plant was made of, it was far sturdier than he'd even hoped. Perhaps he shouldn't have tried this improvised weapon but rather asked for the ungodly tool they'd have to have been using to chop them down in no man's land.
He gave a thumbs up. The biotics let go.
The bamboo ballista shot the humble canister with ferocious speed and a dizzying spin, betraying the lowered gravity. The timing had to be impeccable, and it exceeded expectations. As the Bluntnose drove around in a frantic loop, followed by the swarm, the bug at the rear of the column was hit with the immense force of a big metal bullet. The canister landed not with a thud but a splat.
"It didn't blow!" Ralph was quick to notice, glancing to the Commander to see his presumably shocked expression. Instead, Gorman was stern yet satisfied.
"Prep another one for delivery," he ordered. The colonists got a second canister upright.
"What was that? You're throwing rocks?" came the voice of Kalu through his radio.
"Even better," Gorman replied, "All I need is for you to lead them over it…and then you can get out of there."
"You got it!" Kalu's relief was palpable.
Gorman peered through his omni-binoculars. The Bluntnose was executing a handbrake turn, grinding its wheels into the sand and kicking up the powder like a snow machine. Its engine roared. The truck plowed ahead in the direction of the embedded marker, even ramming the blunt end into one of the braver bugs who dared to stand between the crew and an end to their dizzying ride. The boosters flickered on, two jets of white-blue energy that shot out from its tail and gave it the oomph to outrun the infestation one last time. It soared over the impact – which meant the bugs were seconds away from the three crater hill.
He gave a thumbs up again. With a heave, the biotics' firm grip was released. The stalk snapped back straight, letting loose another canister.
Gorman couldn't have asked for better biotics – it impacted dead center onto the last canister with a decisive clang. However, there was a severe lack of fireworks. The bugs were practically crawling over it. There was only one thing he could think of.
"Open fire!" he declared, grabbing his M16 and setting its sights all the way across the sand. The colonists' commitment to the Commander was so admirable that they followed suit immediately, sending hundreds of bullets downwind and lighting up the dusking sky. His own rounds were likely wasted, but their fancy future rifles, with their fancy future ammunition…got the party started.
BOOM!
From the last glimpse of the swarm, the bug procession was mostly past the epicenter of the explosion, but Gorman doubted any could escape the blazing fireball that erupted unharmed. The burst of flaming fuel was immense, turning twilight into daylight. He could even feel the raw heat despite his distance, and the glimmer of light in every falling raindrop was magical. As a plume rose high, a shockwave rustled every single bamboo shoot he could see. Ralph was knocked over. Then came an unexpected, different kind of rainfall – everyone and everything was being coated in a fine white powder. As the smoke cleared and the sky darkened again, all that was left was a smoldering crater an order of magnitude larger than any around it – and a whole graveyard of dead bugs.
Rifles were raised and shouts of victory belted out. Gorman held off on embracing the mood for two reasons. He hadn't been through nearly as much as these plucky souls, and as he held the binoculars up again, he could make out some tentacles still moving, burrowing themselves deep out of sight. There couldn't be more than one or two left – but they were still out there. The look on Barclay's face meant that he also understood. The celebrations died down, victory chants replaced with groans and deep breaths. Human skin and corrosive acid don't mix – and the wounded were really starting to feel it as adrenaline faded away.
"Well, Gorman, we've had one hell of a day, haven't we?" Barclay coughed out a laugh.
"Yeah. Wipe 'em out tomorrow, though," Gorman promised.
A colonist extended their hand, and pulled the Commander out of the trench. He turned around and did the same for the deputy security chief. By the time the two of them stood on ground level, a horn came from the left side of the compound. A dirty, slushy, black and blue truck rolled across the bamboo circle and into safety.
The driver's last maneuver was to pull off a nice drift. The tires stopped once the Bluntnose's back was facing the curious colonists. The rear door parted to reveal a troop of pressure-fearing, armor-wearing crewmates. Gorman waved them down, jogging to greet them. The last from the truck to disembark, however, was not a Shackleton sailor at all – it was Mo, who practically collapsed onto the pavement as soon as he stepped off and was then swarmed with medical attention.
"Guys! Good to see you all in one piece," Gorman remarked, leaning his head to get a better look at the battered Bluntnose as well as his crew. They were cautiously removing their helmets, with some exceptions, of course. Kalu stepped forward from the front of the truck, towards an awning, and Gorman gave him a trademark finger point. "Nice driving." The finger shifted to Petronis, who was starting to draw some looks from the colonials. "Nice shooting too."
"Yeah, right, thanks," the turian was not in the mood for niceties, and said out loud what everyone was thinking. "Commander, where exactly are we?"
"I'm wondering that as well…" Gorman turned, and sure enough Barclay had followed him. "Where are we, chief?"
"Uh…hello…everyone…" Barclay stammered, obviously taken aback by just who – or which species – Gorman brought with him. "I…thought you knew about this planet, Commander. This is Calypso. Our most recent…outpost."
"Our?" Zaz quickly latched onto that choice of words, "This isn't an Alliance colony, is it?"
"Yes – well, technically no," Barclay was proving why he was a security officer and not a press agent. "We represent an initiative that operates in and around Alliance space." He surely could tell that an answer as vague as that was doing nothing to the serious glares coming from every face and visor.
"What does this 'initiative' do?" questioned T'Lore. She had to shake her head around to flick away drops of water at the back of her scalp, much like a wet dog.
"Science…stuff? I…um…the thing is…I'm not the right person to ask about any of this," Barclay slowly regained his confidence, "It's the Boss you should talk to…if we can convince him that the coast is clear." Once again, attentions were drawn to the large windowless building. A bulky round door at its front was sealed shut. "All I know is that three days ago a shipment of crates arrived from a depot. We opened them, and all of a sudden these goddamn bugs start mauling us. It's been nonstop until you arrived, so thank you, but please, talk to the Boss."
Three days of that? What a nightmare, thought Gorman.
"And what are the bugs?" Petronis asked, although from her tone it sounded like she already had an idea of her own – and not something out of Project Bonanza.
"How should I know?" Barclay's tone, on the other hand, turned completely genuine.
The team's serious expressions softened and they stopped their relentless questioning. Barclay nodded and began walking away.
"One last thing!" Saal'Inor quickly interjected, "How is the pressure so low in here? And the air so breathable? Is it the plants?"
Barclay glanced back and sighed.
"It's the plants," he confirmed, before turning around and making his way back towards some of his colleagues.
"This place gives me the creeps," remarked Bodewell. His eyes widened as he suddenly recalled something. "Tell the Commander what you told me earlier, Casta!" he pleaded with his bodyguard, "About the bugs!"
"You recognize them?" Gorman was curious.
"Only from the history books," Petronis' expression was usually hard to read through her tattoos and plated skin, but he could tell she was uncharacteristically worried. "I'm not certain, and I don't want to be certain…but they could be rachni."
"My thoughts exactly, as unfortunate as it is," agreed the asari. She elucidated the problem with the unfamiliar in the crowd, but as she did so, the group's eyes were not on her but the corpse of one such bug laying still a short distance away. "They terrorized the galaxy around two thousand years ago. Billions and billions of rachni overwhelmed the Citadel fleets. With krogan assistance they were brought to extinction…but they bear a striking resemblance to the creatures we've just faced. To think, this may be what my grandmother fought…"
Only out of politeness did Gorman not ask her to stop at every other word during her explanation. This was a lot to take in, most of it unwelcomely surprising. The conflict the turian had once told him about, the existential threat that led to the rise of the krogan, was revealed. He couldn't decide what was more shocking – the fact that the 'rachni' creatures could fly spaceships, much less battle enemy navies – or the fact that T'Lore's grandmother was a participant. He knew she was pushing 200…but how old was Tara? It was not a grave concern in the same way that an extinct adversary popping out of crates was. The next logical lead pretty much demanded his interest.
"It's high time I have a word with the Boss," he stated.
"Couldn't agree more," said Kalu.
Surrounded by his entourage, the Commander waltzed to the front of the sealed circular doorway. His hand rose and gave the sheet metal a rat-a-tat-tat.
No response.
He was about to try again, or look for a button that needed pressing, but then a little red light started to blink from a spot directly above him. He recognized a camera when he saw one.
The sound of gears turning culminated in the door creaking open, expelling stale air and revealing a space not dissimilar to the decontamination room Gorman had to go through every time he left the Shackleton. Pressure equalization was unnecessary, as he and the crew now knew – but the colony's infrastructure wasn't taking any chances. The chamber was very narrow, more like a shower than a car wash.
He squeezed in and a translucent panel shuttered down behind him. A one at a time process, evidently. Gusts of air mixed with a bitter cleaning agent whirled around the unsuspecting Commander. His ears popped. As quickly as it started, it dissipated and the panel in front rolled up and open.
Before him was a large, airy room full of unused equipment. Tall racks of electronics, holographic projections of globes and stars coming from a central module, cases upon cases of mechanical wiring and piping. Some pieces of technology had the familiar arrowhead symbol of the Alliance plastered all over, while other instruments looked almost homemade – plenty of exposed parts, occupational safety incidents waiting to happen. A staircase just beyond the big display led to an upper room, but on neither floor were there any souls to be seen.
Inspecting the building's interior could wait, he turned around to see that the shutters were not opening to allow the next crewmate in line to come forth. The longer they waited, the more intentional it looked. The future plexiglass the chamber's panels were made of blocked both external air and sound. Inside the only things Gorman could hear were the whirring of fans, the bleeps of technology, and then, a wall-mounted speaker.
"Commander Gorman," a voice rasped out of it. "A pleasure to see you at last. Welcome to our humble base."
"Hey," Gorman twisted around to try and find the source of the sound. "Can you open the door? My crew are waiting."
"I'd prefer if they didn't join us, Commander," the voice continued. Unlike Barclay, it was almost devoid of apprehension. Every intonation felt deliberate. "A necessary precaution."
"Open the doors, buddy," Gorman's patience was being tested, deprived of his crew within minutes of the reunion. "My crew just saved the colony – and your ass – from a whole hive of angry 'rachni'. Show a little decency."
"When you're ready to talk, meet me in my office," the voice offered, and the speaker fell silent. A clicking sound was heard from the double doors at the top of the staircase.
Gorman huffed. He glanced back, through several panes, at his waiting team. He held up his finger to his ear and started talking…but nothing got through and nothing was received. He held up a palm – the hopefully universal 'wait' symbol – and started wandering alone through the base's ground floor.
He couldn't help but look at some of the screens on his way. Camera feeds from every angle, radar dish lookalikes with clusters of orange dots huddled around the center and one dot further away. Thermometers, barometers, a seismograph with a very noticeable spike not too long ago; the undeniable tools of a scientific research expedition. A distinctly lime-colored section caught his eye. By a trove of tall tubes was a long table structured for the purpose of examining the bamboo plants from outside. In here, the stalks were segmented and autopsied, with data both fundamental, elemental and nutritional arranged in indecipherable scribblings on a whiteboard.
As Gorman approached the staircase, his ears picked up something odd. Music. From the upstairs room emanated something classical, a quite beautiful piano composition. A teenage interest buried deep in his brain searched hard to pin it down. One of Chopin's more famous nocturnes, perhaps?
At the top of the steps, the doors swung open and his surroundings likewise swung from austere to antique. He was now in an office composed mostly of marbled hardwood and frosted glass. Some odd fusion between art deco and space age. Nothing was smooth – the desk, chairs, shelves and even the floor rug had harsh angles and a shiny finish. An obviously fake window backlit the scene, a virtual view of a nighttime sky.
"You like the décor? said the man in an orange jumpsuit, leaning back in a faux leather chair with his boots on the desk.
He was about the same age as the Commander but impossibly paler with pointier features. His hair was blond, shaved on the sides and aggressively slicked back on the top. In contrast, the rest of his facial hair was unkempt, as evidenced by overgrown stubble and a thick, almost singular brow. His eyes were blue and beady, and his head itself was kept at a perpetual tilt of about ten degrees west. His thin lips had cracked into a smile – something his counterpart was not reciprocating.
"I prefer Linkin Park," Gorman curtly responded, his mouth still processing the music while his brain worked on all the new stimuli.
"Sit down, I insist," the man beckoned Gorman forward with a wave, repositioning himself in the chair and beginning to rummage for something under the desk. As Gorman sat down in a lower, comfy seat opposite, the man popped out a green glass bottle with a thin blade of Earthlike grass floating inside, setting it on the desk alongside two smaller, squarer glasses. "Żubrówka?" the man asked. "A taste of home, and a personal favorite."
He had Gorman at 'home'. Two glasses were filled. The Commander reached forward – and naturally waited for the 'Boss' to take the first sip. Once that test was passed, he downed his glass. Not bad for vodka.
"Commander…" the man began, pouring himself and Gorman another shot, "…How familiar are you with Frontier Theory?"
"If it doesn't relate to who you are and what this colony's doing here, I'm not interested," bluntly stated Gorman.
"Then you won't be disappointed." The man's heavy brow rose and his grin grew wider. "Frontier Theory has been known by different names at different times, but its underlying principles have remained the same. We expand…or perish."
"We?"
"Humanity," nodded the man. He pointed with his glass one of the prints hanging in the corners of the room. Gorman's chair creaked as he turned to get a look. It was a familiar painting with a name on the tip of his tongue, depicting a wanderer above a sea of fog. The man continued. "Humanity's desire for a frontier has been a constant since our earliest days. Exploration and colonization. Mastery over nature. The search for knowledge begetting the search for more knowledge, pioneers willing to push boundaries wherever they lay. Frontier Theory states that our 'expansive power' within is a tool that can be harnessed. If we do not harness this power correctly, humanity's mastery over nature turns to mastery over other humans. Our darkest days in history confirm this. We must therefore harness the power, and go forth to the frontiers, for our survival's sake."
"Spare me the philosophy," Gorman warned. He spotted a book on the desk with a familiar name: 'Death of the Inventor'. "I've heard it all before from Ahti Saari."
"You're familiar with the Professor? Good, good," the man finally showed an emotion other than grinning smugness, pleasant surprise, which was over in an instant. "His own models are among the later incarnations of the Theory, but he was by no means the first to come up with the idea. Where he merely asks the questions…myself and my team set out to find the answers."
"Answers? Answers to what happens when you open crates with extinct killer bugs in them?"
"Answers to the questions the Alliance is too afraid to handle," the man's smile and brow drooped. "They've known about this planet for years. It was detected as early as 2013! But did they send any colonists to settle it once we had the technology? No – because to settle anywhere nowadays means waiting years to get through Council bureaucracy."
"So, you and your friends took matters into your own hands?"
"Humanity is against the clock, Commander," the man shook his head. Gorman silently agreed but for different reasons. "We're under siege. Batarians, turians, salarians, asari – all waiting for the right time to undo the last century of progress by ballot or bullet. Luckily, what they fail to realize is that being imperiled by existential threats has always been humanity's natural state. Frontier Theory acknowledges this, and dictates that our expansion needs to remain constant. We should not, must not, slow down. That's why we set up this base here on Calypso, whether the Council allows it or not."
"This colony is illegal?"
"Did we hesitate to spread civilization to every corner of Earth's globe?" the man's raspy voice grew louder. "No, we did not. Did we hesitate to cure smallpox, polio, malaria? No, we did not. Did we hesitate to kick the turian navy back to Palaven during First Contact? No, we did not!" He slammed his shot glass on the desk. "So why do we hesitate to fulfill the human desire to master nature, to settle on garden worlds like Calypso? The Alliance has done more for humanity than most admit, but their hands are too often tied. Our benefactors understand this – that's why they fund this outpost and others like it."
"Your 'benefactors' obviously care a lot about the colony's wellbeing," Gorman snarked, alluding again to the pest control problem.
"A tragedy, granted," the man finally addressed it, albeit with as little compassion as possible. In fact, he paused for another shot of vodka. "And by no means my doing. But there's more at stake here than you realize. Imagine, Commander, that humanity is surrounded on all sides. Should be easy to do. Lurking enemies, untrustworthy 'allies'. Now imagine that there was a resource that could give us an edge, any edge. Would you consider it worth protecting?"
Before the Commander could answer, the man reached under the desk and pulled out a shortened shaft of lime bamboo. It was placed on the desk with a clack. Gorman's eyebrow was skeptically raised. He knew the plant had some special properties…but how far did it go?
"The boys in the lab call it something long and boring. The rest of us call it 'Calypsite'," the man proclaimed with a much more excited tone.
"I've seen it work," Gorman folded his arms, "Reduces air pressure, makes air breathable. Impressive."
"Yes, yes, but have you considered that those abilities are merely…symptoms? Of a much more important quality?"
Gorman's interest was piqued. The man continued.
"Two words: Localized. Density."
He was visibly disappointed that Gorman wasn't reeling back in shock, so explained further.
"Localized Density Modulation, LODMO. Purely theoretical…until now," he began. "It takes an frankly unbelievable amount of energy, but it is possible to extract a sap from the Calypsite shoots. In greater quantities, and depending on the polarity of an electric charge, the sap can increase or decrease the relative density of any area it envelops. This isn't the incidental density fluctuation we're used to with the mass effect. The LODMO effect takes it to a whole new level." The jargon wasn't quite doing it for Gorman. The man knew this – and went to the most obvious demonstration. "Take the air outside. Unbreathable – but with the Calypsite plants and the sap within, the air density changes. Pressure is relieved, composition shifts to favor oxygen, temperatures are made bearable. And that's just one example! The ability to adjust density could fundamentally alter our understanding of what is possible with modern physics. Even better, we have no documented proof that any other race has ever come across anything like it. Think of the possibilities! Think of what it means for humanity! Think about if we hadn't set up this 'illegal' outpost in the first place!"
"How much sap do you have?"
Gorman wanted to see firsthand what the man was willing to sacrifice all the other colonists to ravenous bugs for. The man pointed to a display case sitting on the windowsill behind him. He had to squint to make out a tiny vial not unlike what they'd been taking shots from. He was surprised he hadn't noticed it sooner – it glowed a luminous lime.
"That's the second batch."
"So all those poor colonists didn't die horribly in vain after all," Gorman gritted his teeth. He had gotten his priorities straight, and density was not one of them.
"It's the reason why I didn't let your crew in, Commander," the man confided. "I know I can trust you to see the bigger picture. Your arrival here was…unexpected, to say the least, but I am glad you came when you did." Gorman raised his other eyebrow. The man, for once, sounded sincere. The Commander had to press while he had him like this.
"Who exactly are you?" Gorman leaned forward in his seat and gave the man a hard stare.
"That's…the other reason I didn't let your crew in," the man repeated with a different emphasis. "My name is Piotr Grzegorz Szymanski, but please, call me Peter. I believe one of your crewmates and I are well acquainted."
A shudder rolled down Gorman's back and he slumped back in the seat. He'd heard quite a few things about this guy, mostly from Zaz, since Eden Prime – none of them good. If Gorman had known that the man across the desk was allegedly an incredibly powerful biotic dissident with a long history of violence, maybe he wouldn't have trashed his taste in music. The oddly high amount of biotic colonists earlier came to mind – and now made sense.
"I thought you were in prison, Peter," Gorman blurted.
"Eden Prime was burning. I was needed." It was clear he would speak no more on the topic.
Gorman downed his shot glass and weighed his options. He'd dealt with thugs like Szymanski all the time back in the force…but none of them had the gift of telekinesis. Was it time to play the Alliance card? Nothing might scare a criminal more than the notion – no matter how fabricated – that an entire battlefleet was minutes away from turning Calypso to ash unless he cooperated. He could always ask Zaz nicely to break both of his legs again, but that would hardly endear his crew to the rest of the colony.
He was both sending and receiving mixed signals. Better to play it safe and change the subject.
"The bugs are almost gone," Gorman informed, "I counted about two left, they buried themselves somewhere out in the sand."
"Only two?" Szymanski's piercing gaze softened. "Efficiently executed, Commander, well done."
The two of them fell silent again for another moment, both men sizing each other up across the desk. Gorman could obviously tell that there was more to Szymanski than he'd been letting on. The 'Boss' was likely feeling the exact same thing in reverse.
The staring contest ended abruptly when Peter's brow rose.
"Ah, yes, you're probably expecting a reward," he nodded, repositioning himself in his chair and pouring out two last Żubrówka shots – this time, by lifting the bottle with his mind and dipping the glowing vodka over the two glasses. No use hiding that fact anymore. "I would happily have given you some fuel canisters if not for your…creative use of them outside," Szymanski continued. Then he noticed where Gorman's eyes were drifting towards. "And before you ask, the Calypsite's off-limits."
Gorman had expected as much, although it pained him slightly. After his chat with Sally when they first landed, finding her a Pilgrimage present was on his mind. There, sitting on the windowsill, was a scientific breakthrough waiting to happen. Even half of its contents might have the best quarian scientists falling over themselves.
Otherwise, he couldn't really ask for much else. The Shackleton was fueled, nutrients were in good supply, the discharge rod was fixed and the turian's weapon cache was still a league above what he started with. However, there was no such thing as being overprepared ahead of Virmire.
"I could use a new helmet," he spit-balled, "Once the bug problem's over, some munitions might go a long way." However, he was left feeling foolish once he saw a glint in the biotic's eye. Peter already had an answer ready for him.
"Let's be honest, Commander; you have enough weapons," Szymanski let out a calculated chuckle, "How about something you actually need?"
Gorman waited, ready to give him a flat 'no' as soon as a pamphlet is mentioned.
"Take out your omni-tool," Szymanski directed. The Commander hesitated, then complied, flicking out his forearm to open the glowing orange display. Szymanski did the same, and began tapping through his menus to find a specific function. "There, you should be receiving it now."
Sure enough, a transfer of some kind was asking to be accepted on Gorman's end. The contents were illegible, strings of numbers and characters in unordered sequences. This had every possibility to be a big mistake…but he held his breath and accepted the 'gift'.
"Alliance docking codes," Szymanski closed his tool, grabbed his last shot and leaned back in his seat. Gorman's eyes widened. "Next time you hit the Citadel, tower control should flag you as any other transport ship. It's not Earth, I know, but it's the best I can do."
Gorman's tool fizzled away, leaving him looking at his forearm with his mouth hanging open. He glanced to the 'Boss', who had the smuggest expression of the night smeared on his face.
"No need to thank me," Szymanski finished his last shot, "You saved my outpost, I just saved you about two months of paperwork…or a whole lot of bluffing."
"How did you…" Gorman started, but was cut off.
"Like it or not, Commander, we both know the benefits of slicing through bureaucracy," Peter laughed – this time a touch more genuine.